The House of Good Intentions | Chapter VI
Title: The House of Good Intentions
Author: lemon_bar
Chapter VI:
Word Count: 4,786
Chapter VI:
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It's not that Justin is avoiding Brian, because he's not.
Well, maybe a little bit. They had sex. Real, actual sex, which Justin has never had before. As a human or as an angel, thank-you very much. It's a lot to figure out and absorb. Anyway, Justin doesn't think that leaving the loft while Brian is still asleep can technically be considered 'avoiding' him because Justin usually leaves before Brian gets up for work anyway. Really, it's just business as usual. What would have been weird was if he stayed. Right?
He spends the morning with Jack, sitting on the window ledge in the master bedroom because the man is too exhausted to get out of bed. Joan brings up some soup for breakfast but she doesn't linger, and Justin can hear her moving around downstairs. It occurs to him as he's sitting there watching Jack sleep that this is it: time is running out.
It's not 'avoiding' because Justin isn’t going anywhere. He's sitting right where he belongs, where he's needed and expected to be, doing what he should be doing. So Justin sits in the window and waits, keeping vigil. He talks when Jack's eyes flicker open and sweep the room, though Justin isn't entirely certain just what it is he's saying. Whatever it is seems to help, seems to put Jack at ease, take his mind off things. But Justin can't help but notice that Jack doesn't seem to be recovering at all, isn't eating, is interacting less and less. Isn't getting better.
By dinnertime Joan makes the call and the ambulance takes Jack to the hospital, to the ICU where the doctors do what they can and then shift him along, up a floor or two and into a semi-private room where they draw a yellowy-white curtain around his bed. "We're getting him settled now, Mrs. Kinney," a nurse tells Joan. Justin stays, unseen but ever-present.
When the doctors and nurses finish with Jack and tell Joan she can have a few minutes but visiting hours are over and, "The best thing for him right now is to get some rest, Mrs. Kinney" Justin realizes that Joan hasn't called anyone. Not Claire, not Brian. Not any of her friends, or Jack's. She sits on a chair in the waiting room with her clutch purse in her lap, her hands folded. She waits.
Justin goes to the hospital chapel because he needs a break as much as he needs guidance. It's a cramped little space, dark and peaceful and entirely devoid of people. He walks right up to the second row of pews and collapses down, drapes his arms over the back of the front row and lets his head rest on them. The hospital is cold. Justin thinks he shouldn't notice these things but he does. He feels the chill in the air, a tickling against his senses keeping him sharp and alert. The chapel is warm, like a familiar embrace. His eyes drift halfway shut and he breathes in deep and the world softens just a little bit.
His prayer is as informal as it is incomplete: "I'm so tired."
He doesn't mean that he's physically exhausted, because he isn't. That would be impossible. He's hollow and spent and worn-thin trying to scramble and find peace for people who have become so fragmented and lost that they can't even remember their original shape. Can't remember what being whole felt like, or looked like, or how to make their way back there.
Justin can't even tell anymore if he's helping any of the Kinney's. He can't decide whether he should tell Brian that his dad's time is almost gone, or let Joan or Claire call him after Jack has already died. He's terrified of making the wrong decision, terrified that maybe he already has, and he's too tired to figure out what the right call might be.
He's made a mess of things. Indulging himself with Brian, pretending that it was okay to spend so much time there at the loft, pretending that there wasn't something between them. Now he's slept with the man. That's got to be a taboo but again, no lightning. Heaven is in desperate need of a rulebook. One that doesn't contradict itself or speak in riddles. Something plain and concise, so that maybe Justin would stand a chance of figuring out what it is he should be doing.
Rule one: don't sleep with people related to someone you are trying to help. Help. Save, whatever. Justin doesn't even know the right word for it.
Now Jack is dying, and Justin can't face Brian but thinks that maybe he has to. Maybe there's still a chance to make some peace between father and son. "I'm sorry," he whispers to no one in particular. To everyone in general, each of the Kinney family. To one entity in particular, elusive and ambiguous and omniscient. "I'm sorry, and I'm lost and I'm so tired."
As is so often the case, though Justin is not actually expecting any sort of answer, he receives one. Just not in any form he would have ever anticipated.
"I've seen you before," Joan Kinney says, standing just inside the chapel doors. "With my husband."
Justin pulls himself together and raises his head, shifting so he can look at her. "Yes, I know Jack."
He watches as she walks forward, genuflects before settling beside him. "My husband is a bastard," she says simply. She sniffs, and then opens her purse, pulling a handkerchief out before re-closing it. "He's the sort of man that makes a person wonder how anyone could love him." She dabs at the corner of her eye, though there is no moisture there, and then sits back in the pew, the handkerchief clenched in a fist. "Now my husband is dying and I came here to pray for his soul," she continues, in that same steady voice. Hollow and iron-strong at once. "But it's as much for me as for him that I'm here."
