Repost of unfinished old fic: "Conversations Between Old Friends"
Author notes: I'm hesitant to repost this because, truthfully, I only have the 2 parts ... it's not finished and probably never will be. I had great dreams for this but ... sometimes dreams have a funny way of dying on us.
Very obviously post season 2 but before season 3
Summary: Brian needs a real friend, he just doesn't know that yet.
A conversation--post "Rage" party--between Brian and Lindsay because I've always like the dynamics between those two.
Spoilers: Finale of Season Two Queer As Folk (USA)
Disclaimer: As usual all things "Queer As Folk" belong Russell T. Davies, CowLip and Showtime. No profit was made from this fiction and no disrespect for the show, its writers or the actors is intended.
Leonard Cohen wrote the lyrics to "Hallelujah"; Rufus Wainwright did a great job of recording it for the "Shrek" soundtrack. I also heard a verson from Jeff Buckley and it damn near brought me to tears. I'd always wanted to incorporate it somehow into a fic.
The lovely Lois took me under her wing once more and deftly offered necessary changes and Colleen gave me the confidence to continue when I was sure it was pointless. My deepest gratitude to you both.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After word leaked out that Justin had left in the company of Ethan Gold, violinist extraordinaire and now the not-so-secret other man in his life, the collective jaws of the assembled guests at the Friday night disaster other wise known as "The Rage Party" could not have dropped any lower. As if on one invisible strand of thread, all heads swerved in perfect unison toward the direction of Brian to see if he had let slip any sign of dismay or despair at the surprising turn of events.
Brian, not one prone to wearing his emotions on his sleeve, continued to gyrate--albeit a bit more stiffly--with his dance partner. No one could see that the impassive hint of a smile gracing his handsome features looked slightly forced and cold, and not even his dance partner noticed the pain that clouded his hazel eyes. Brian's mask, the emotional as well as the physical, was firmly in place.
Close friends of the pair disagreed on what was the final straw and the camps were evenly divided as to where to lay blame. The issue was never does Brian love Justin or vice versa? The issues were communication and deceit. Why couldn't Brian tell Justin how he truly felt? And why couldn't Justin figure it out without being told?
The only ones offering no opinion were Brian and Justin, not that anyone had bothered asking either of them. Justin was, presumably, with Ethan and no one wanted to go there. Brian left for the loft but not before making it perfectly clear that he had nothing to say on the matter, and he didn't leave alone.
Late Saturday morning over brunch at the Diner it was decided among the closely-knit circle of friends that someone needed to physically check on Brian. Michael was especially concerned about his friend's state of mind as memories of Brian's scarfing incident played before him in bright Technicolor. Debbie put in her inflated two cents by saying "Brian had to have done something pretty fuckin' horrible to push Sunshine into another man's arms." Michael maintained that it was Justin who willing sought said arms. Before the emotions of mother and son ran any higher the conversation was deftly steered back on track by a truce-seeking Ben.
Only three people had a key to the loft; Justin--but no one was placing any bets on him using it any time soon--Michael and Lindsay. Michael was adamant that he should be the one to go and Lindsay agreed that it seemed only fair he enter the lion's den first. After all, he had known Brian the longest and was, as he liked to remind everyone, Brian's best friend.
The Saturday afternoon trip to Tremont Street ended badly.
No more than 10 minutes after Michael had made it past the metal door, he was unceremoniously propelled out the same door. He tried to stall for more time but the tone of Brian's voice brooked no argument. "I'm just fucking fine, Mikey. Now get the hell out and leave me the fuck alone."
In those precious few minutes Michael ascertained that Brian was alone. Although, he amended when pushed, while he hadn't actually seen anyone, that didn't rule out the bathroom being occupied. However Brian, in his opinion, was no worse for wear. A little haggard maybe, more than a little hung over and to call him cranky was the king of understatements, but he was indeed breathing in and out under his own power. Michael promptly wrote off Justin's bold move as "the best thing that could've happened to Brian." Conversely, Melanie offered that it might have been the best thing that could've happened to Justin, which earned her a sharp look from Lindsay.