The silence in the little chapel is heavy, stifled with expectation. Justin has the sense that Joan is waiting for him to say something, anything. Whether to berate her for voicing such thoughts about her husband, speaking ill of a dying man, for swearing in a church or whatever else. As if the silence in itself is what she is trying to evade and she will endure whatever she must to fill the void it makes, so long as she is not left in a space with nothing but her own thoughts for company.
She deserves more than empty platitudes and condolences, however, so he takes a moment before he responds. "Mrs. Kinney…"
"Oh please," she says, waving the hand that holds the handkerchief vaguely. "Call me Joan."
"Joan," he corrects. "I don't think that anyone sets out with who they want to be, as a person, in mind. They make choices, and face challenges, and learn lessons. They make more choices, and sometimes they can't accept this lesson, or that challenge, and that's a choice, too. That's the essence of free will." He licks his lips and takes another breath. "Eventually, they might get to a point where they look back and have regrets but really, the only thing that matters is the attitude you have as you go forward. And that's something else that they decide." He shrugs, still feeling a little frustrated, a little helpless. Like he's not saying any of this right. "I think faith can be an attitude as much as it is a conviction."
She's a rigid figure beside him. Her mouth a firm line, her shoulders thrown back and chin jutted up, defiant. As he watches her hands shift, fingers threading together, the handkerchief a knot of white crumpled between pale hands and red-painted nails. For a moment, Justin wonders if she's heard him at all.
That moment stretches and then, all at once, Joan's shoulders slump and her back bows, her hands coming up to cover her face as she chokes, and then gasps and then, finally, sobs.
Through all of it, he sits at her side, his arm draped across her back, supporting her weight as she cries. "My husband was a selfish bastard," she says, between gasped breaths. "I wish him peace wherever he goes, but I can't forgive him. I won't ever forgive him…" Justin holds her and keeps silent. He doesn't tell her that he thinks, maybe, she's already started to.
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Three days. Brian isn't one to obsess but he can't help but feel a bit like he's being avoided. He's at a distinct disadvantage because he doesn't know where Justin goes in his free time when he isn't in the loft, and it isn't like Brian can just hang out at his parent's place and wait for the blond to show up. Well, maybe he could but he certainly has no wish to. He wants to talk to Justin but there are still lines he won't cross.
"What's your problem?" Michael demands, glaring at him from across the table they've settled at in Woody's. "You're in a bad mood all the fucking time, lately."
"Leave it, Mikey." Brian downs a few shots and promises himself that he'll stop thinking about persistent blonds who are literally angels.
It's a little nauseating to realize that, holy shit, he had sex with an angel, and he's pretty sure he'd feel pretty damned pleased with himself about that except, well, Justin's gone now and what, exactly, does that mean? Is there some kind of divine retribution for consorting with humans in general or the damned in particular?
Brian's a little unsteady on his feet as he unlocks the door to his loft. The lights are off with the exception of the bedroom fluorescents, and the first thing he does is flick on the oven light. Anything brighter would give him a headache. He tosses his keys down onto the counter and then feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. That familiar sensation that he finally understands.
When he turns around he sees Justin sitting on the sofa, his arms hanging over his knees, his feet perched on the edge of the couch. His back is bowed, his head down. Something about his posture seems sad, almost defeated.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Brian snaps.
Justin looks faded, somehow. Worn in a way that Brian can't place. There is certainly no physical indication, but the warm glow of him is lesser. His expression, when he looks up, is flat. It makes Brian's throat constrict a little. "I need to tell you something."
That sounds only slightly less ominous than, 'We need to talk'. Brian shakes off the last vestiges of inebriation, grabs a bottle of water to keep him alert, and then drops onto the chair opposite Justin. "If I took advantage…"
Justin smiles, then laughs. "No, it's not like that." He licks his lips and his eyes dart away. "You didn't take advantage, Brian. I didn't do anything that I didn't want, okay?" Then, maybe because Brian is having trouble being convinced, he says, "Do you believe me?"
There's no way that Brian can not believe him, not when Justin looks so damned earnest, so open. Brian doesn't understand it, but he has no choice but to believe. If Justin can talk about what they did together with that glint of joy in his eye, then Brian doesn't think that he has anything to fear from whatever it is Justin needs to tell him. He takes a sip of water and leans back. "Well, I already know you're angel. What other secrets are you keeping?"
Justin's posture shifts again, awkward and a little defensive. "You're going to hate me, but I want you to understand why I feel like this is something I should tell you, so just, give me some leeway, alright?"
When Brian nods mutely Justin takes a deep breath. "I used to be human. I had a life and a family. I lived in a house and went to school, and wrote essays and tests and planned my future, just like everybody else. I was going to be an artist," he says, looking a little proud of himself, a little pleased.
"When I figured out I was gay, I came out to my parents pretty much right away. It was who I was, and I knew a lot of people would have trouble with it but I wasn't going to let that stop me from being myself." He tips his head to the side, clearly trapped in remembrance. "My dad beat me up and tried to kick me out of the house but my mom put her foot down. It was rough for everyone, and I'm not sure it would have gotten any easier…"
Brian doesn't voice any of the questions that are circling in his head, but when it becomes clear that Justin has lost the thread of his story, Brian asks, "Why are you telling me this?"
Another slow breath, and Justin finally meets his eyes. "Because my dad did a lot of shitty things to me, Brian. For no other reason than because he couldn't accept one part of me. One part, out of a million different parts of me. He was a great dad until suddenly he just … couldn't be anymore."
Brian doesn't want to hear this lecture. He smiles a tight, thoroughly and pointedly false little smile and cocks his head sarcastically. "But deep down you knew he loved you and one day love will conquer all, and the world will be filled with unicorns and rainbows and everyone will be happy."
"You need to listen to me," Justin says, sharply. "It's not about my dad. He was a shit, Brian. He hurt me, and he hurt the people I loved and I don't know if he ever would have gotten over it or not, but I know that he probably never would have told me that he was sorry for how he acted or what he did, and even if he did apologize to me, that wouldn't be enough to make it better."
"Then what's the point?"
"The point is," Justin continues. "That he was still my dad. No matter what he did, and no matter what choices I made, if I decided to never speak to him again, or if I weathered his attitude, or whatever. He would still be my dad, and that would still mean something. That's something I would have to make peace with."
"My dad is a worthless piece of shit, Justin! He beat me and he hit my mom, and he made everyone in that house fucking miserable, and when I got out, put myself through school and got a job, he ragged on me for thinking I was better than everyone else, with my fancy profession. Then he'd call me up and ask for money. And I would give it to him!" Brian snaps. "Because I knew he'd put his fucking alcohol before every other one of his responsibilities, like his own damned house and my mom and the bills."
"I know all of that," Just says. "Believe me, Brian, I know. But he's still your dad and…" He looks away, then fixes Brian with a steady gaze and forces himself to continue, "and he's in the hospital. He doesn't have much time left."
It sinks in, slowly. Feels like a shock, even though Brian knew it was coming. Has known, now, for a while. This was inevitable. "I told you not to tell me. I don't want anything else to do with my family."
Justin shifts off the couch, wraps a hand firmly around Brian's arm as he kneels beside Brian's chair. "I know what you told me, and I know why you feel that way. But if you think that maybe tomorrow or a year from now, or ten years from now you'll be able to deal with this, let me tell you that it won't matter. It will be too late. You're dad is here, now. That won't be true ten years from now, or even a year from now, or tomorrow." He shrugs, looks a little helpless and a lot worried as he adds, "Maybe you're not ready to deal with this right now, or ever. That's fine, it really is. Do whatever you need. But I needed to tell you, Brian, because this is a choice you deserve to make for yourself."
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Brian spends the better part of an hour slumped in his chair, his head resting on Justin's shoulder, telling himself that his answer is going to be 'no' right up until somehow he finds himself saying, "Okay."
Justin takes the keys out of his hand and refuses to be talked out of driving, not that Brian puts much effort into his protests. He falls silent the moment he realizes the only reason he's arguing is to distract himself from where he's going. He hates hospitals, really and truly hates them. Nothing good ever happens in a hospital, not in his experience. He doesn't want to see his dad, doesn't want these memories at all, would rather hide in his bed with a bottle of Beam and a trick or two. Three tricks would be ideal, really. He doesn't want to go. Not at all. But he thinks, maybe he has to.
So Brian lets Justin drive, follows the blond into the hospital, into the elevator and down the hall until Justin comes to an abrupt halt outside of a closed door, standing in front of Brian's mother who is, he realizes suddenly, gripping Justin's forearm like it's a lifeline. There's a brief flash of a brittle smile that Brian recognizes as gratitude, and then Joan looks at him, stern and inscrutable again. "Brian. It's good of you to come. The doctors don't think your father has much time left."
He nods, wonders if he has wandered into another dimension. "Mom," then his eyes shift around and he realizes he can't see his sister anywhere. "Where's Claire?"
"She's with the boys. There was no one to watch them." Brian thinks that Claire's kids can probably take care of themselves for a few hours, but he doesn't say anything. Joan gestures to the door, "You should sit with him. I need some time."
He stands in the middle of the hallway watching his mother disappear down the hall. "I'll wait out here," Justin says, but Brian's fingers snag the edge of the blond's sleeve and tug him forward as he moves into the room.