Now some 30 hours after Michael's visit, and several phone calls later, the rest of those nearest and dearest to Brian had skidded well past placated and were running headlong into a brick wall of concern. Apparently Brian felt the various forms of "fuck off" he used when answering his phone weren't working and promptly relegated all calls to the machine, effectively cutting off communication with his friends.
Lindsay as the last key-holder, and as Brian's surrogate sister, sometime confidante and full-time friend--not to mention the mother of his son--knew it was time to step in. She chose to, not because Michael hadn't been the consummate best friend, doling out what little bits of information he had and running interference on Brian's behalf because God forbid someone say a disparaging word about his behavior, but because the entire episode was, as far as she was concerned, getting tiresome.
She decided that Brian needed to talk with someone who loved him, not someone who was in love with him. Michael could say all he wanted about that subject because, in spite of his deep feelings toward Ben, she knew better. There were a few unresolved issues between the two friends. Plus she was pretty ticked off at having been used as an unwitting pawn the night of the party. This was as much a personal visit as it is a fact-finding mission. She had a bone to pick.
With her son Gus sleeping soundly, his head resting under her chin and the bulk of his weight balanced on her right hip, Lindsay yanked the elevator gate closed and took the short ride up to his father's loft. A brief stab of pain bit into her side as Gus shifted his weight. Her back would pay the price later. Smiling ruefully, she dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
After a dozen raps on the metal door she used her key and slid it open as quietly as possible. She considered, briefly, just walking in. Instead calling out softly, "Brian?" she waited a beat while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She hoped he was sleeping--alone. She didn't need Gus waking at the wrong moment to see his father in all his glory.
A shiver chased itself up and down her spine. She could no longer ignore it; three times in an hour was too much. Maybe Mel was right; maybe bringing Gus along was a bad idea after all. What if Brian had done something terrible? What if...?
The loft was dark but there was just enough glow from the streetlight outside the large windows that it didn't take long for Lindsay to find him. Music played softly from the stereo on the side wall. Chewing her lip, she smiled in relief at the sight. He was the picture of incongruity. Asleep in his fine Italian leather chair in a loft that belonged on the pages of "Metropolitan Home", wrapped up in an all too familiar old and very worn blanket.
Swaying Gus to the quiet music, she wandered around the large shadowed room and let her memories take her back to Penn State.
###
Overall, the beat up blanket had seen better days but its softness--a thick brushed furry quality--and weight made up for its unusual color combination. A bold pattern of cream, maroon and orange stripes combined with a type of abstract design that when reversed changed from predominately cream to predominately orange. The dark red binding had long since fallen off three sides leaving the edges exposed and frayed. It was no wonder that someone had thrown it in a bag and carted it off to the Salvation Army. The store manager who knew that college kids buy anything, dragged it out of the storage room in late August.
In an effort to eschew her WASPish upbringing, and because she genuinely enjoyed the Bohemian lifestyle, Lindsay Peterson found the blanket while picking through the Salvation Army treasures one early October Saturday morning in her freshman year. She deemed it "perfect" and bought it for less than two dollars. It lay across the top of a nondescript faded over-sized under stuffed couch doing its job of hiding the worn spots and collecting dust right up until Brian Kinney came along a year later.
Three weeks into the first semester Brian struck up an alliance with Lindsay. After offering to buy her a cup of coffee over at the Student Union, he outlined what he thought to be the perfect divide and conquer plan of attack. He noted that they shared two classes; a Literature class, which he found to be a large waste of his time, and a Psych class, which judging from Lindsay's body language he thought she found insufferable. As luck would have it Brian enjoyed the Psych class, and Lindsay found the Lit class to be quite entertaining. In his estimation it was the "perfect plan". It didn't take much for Lindsay to admit that the idea sounded good, but she silently held some reservations concerning possible ulterior motives. They agreed to pool their notes and share their resources. Between the two of them they felt confident they could get each other through the semester. Shortly before the cups were drained she watched Brian give a very thorough once over to a freshman boy. Knowing ulterior motives were not an issue any longer she let out a quiet laugh.
In his eyes she saw something akin to anger. "Relax," she grinned and pointed over his right shoulder, "I've been watching Rebecca Tucci watch me since she sat down." A flash of understanding crossed his face and he wished her luck but bet that he'd get his before she got hers because "dykes want the warm fuzzies; fags just want to fuck."
They agreed to meet twice a week to share notes.
It was a chilly Sunday afternoon when Brian showed up at Lindsay's room to copy her notes from the Lit class he'd cut in favor of blowing some upperclassman. The first thing she noticed was how stiff and uncomfortable he looked. This wasn't the same guy who had her laughing about his escapades just 3 days before. When he dropped on to the couch he did so with such force that the blanket slid down to his shoulders, he looked mildly surprised then smiled slightly and pulled it around himself.
An hour went by as they discussed the two classes and she realized his entire posture had changed, he looked a bit more relaxed. The earlier tension had mellowed somewhat. When she lightly questioned him about any problems he replied, "family shit" and let it go at that. Watching as his fingers worried the frayed edges of the blanket she offered him her standard of no-name instant coffee and a peanut butter sandwich; he offered her a joint. Sitting on opposites ends they talked about everything in general and nothing in particular for hours, and easily made the transition from casual acquaintances and classmates to tentative friends. It was well past 10 that night when he left for home.
The number of nights they spent drinking bad coffee, eating peanut butter sandwiches and smoking joints were too many to count. Talking for hours about their lives, their hopes and dreams, their sexuality, they saw each other through the rough times. Then there were the rare times - aided by the possible overindulgence in alcohol and drugs - when they let the walls down and told each other the more painful parts of their lives. With these and other admissions they became soul mates, brother and sister born of different families but connected by parallel traits. A bond was formed.
In those early days she used to kid him by calling the blanket his 'security blanket', later she used to drape it around him when he'd come to her room, barely able to walk, so emotionally whipped after yet another legendary Kinney family blow-up. She knew what they were like; she'd been to a few Sunday dinners at his house when he couldn't stall them any longer, and he just couldn't face it alone.
Often he drifted off on the couch with it pulled tight, his long legs tucked under himself, sleeping for an hour or so. He'd wake and the face he reserved for the rest of the world would be in place. Mumbling "Thanks", dropping a kiss on her cheek, he would transform back into the Brian Kinney everyone else knew and walk out in search of the kind of comfort she couldn't offer.
Except for one night when not enough sleep collided with too much wine and pot, and clouded their common sense. She offered him a chance and for reasons she didn't know, he took her up on it.
Their obvious discomfort the following morning was palpable, and the whispered mutual promise of 'no hard feelings but...' led to more than one tongue-in-cheek joke. In hindsight Lindsay acknowledged to herself that she was probably more in love with the idea of being in love with him than anything else. They both knew who they were and what they were about. Although he was much better at self-assessment than she was.
They said it would never happen again. While that wasn't entirely the case their bond still survived.
When they packed for home the final time, he took the blanket. Fingering the soft unbound edges absentmindedly, he grinned a lop-sided grin and told her he was doing her a favor. "Let's be honest here, you'll only toss it in the garbage when you get home. Your parents would shit if you brought this thing into the house."
He knew it was a lie.
She wouldn't have thrown it out, but this had been their game, a language only they understood. Throwing it away would have been like throwing away their history, and they were too uncertain of their future. He was ready to change the advertising world, and using art as a tool she was ready to shape minds.
And she knew he'd never ask for it outright.
They never lost touch. Their bond grew stronger and years later it became irrefutable, much to Mel's obvious chagrin, by taking the form of Gus.
###
Gus's fussing stirred Brian from his sleep and dragged Lindsay away from her reminiscing.
Seeing him this way broke her heart. The cold silver-white from the streetlight outside the window stole his coloring while the glass projected the streaming rain onto his face, streaking it with tears he'd never shed. He looked so tired, so old and so sad. She was almost willing to forget being so angry at being used in his plan to hurt Justin.