Jack is grey and very still, a great big gasping machine squatting to the left of his bed, breathing for him. He's sleeping, and Brian is almost grateful. It gives him the chance to get his bearings, to let this sink in the way it just hasn't yet. He wonders when it will start feeling real. Hopes it happens sooner rather than later.
"Claire didn't come," he says, and doesn't realize he's asking a question until Justin says, "You said 'yes'. She said 'no'." Brian doesn't know how to feel about that so he stays silent, walks to his dad's bedside and concentrates on breathing. After a while, he manages to sit down.
Joan doesn't come back so Brian stays, sitting at the side of his father's bed. He is aware that Justin drifts in and out of the room, always seeming to know when Brian can't bear being alone in the gasping silence for another second. Nurses come and fiddle with machines, and tubes. At one point a doctor says, "It won't be long now."
Sometimes Brian talks, because he knows his dad can't hear, won't be able to answer. Mostly he sits in silence. He is aware that this is a vigil. He refuses to think of what might happen when this vigil has ended, prefers to sit there and feel as if this right here is interminable, this right here is what the rest of his life will be: sitting, keeping vigil.
Memories creep by, things he didn't even know he remembers somehow resurfacing. Wave after wave of recollection, and it feels like he's a castle gate under bombardment. The memories aren't all happy but there's happy moments tucked between the bad, and those hurt the most. He's wished his old man dead often enough, now that the moment has arrived it feels too soon. He wishes things were different, but that's a familiar wish and he knows better than to expect it might ever be granted.
Justin knocks lightly on the door, comes in bearing a cup of hot coffee that doesn't taste like it came from anywhere inside the hospital. Brian sips it gratefully and doesn't ask questions. "You're mom's in the chapel," Justin says. "Are you okay in here? She'll come if you need a break." Brian shakes his head, and Justin nods and drifts out of the room again.
Brian doesn't know how long he's been sitting there when Jack's eyes crack open. He holds his breath, feels almost like he's a little kid again, caught ripping tiny tears into the presents beneath the tree in an effort to determine what he's getting for Christmas. After a moment, Jack's shifting gaze settles and focuses. "Sonnyboy," he says, the words barely a sound at all, resembling shaped air more than anything; a sigh.
"Hey, pop."
Jack's eyes close. "Sonnyboy." There's a tear tracking down the side of Jack's cheek and Brian stands up because there's something in the way his dad said it, something in the moment, in the air of the room, just something that lets him know what's happening.
Then the machines echo a long resounding beep and people pour into the room. Brian backs up, again and again and then further still until he's at the door, and then out in the hallway. Keeps moving until he can't anymore, until Justin wraps him in his arms and says, "Breathe. Just breathe, Brian." Brian holds on because he doesn't want to let anything else go. Doesn't want to lose anything else.
He doesn't need a doctor to tell him that Jack Kinney is gone. "I have to tell my mom."
Justin catches hold of him again. "Just wait a second," he says. "Give yourself another minute."
"Is he okay?" Brian asks, hating that he cares, hating that he sounds so lost. He's twenty-nine, not a lost little kid. Not a little boy still looking up to his dad, hoping for more than he'll ever get.
"Yes," Justin says with quiet confidence. "Yes, he's okay, Brian." He reaches up, his hands cupping Brian's face, forcing Brian to meet his gaze. "Hey, I know that you're not going to believe me for a while, but I have to tell you this, okay? I need you to listen."
It makes Brian smile. He has learned to trust Justin. "Alright, I'm listening."
Justin mirrors the smile but there's something bittersweet lurking in the blue of his eyes. "It's going to be okay, Brian. No matter what happens, or however it feels, you're going to be okay."
The warm glow that had been missing before when Justin had come to the loft is back around him now. It makes his eyes spark like sunlight dancing across ocean waves. "You're right," Brian says. "I don't believe you."
Justin laughs, and then presses a kiss to Brian's lips. "That's because you're stubborn. You know I'm always right. Eventually this'll sink into your stubborn head."
Brian smirks, steals another kiss just because he can, tries to absorb a little of Justin's strength for himself. "I'll go tell her now."
Stepping back, Justin drops his hand to Brian's forearm and holds on as he starts to move away, his blue eyes fixed with such intensity onto Brian's own that it feels like there's something Brian just isn't understanding. Then Justin squeezes his arm gently and lets him go.
When Brian comes out of the chapel with his mother, Justin isn't waiting in the hallway. There's a white feather lying on the corner of Jack's bed. It shifts free from its precarious rest as Joan moves into the room to stand by her husband's body. Brian watches the feather as it floats back down to earth. He catches it before it drifts away.