Almost.
"Bri? You asleep?"
"Yes. Go away, Linds."
Snicking out a chuckle she replied, "You shit, the hell I will."
Feigning mock dismay, he motioned to take Gus from her arms; she bit back the sigh of relief that nearly escaped as she handed their child over and shifted her stance.
"Do you kiss my son with that mouth? Speaking of ... what the hell kind of mother are you, taking him out in this weather? C'mon sonny-boy, let's have a good look at you."
Gus reached out his pudgy arms and wrapped them tightly around his father's neck.
Knowing the show of paternal affection was as much a stall for time as a need to feel the unconditional love only his son could offer Lindsay waited, but the smile on Brian's lips never quite reached his eyes.
Taking the opportunity to do a little observing of her own, she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the rumpled clothes and the 2 day shadow and surmised that he hadn't slept much since Thursday night, and hadn't stepped foot out of the loft since he got home early Saturday morning. She was also fairly certain he hadn't done any entertaining, not looking like that. Wouldn't want anyone to see him in less than impeccable condition, she thought.
Dropping into the nearest chair, she began, "Brian, we need to talk--"
"Wrong, Linds. And for fuck's sake, don't use that phrase on me. I heard it enough growing up. Nothing good ever came out of those words, and in the end it was usually me who got the short end of the deal."
Refusing to be put off she continued as if he had never spoken, "You listen to me, Brian Kinney. You used me, and Mel too. You told us to find him. You wanted Justin to see you with ... that guy ... whatever his name is. I know you two were having problems but did you have to do it that way? Did you have to cut him to his knees in front of everyone? You made a public spectacle of it. Plus, you got Mel and me involved and that wasn't fair to us."
His eyes flashed in anger until Gus patted his cheek. Settling on a scowl he ground out, "What do you want from me, Linds? An apology? Don't hold your breath. I had no other way. Besides, what the fuck did I do? Other than fuck? At least it was only once..." He faltered, but only for a moment. "Don't do this, Linds. I'm too tired, okay? Just ... don't."
Raising her head slightly, she watched as his face colored up. 'I had no other way' caught in her mind. She knew she was making headway.
"He hurt you. He wants more than you can give. He let you down. He lied. He screwed around behind your back. He broke the rules. Am I getting warm?"
Her only response was a quiet noise from Gus as he played with his father's hands.
"You know, Bri, we all make mistakes and sometimes you have to make allowances for the people who aren't quite as perfect as you." It was low and she knew it.
"Fuck you, Lindsay."
Bull's-eye, she thought. "Oh! Now who's got the mouth?"
"This is getting tedious." Standing, with Gus still in his arms, he made his way around the loft switching on lights. "I'm fine, Linds. I haven't cut my wrist or chased down a bottle of pills with a bottle of Jim. This was inevitable. It was ... I'm fine. Tell Mikey I'm fine. Tell everyone I'm fine--"
She couldn't resist. "And what do I tell Justin when I see him?"
Refusing to take the bait, his voice went flat. "Don't you have something waiting at home for you? Go, Linds. Go forth and munch, but for Gus's sake, wait until he's sleeping. Remember, we have a deal concerning lesbo activities while he's awake." He sat Gus on the counter and smoothed the sweater then put him on the floor and watched as the boy wandered off to the low bookshelf that hid some of his toys. A nearly imperceptible sag hit his shoulders.
Lindsay picked up the discarded blanket and slipped it around him. Cupping his chin in her hand she spoke softly, "Hey Bri, it's me. Drop the posturing and talk about what really happened. How did it get to this place?" Turning his head a fraction of an inch, he said nothing.
"I'm not taking sides, Brian. I'm not defending his actions ... or yours. I'm offering you an unbiased ear."
She left him standing there, staring at some invisible spot on the floor seemingly caught up in the lyrics of the quiet song.
"Maybe I've been here before. I know this room; I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble lodge; love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."
Lindsay turned back. "Shrek?"
He looked in her direction but not directly at her. "No, just some songs I pulled from the net but this is on that soundtrack, too."
"I knew I'd heard it from someplace." She listened to the next set of lyrics.
"There was a time you let me know what's real and going on below but now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you, the holy dove was movin' too and every breath we drew was Hallelujah."
She looked back to say something but the words never came. It didn't matter, he never would have heard them.
"Maybe there's a God above and all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
And it's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."
Looking back at him she said, "Sad", and continued toward the kitchen knowing she wouldn't get a response. 'How very sad,' was her only thought.
On her way to the sink she asked over her shoulder, "Where do you keep the instant?"
Shaking his head as if to clear the lyrics, he gave her a look of disgust. "I don't have instant--"
Cutting him short she replied, "But you have peanut butter, right?"
His half smile said he knew what she was doing. "Yeah, in there," motioning toward the refrigerator with his chin.
She found the jar and grinned at the fact that it was reduced-fat. "Well, that's a start. C'mon," she said, "make some coffee and find someplace suitable for your son to nap. I think we're looking at a late night."
It was without a doubt the last thing Brian wanted to do -- sit and talk about what had happened. As if he really gave a damn about how he'd gotten to "this place", as Lindsay called it. Actually he did but he certainly didn't want to, and damned if she wasn't set on getting him to do exactly that. In a perfect world he could tell her to go home, and make her understand that he truly meant it. Go home, put the kid to bed, crawl under the covers with Melanie and do whatever it is lesbians do with each other. Blocking out the disturbing visual, he thought about how in a perfect world she would leave him alone, they all would. But he didn't live in a perfect world, he lived in Pittsburgh which was about as far from a perfect world as one could get. Damn her and her touchy-feely Kumbaya sessions. Why did she have this incessant need to talk everything out? There was a lot to be said for solitude and silence.
That was Lindsay, and experience taught him that she had to examine, shake, and talk an issue to death. Although he had to admit that by the time she was done he usually felt a little better - not much, but a little. An early memory crept up and caught him off-guard; Lindsay, sitting up half the night with him after a particularly grueling little dinner at his parents' house. He was all for drinking and smoking it away but not her, no, she wanted to talk and console. They did a lot of each. By the time he left he felt almost human again. She did that a lot ... made him feel human. Very few people in his life could. She could, Mikey could, Deb too, when she put her mind to it -- not always a good thing. Gus always could. And Justin could ... did.
He shook off the thought only to have another memory grab him. His father showing up to drop off an ancient picture and in the process formally meet his grandson. Lindsay stayed to make sure he was okay. The dam burst that night and he had no sandbags, but he had her and his son ... and gallons of coffee.
One more -- it hurt as much now as it did then -- Lindsay trying to piece him back together after Justin's bashing. One would have thought the loft had a revolving door; he'd no sooner pushed Mikey out when she pushed her way in, refusing to take 'no' for an answer. No peanut butter sandwiches then, he was too far gone for those. They wouldn't have mixed well with the alcohol and half the letters of the alphabet he had already poured into his system. Thankfully he didn't have to pretend to be strong around her, he was too wiped out. Plus she already knew his weaknesses and loved him anyway.
Lindsay took care of the people she cared about. He couldn't fault her for trying to help in her own way because while he would sooner chew ground glass than admit it, he was a lot like that too. The difference was she used the front door while he chose the back.
So instead of ushering her out much the same way he did with Mikey the day before, he set the coffee maker to grind and brew the beans, and left her to forage for food, assuring her that he had more than old peanut butter to offer. "Fuck, Linds, we're not starving college kids any more. I do have real food." He didn't see her raise her eyebrows, but he knew she had. "I do," he threw over his shoulder, "... somewhere. Just look for it."
Lindsay remembered him telling her how a blissfully ignorant Jennifer Taylor found his "head cleaner" in the refrigerator one day and laughed out, "Is it safe? God knows what I'll find in this kitchen. Or where."