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|<< { END CHAPTER SIX } >>|
masterpost
Author: lemon_bar
Chapter VI:
Word Count: 4,786
Chapter VI:
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It's not that Justin is avoiding Brian, because he's not.
Well, maybe a little bit. They had sex. Real, actual sex, which Justin has never had before. As a human or as an angel, thank-you very much. It's a lot to figure out and absorb. Anyway, Justin doesn't think that leaving the loft while Brian is still asleep can technically be considered 'avoiding' him because Justin usually leaves before Brian gets up for work anyway. Really, it's just business as usual. What would have been weird was if he stayed. Right?
He spends the morning with Jack, sitting on the window ledge in the master bedroom because the man is too exhausted to get out of bed. Joan brings up some soup for breakfast but she doesn't linger, and Justin can hear her moving around downstairs. It occurs to him as he's sitting there watching Jack sleep that this is it: time is running out.
It's not 'avoiding' because Justin isn’t going anywhere. He's sitting right where he belongs, where he's needed and expected to be, doing what he should be doing. So Justin sits in the window and waits, keeping vigil. He talks when Jack's eyes flicker open and sweep the room, though Justin isn't entirely certain just what it is he's saying. Whatever it is seems to help, seems to put Jack at ease, take his mind off things. But Justin can't help but notice that Jack doesn't seem to be recovering at all, isn't eating, is interacting less and less. Isn't getting better.
By dinnertime Joan makes the call and the ambulance takes Jack to the hospital, to the ICU where the doctors do what they can and then shift him along, up a floor or two and into a semi-private room where they draw a yellowy-white curtain around his bed. "We're getting him settled now, Mrs. Kinney," a nurse tells Joan. Justin stays, unseen but ever-present.
When the doctors and nurses finish with Jack and tell Joan she can have a few minutes but visiting hours are over and, "The best thing for him right now is to get some rest, Mrs. Kinney" Justin realizes that Joan hasn't called anyone. Not Claire, not Brian. Not any of her friends, or Jack's. She sits on a chair in the waiting room with her clutch purse in her lap, her hands folded. She waits.
Justin goes to the hospital chapel because he needs a break as much as he needs guidance. It's a cramped little space, dark and peaceful and entirely devoid of people. He walks right up to the second row of pews and collapses down, drapes his arms over the back of the front row and lets his head rest on them. The hospital is cold. Justin thinks he shouldn't notice these things but he does. He feels the chill in the air, a tickling against his senses keeping him sharp and alert. The chapel is warm, like a familiar embrace. His eyes drift halfway shut and he breathes in deep and the world softens just a little bit.
His prayer is as informal as it is incomplete: "I'm so tired."
He doesn't mean that he's physically exhausted, because he isn't. That would be impossible. He's hollow and spent and worn-thin trying to scramble and find peace for people who have become so fragmented and lost that they can't even remember their original shape. Can't remember what being whole felt like, or looked like, or how to make their way back there.
Justin can't even tell anymore if he's helping any of the Kinney's. He can't decide whether he should tell Brian that his dad's time is almost gone, or let Joan or Claire call him after Jack has already died. He's terrified of making the wrong decision, terrified that maybe he already has, and he's too tired to figure out what the right call might be.
He's made a mess of things. Indulging himself with Brian, pretending that it was okay to spend so much time there at the loft, pretending that there wasn't something between them. Now he's slept with the man. That's got to be a taboo but again, no lightning. Heaven is in desperate need of a rulebook. One that doesn't contradict itself or speak in riddles. Something plain and concise, so that maybe Justin would stand a chance of figuring out what it is he should be doing.
Rule one: don't sleep with people related to someone you are trying to help. Help. Save, whatever. Justin doesn't even know the right word for it.
Now Jack is dying, and Justin can't face Brian but thinks that maybe he has to. Maybe there's still a chance to make some peace between father and son. "I'm sorry," he whispers to no one in particular. To everyone in general, each of the Kinney family. To one entity in particular, elusive and ambiguous and omniscient. "I'm sorry, and I'm lost and I'm so tired."
As is so often the case, though Justin is not actually expecting any sort of answer, he receives one. Just not in any form he would have ever anticipated.
"I've seen you before," Joan Kinney says, standing just inside the chapel doors. "With my husband."
Justin pulls himself together and raises his head, shifting so he can look at her. "Yes, I know Jack."
He watches as she walks forward, genuflects before settling beside him. "My husband is a bastard," she says simply. She sniffs, and then opens her purse, pulling a handkerchief out before re-closing it. "He's the sort of man that makes a person wonder how anyone could love him." She dabs at the corner of her eye, though there is no moisture there, and then sits back in the pew, the handkerchief clenched in a fist. "Now my husband is dying and I came here to pray for his soul," she continues, in that same steady voice. Hollow and iron-strong at once. "But it's as much for me as for him that I'm here."
The silence in the little chapel is heavy, stifled with expectation. Justin has the sense that Joan is waiting for him to say something, anything. Whether to berate her for voicing such thoughts about her husband, speaking ill of a dying man, for swearing in a church or whatever else. As if the silence in itself is what she is trying to evade and she will endure whatever she must to fill the void it makes, so long as she is not left in a space with nothing but her own thoughts for company.
She deserves more than empty platitudes and condolences, however, so he takes a moment before he responds. "Mrs. Kinney…"
"Oh please," she says, waving the hand that holds the handkerchief vaguely. "Call me Joan."
"Joan," he corrects. "I don't think that anyone sets out with who they want to be, as a person, in mind. They make choices, and face challenges, and learn lessons. They make more choices, and sometimes they can't accept this lesson, or that challenge, and that's a choice, too. That's the essence of free will." He licks his lips and takes another breath. "Eventually, they might get to a point where they look back and have regrets but really, the only thing that matters is the attitude you have as you go forward. And that's something else that they decide." He shrugs, still feeling a little frustrated, a little helpless. Like he's not saying any of this right. "I think faith can be an attitude as much as it is a conviction."
She's a rigid figure beside him. Her mouth a firm line, her shoulders thrown back and chin jutted up, defiant. As he watches her hands shift, fingers threading together, the handkerchief a knot of white crumpled between pale hands and red-painted nails. For a moment, Justin wonders if she's heard him at all.
That moment stretches and then, all at once, Joan's shoulders slump and her back bows, her hands coming up to cover her face as she chokes, and then gasps and then, finally, sobs.
Through all of it, he sits at her side, his arm draped across her back, supporting her weight as she cries. "My husband was a selfish bastard," she says, between gasped breaths. "I wish him peace wherever he goes, but I can't forgive him. I won't ever forgive him…" Justin holds her and keeps silent. He doesn't tell her that he thinks, maybe, she's already started to.
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Three days. Brian isn't one to obsess but he can't help but feel a bit like he's being avoided. He's at a distinct disadvantage because he doesn't know where Justin goes in his free time when he isn't in the loft, and it isn't like Brian can just hang out at his parent's place and wait for the blond to show up. Well, maybe he could but he certainly has no wish to. He wants to talk to Justin but there are still lines he won't cross.
"What's your problem?" Michael demands, glaring at him from across the table they've settled at in Woody's. "You're in a bad mood all the fucking time, lately."
"Leave it, Mikey." Brian downs a few shots and promises himself that he'll stop thinking about persistent blonds who are literally angels.
It's a little nauseating to realize that, holy shit, he had sex with an angel, and he's pretty sure he'd feel pretty damned pleased with himself about that except, well, Justin's gone now and what, exactly, does that mean? Is there some kind of divine retribution for consorting with humans in general or the damned in particular?
Brian's a little unsteady on his feet as he unlocks the door to his loft. The lights are off with the exception of the bedroom fluorescents, and the first thing he does is flick on the oven light. Anything brighter would give him a headache. He tosses his keys down onto the counter and then feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. That familiar sensation that he finally understands.
When he turns around he sees Justin sitting on the sofa, his arms hanging over his knees, his feet perched on the edge of the couch. His back is bowed, his head down. Something about his posture seems sad, almost defeated.
"Where the fuck have you been?" Brian snaps.
Justin looks faded, somehow. Worn in a way that Brian can't place. There is certainly no physical indication, but the warm glow of him is lesser. His expression, when he looks up, is flat. It makes Brian's throat constrict a little. "I need to tell you something."
That sounds only slightly less ominous than, 'We need to talk'. Brian shakes off the last vestiges of inebriation, grabs a bottle of water to keep him alert, and then drops onto the chair opposite Justin. "If I took advantage…"
Justin smiles, then laughs. "No, it's not like that." He licks his lips and his eyes dart away. "You didn't take advantage, Brian. I didn't do anything that I didn't want, okay?" Then, maybe because Brian is having trouble being convinced, he says, "Do you believe me?"
There's no way that Brian can not believe him, not when Justin looks so damned earnest, so open. Brian doesn't understand it, but he has no choice but to believe. If Justin can talk about what they did together with that glint of joy in his eye, then Brian doesn't think that he has anything to fear from whatever it is Justin needs to tell him. He takes a sip of water and leans back. "Well, I already know you're angel. What other secrets are you keeping?"
Justin's posture shifts again, awkward and a little defensive. "You're going to hate me, but I want you to understand why I feel like this is something I should tell you, so just, give me some leeway, alright?"