After sticking his middle finger up in her general direction, he gathered Gus up in his arms and went about trying to settle the cranky child down for a nap. "Yeah, I know sonny-boy, believe me, I know. I feel exactly the same way. At least you're young. People tend to frown on adults throwing tantrums." Arching his brow, he grinned while thinking about a few of his 'adult' tantrums -- not that anyone's opinion ever mattered in his book.
They stared hard at each other while he walked Gus around the bedroom; the toddler yawned and offered up a sleepy smile of resignation. Brian smiled in return and for a moment forgot about everyone and everything, and instead chose to enjoy a few quiet minutes with his son. A couple more laps in front of the bed and Gus was just about ready for what his father hoped would be a long nap.
His eyes scanned the nightstand for the clock. 9:55. Christ. This day was almost as much of a blur as yesterday. If he counted backwards he'd be able to pinpoint the exact moment it all went to hell, but his dick was soft enough without wallowing in self-pity. It just wasn't something he routinely did and never in the presence of others.
Leaning against the opening of his bedroom, he rubbed the sore muscles in the back of his neck and watched Gus find his spot among the banked pillows on the platform bed. Once, twice, three times the toddler turned and rolled before settling on the far corner. Brian smiled in spite of the fact that he was insanely jealous of the boy. He ached to crawl in right alongside him and sleep. The floor creaked. He waited but she was quiet. Breaking the silence first he said, "Stop watching me, Linds. You know I fucking hate that."
"Who said I was watching you?" There was a smile in her voice. "This is one of my favorite times with Gus. When he's just falling asleep, all warm and--"
"Dry," he deadpanned.
"Yes, and dry," she quietly laughed. "I'll be glad when he's potty-trained, but I do miss walking the floor with him the way I used to at bedtime. He's getting so big now. Usually all it takes these days is a bottle and a story." On her way down the steps she added, "Coffee's ready, Bri."
Watching his son sleep a few seconds longer, he thought how Gus was very much like him; right now a bottle and a story sounded pretty damned good. Better yet, fuck the story just give him the bottle. He allowed himself a small smile and followed her, wondering if he was ready for what was ahead. Offense was the best defense in his book. "You know, Linds, the only reason you can practice this pseudo psycho bullshit is because I got you through the courses. And this is the thanks I get? You trying to analyze me again?"
Her back was to him as she set up a tray. "Why Brian, I have no idea what you're talking about." Turning, she nearly walked into him. "I thought we were just going to have a friendly chat over coffee and sandwiches--"
"Cut the shit," he snapped and took the tray to set it down on the kitchen table. "You don't lie well, Linds. You never could. This was a recon mission, plain and simple."
"I was worried, Brian. We all were. I know how this must have hurt. I--"
"Don't take my inventory for me," he cut in angrily, "and don't project your lezzie notions of how you think I should feel on me, either. Just what the fuck did you think I was going to do, Linds? Do you have so little faith in me?"
Knowing there wasn't much ambiguity in that sentence, she found herself painted into a corner while his challenging eyes waited for an answer. Evading the questions she began, "Brian, I've lived this--"
"Lived this?" Harsh laughter resonated throughout the loft. He watched her eyes flicker toward the bedroom but didn't care. Gus could sleep through a train wreck; she knew it as well as he. "Are you trying to say that what happened between Melanie and you is even remotely close to what happened to Justin and me? Wrong. There is no parallel. I knew what he was going to do before he knew it. Fuck, I practically set up the scene."
She filed that piece of information away for future reference and countered, "Always in control, right Brian?"
"Damn straight, Lindsay," his voice unexpectedly quiet. "No surprises when you're in control. Look, we ..." he couldn't say 'broke up' because to do so would give credence to some type of relationship and he wasn't ready to battle that particular devil just yet. "He left." That worked, he thought, and it was the truth. Although a lie by omission was still a lie, isn't that what they taught in Sunday school? Not that he ever paid attention. He was losing ground and he knew it. "His needs weren't being met. He left. End of story. He did the exact same thing I would have done." He waited to see what she would do with the offering.
Taking the bait she said, "You taught him well, didn't you? So how come you never wanted out?"