When Brian nods mutely Justin takes a deep breath. "I used to be human. I had a life and a family. I lived in a house and went to school, and wrote essays and tests and planned my future, just like everybody else. I was going to be an artist," he says, looking a little proud of himself, a little pleased.
"When I figured out I was gay, I came out to my parents pretty much right away. It was who I was, and I knew a lot of people would have trouble with it but I wasn't going to let that stop me from being myself." He tips his head to the side, clearly trapped in remembrance. "My dad beat me up and tried to kick me out of the house but my mom put her foot down. It was rough for everyone, and I'm not sure it would have gotten any easier…"
Brian doesn't voice any of the questions that are circling in his head, but when it becomes clear that Justin has lost the thread of his story, Brian asks, "Why are you telling me this?"
Another slow breath, and Justin finally meets his eyes. "Because my dad did a lot of shitty things to me, Brian. For no other reason than because he couldn't accept one part of me. One part, out of a million different parts of me. He was a great dad until suddenly he just … couldn't be anymore."
Brian doesn't want to hear this lecture. He smiles a tight, thoroughly and pointedly false little smile and cocks his head sarcastically. "But deep down you knew he loved you and one day love will conquer all, and the world will be filled with unicorns and rainbows and everyone will be happy."
"You need to listen to me," Justin says, sharply. "It's not about my dad. He was a shit, Brian. He hurt me, and he hurt the people I loved and I don't know if he ever would have gotten over it or not, but I know that he probably never would have told me that he was sorry for how he acted or what he did, and even if he did apologize to me, that wouldn't be enough to make it better."
"Then what's the point?"
"The point is," Justin continues. "That he was still my dad. No matter what he did, and no matter what choices I made, if I decided to never speak to him again, or if I weathered his attitude, or whatever. He would still be my dad, and that would still mean something. That's something I would have to make peace with."
"My dad is a worthless piece of shit, Justin! He beat me and he hit my mom, and he made everyone in that house fucking miserable, and when I got out, put myself through school and got a job, he ragged on me for thinking I was better than everyone else, with my fancy profession. Then he'd call me up and ask for money. And I would give it to him!" Brian snaps. "Because I knew he'd put his fucking alcohol before every other one of his responsibilities, like his own damned house and my mom and the bills."
"I know all of that," Just says. "Believe me, Brian, I know. But he's still your dad and…" He looks away, then fixes Brian with a steady gaze and forces himself to continue, "and he's in the hospital. He doesn't have much time left."
It sinks in, slowly. Feels like a shock, even though Brian knew it was coming. Has known, now, for a while. This was inevitable. "I told you not to tell me. I don't want anything else to do with my family."
Justin shifts off the couch, wraps a hand firmly around Brian's arm as he kneels beside Brian's chair. "I know what you told me, and I know why you feel that way. But if you think that maybe tomorrow or a year from now, or ten years from now you'll be able to deal with this, let me tell you that it won't matter. It will be too late. You're dad is here, now. That won't be true ten years from now, or even a year from now, or tomorrow." He shrugs, looks a little helpless and a lot worried as he adds, "Maybe you're not ready to deal with this right now, or ever. That's fine, it really is. Do whatever you need. But I needed to tell you, Brian, because this is a choice you deserve to make for yourself."
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Brian spends the better part of an hour slumped in his chair, his head resting on Justin's shoulder, telling himself that his answer is going to be 'no' right up until somehow he finds himself saying, "Okay."
Justin takes the keys out of his hand and refuses to be talked out of driving, not that Brian puts much effort into his protests. He falls silent the moment he realizes the only reason he's arguing is to distract himself from where he's going. He hates hospitals, really and truly hates them. Nothing good ever happens in a hospital, not in his experience. He doesn't want to see his dad, doesn't want these memories at all, would rather hide in his bed with a bottle of Beam and a trick or two. Three tricks would be ideal, really. He doesn't want to go. Not at all. But he thinks, maybe he has to.
So Brian lets Justin drive, follows the blond into the hospital, into the elevator and down the hall until Justin comes to an abrupt halt outside of a closed door, standing in front of Brian's mother who is, he realizes suddenly, gripping Justin's forearm like it's a lifeline. There's a brief flash of a brittle smile that Brian recognizes as gratitude, and then Joan looks at him, stern and inscrutable again. "Brian. It's good of you to come. The doctors don't think your father has much time left."
He nods, wonders if he has wandered into another dimension. "Mom," then his eyes shift around and he realizes he can't see his sister anywhere. "Where's Claire?"
"She's with the boys. There was no one to watch them." Brian thinks that Claire's kids can probably take care of themselves for a few hours, but he doesn't say anything. Joan gestures to the door, "You should sit with him. I need some time."
He stands in the middle of the hallway watching his mother disappear down the hall. "I'll wait out here," Justin says, but Brian's fingers snag the edge of the blond's sleeve and tug him forward as he moves into the room.