"Why would I? My needs were being met." The accompanying sound could have passed for a laugh under different circumstances but at that moment it sounded somewhat maniacal. "Je-sus you suck at this, Lindsay! Stick with art and leave the psych shit to the pros, okay?"
"C'mon, Brian. He was more than just a willing piece of ass to you. He never would have been allowed past the door after that first night if that was all he meant. There was something about him from the beginning. You have well over a year invested in this. If there was nothing why did you let him stay?" She watched him stare into his coffee and knew his non-answer was as close to an actual answer as she was going to get.
"Brian?" She waited for his full attention before she continued, "You're not going to ask me to cut him out of our lives are you? Out of Gus's? Because ..." Her voice trailed off, unspoken words hung in the air. He just couldn't ask her that of her. This would all heal in time, she was certain of it. Time healed everything, didn't it? How far did he expect the boundaries of friendship to go?
Her quietly plaintive words brought him up short. He hadn't planned on her asking that, at least not this soon. Now it became a question of 'loyalty', of taking sides and he didn't want to see that happen. "Fuck. I'm not that cruel--" he caught her look and amended, "okay, I can be but I won't be this time. Nothing should change between you and him, or him and anyone else. Although I have a feeling Mikey's going to be giving him shit for quite a while." He waited for her to smile and when she didn't its absence made him feel more than a little vulnerable.
He found himself backpedaling, hating every word coming from his mouth, hating the alien need to explain. The score was Lindsay 1, Brian 0; maybe she was better at the psych shit than he thought. "He's still a part of your life, of Gus's. Jesus, Deb would cut my heart out with a butcher's knife if she thought I was sabotaging his friendships with everyone. Nothing has changed in that respect. He's just not a part of my life. Not like he was." The words came out sounding bitter but he ignored it and continued. "I won't cross the street when I see him coming and I'll still eat at the diner. I'll even be civil ... to both of them. I want him to--" He wanted to say 'be happy' but just couldn't choke out the words, not yet. The wound was still too fresh and who could blame him for wanting to lick it a little more? "I'm fine, Lindsay. Get it through your head, it was time."
The part about not being fine was a lie and they both knew it, but each let it ride.
"But it would have played out better had he handled it differently?" Lindsay made sure to pose the question in the least threatening manner she could. Not knowing the details made it difficult to ask the right ones but it didn't really matter, she just wanted to keep him talking because it had been proven in the past that a tired Brian will talk more than a well-rested one. She knew she wasn't fooling him in the least. He'd tell her only what he wanted, and in the end would expect a promise of silence. That was fine by her, theirs was a relationship built on mutual trust. She could write a book with what she knew about Brian Kinney. If the others had half a clue they would see him in a different light, Michael included. Instead she owned that gift of total honesty, because she knew that he knew he didn't have to pretend to be something he wasn't. He may live behind a nearly impenetrable wall of complex emotions but when all was said and done, he was human and he bled just like everyone else. Silently she grieved for his obvious pain and forced indifference, and wondered just how long he could continue to keep up the facade.
Whistling a quiet sigh he rested his elbows on the table and dropped his forehead against the mug, the heat on his skin soothed the headache that was spider-walking up his temples. Sliding it down to his mouth he looked over the top. "I think it would have played out better had he been a little more honest." His voice grew soft. "But maybe he didn't know how, maybe I didn't make it very easy for him, maybe I wasn't listening ... maybe ... I don't know ... in the end I think he still would have left because I won't give him what he needs." Once again his voice changed, more resolute than before. "I won't say those so-called 'magic words'. Want to know why, Linds?" He knew she wouldn't actually answer so he kept on talking, "Because I'm not in love with him, I never was. We've had this discussion before; I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's quick and it's mutually satisfying. Happy now?" He reached for the bottle on the floor. Pouring two fingers worth of liquid courage into his coffee, he waited for what he assumed would be a lengthy, emotional rebuttal.
He didn't have long to wait.