Jack is grey and very still, a great big gasping machine squatting to the left of his bed, breathing for him. He's sleeping, and Brian is almost grateful. It gives him the chance to get his bearings, to let this sink in the way it just hasn't yet. He wonders when it will start feeling real. Hopes it happens sooner rather than later.
"Claire didn't come," he says, and doesn't realize he's asking a question until Justin says, "You said 'yes'. She said 'no'." Brian doesn't know how to feel about that so he stays silent, walks to his dad's bedside and concentrates on breathing. After a while, he manages to sit down.
Joan doesn't come back so Brian stays, sitting at the side of his father's bed. He is aware that Justin drifts in and out of the room, always seeming to know when Brian can't bear being alone in the gasping silence for another second. Nurses come and fiddle with machines, and tubes. At one point a doctor says, "It won't be long now."
Sometimes Brian talks, because he knows his dad can't hear, won't be able to answer. Mostly he sits in silence. He is aware that this is a vigil. He refuses to think of what might happen when this vigil has ended, prefers to sit there and feel as if this right here is interminable, this right here is what the rest of his life will be: sitting, keeping vigil.
Memories creep by, things he didn't even know he remembers somehow resurfacing. Wave after wave of recollection, and it feels like he's a castle gate under bombardment. The memories aren't all happy but there's happy moments tucked between the bad, and those hurt the most. He's wished his old man dead often enough, now that the moment has arrived it feels too soon. He wishes things were different, but that's a familiar wish and he knows better than to expect it might ever be granted.
Justin knocks lightly on the door, comes in bearing a cup of hot coffee that doesn't taste like it came from anywhere inside the hospital. Brian sips it gratefully and doesn't ask questions. "You're mom's in the chapel," Justin says. "Are you okay in here? She'll come if you need a break." Brian shakes his head, and Justin nods and drifts out of the room again.
Brian doesn't know how long he's been sitting there when Jack's eyes crack open. He holds his breath, feels almost like he's a little kid again, caught ripping tiny tears into the presents beneath the tree in an effort to determine what he's getting for Christmas. After a moment, Jack's shifting gaze settles and focuses. "Sonnyboy," he says, the words barely a sound at all, resembling shaped air more than anything; a sigh.
"Hey, pop."
Jack's eyes close. "Sonnyboy." There's a tear tracking down the side of Jack's cheek and Brian stands up because there's something in the way his dad said it, something in the moment, in the air of the room, just something that lets him know what's happening.
Then the machines echo a long resounding beep and people pour into the room. Brian backs up, again and again and then further still until he's at the door, and then out in the hallway. Keeps moving until he can't anymore, until Justin wraps him in his arms and says, "Breathe. Just breathe, Brian." Brian holds on because he doesn't want to let anything else go. Doesn't want to lose anything else.
He doesn't need a doctor to tell him that Jack Kinney is gone. "I have to tell my mom."
Justin catches hold of him again. "Just wait a second," he says. "Give yourself another minute."
"Is he okay?" Brian asks, hating that he cares, hating that he sounds so lost. He's twenty-nine, not a lost little kid. Not a little boy still looking up to his dad, hoping for more than he'll ever get.
"Yes," Justin says with quiet confidence. "Yes, he's okay, Brian." He reaches up, his hands cupping Brian's face, forcing Brian to meet his gaze. "Hey, I know that you're not going to believe me for a while, but I have to tell you this, okay? I need you to listen."
It makes Brian smile. He has learned to trust Justin. "Alright, I'm listening."
Justin mirrors the smile but there's something bittersweet lurking in the blue of his eyes. "It's going to be okay, Brian. No matter what happens, or however it feels, you're going to be okay."
The warm glow that had been missing before when Justin had come to the loft is back around him now. It makes his eyes spark like sunlight dancing across ocean waves. "You're right," Brian says. "I don't believe you."
Justin laughs, and then presses a kiss to Brian's lips. "That's because you're stubborn. You know I'm always right. Eventually this'll sink into your stubborn head."
Brian smirks, steals another kiss just because he can, tries to absorb a little of Justin's strength for himself. "I'll go tell her now."
Stepping back, Justin drops his hand to Brian's forearm and holds on as he starts to move away, his blue eyes fixed with such intensity onto Brian's own that it feels like there's something Brian just isn't understanding. Then Justin squeezes his arm gently and lets him go.
When Brian comes out of the chapel with his mother, Justin isn't waiting in the hallway. There's a white feather lying on the corner of Jack's bed. It shifts free from its precarious rest as Joan moves into the room to stand by her husband's body. Brian watches the feather as it floats back down to earth. He catches it before it drifts away.
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|<< { END CHAPTER SIX } >>|
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