"That is such crap, Brian. When are you going to grow up?" She watched his eyes close and heard his disgusted groan. They'd been around this bend before but now it was going to be a little different. A decade of friendship granted her the license to be brutally honest. "You've been spouting this 'I don't believe in love' speech since I first met you. It's old. Find something better. Admit the real reason. Admit you're so fucking scared that you use sex as a substitute for everything. It allows you to feel good --about yourself. The same way the clothes, money, great career and fabulous loft make you feel good. But it's shallow."
Shooting his best condescending stare he drawled, "You're not going to give me the 'You feel unworthy of being loved' speech are you? Or is it the--"
"Shut up, Brian. Can you at least admit that your first exposure to love was more than a little warped? You didn't have an idyllic childhood, not many people have. Hell, the only reason I believed I did was because they told me I did. It took growing up to see it for what it was."
"For fuck's sake, we're not going to sit here and compare childhoods are we?" Feeling agitated and trapped he took his coffee and walked to the bedroom opening under the guise of checking on Gus. It was after 11. Jesus, when would he be able to get rid of her?
She was right on his heels. "Your father was an abusive alcoholic and when the chips went down your mother chose religion over her family." Touching his cheek to get him to look at her she whispered, "But you survived, Brian. You turned it all in your favor -- on the outside. Now this 19 year old kid is offering you a chance to change your views from the inside and it terrifies you. You don't want your emotions laid bare and scrutinized. You don't want to love because you don't want to get hurt. I think you equate love with emotional pain."
Backing away from her touch he turned then looked back, a thin wash of irritation colored his words. "Let me reiterate. You suck at this, Lindsay!"
"Let me ask you this, Brian, do you believe love is a 50/50 proposition?"
He cut her off quickly, "No! On a good day it's, at best, 60/40 but I'd be more inclined to say 65/35." Watching the corners of her mouth curve ever so slightly, he nearly missed the quiet question that cost him the game. "How do you know?" And there it was; game, set and match, and all he could do was give her that deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare while 'fuck me' rang out over and over in his head.
The hum of the sudden silence was eerie. They eyed each other warily and broke only when the ringing of Lindsay's cell phone startled them into movement.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sorry, folks, that's all I have ...
Very obviously post season 2 but before season 3
Summary: Brian needs a real friend, he just doesn't know that yet.
A conversation--post "Rage" party--between Brian and Lindsay because I've always like the dynamics between those two.
Spoilers: Finale of Season Two Queer As Folk (USA)
Disclaimer: As usual all things "Queer As Folk" belong Russell T. Davies, CowLip and Showtime. No profit was made from this fiction and no disrespect for the show, its writers or the actors is intended.
Leonard Cohen wrote the lyrics to "Hallelujah"; Rufus Wainwright did a great job of recording it for the "Shrek" soundtrack. I also heard a verson from Jeff Buckley and it damn near brought me to tears. I'd always wanted to incorporate it somehow into a fic.
The lovely Lois took me under her wing once more and deftly offered necessary changes and Colleen gave me the confidence to continue when I was sure it was pointless. My deepest gratitude to you both.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After word leaked out that Justin had left in the company of Ethan Gold, violinist extraordinaire and now the not-so-secret other man in his life, the collective jaws of the assembled guests at the Friday night disaster other wise known as "The Rage Party" could not have dropped any lower. As if on one invisible strand of thread, all heads swerved in perfect unison toward the direction of Brian to see if he had let slip any sign of dismay or despair at the surprising turn of events.
Brian, not one prone to wearing his emotions on his sleeve, continued to gyrate--albeit a bit more stiffly--with his dance partner. No one could see that the impassive hint of a smile gracing his handsome features looked slightly forced and cold, and not even his dance partner noticed the pain that clouded his hazel eyes. Brian's mask, the emotional as well as the physical, was firmly in place.
Close friends of the pair disagreed on what was the final straw and the camps were evenly divided as to where to lay blame. The issue was never does Brian love Justin or vice versa? The issues were communication and deceit. Why couldn't Brian tell Justin how he truly felt? And why couldn't Justin figure it out without being told?
The only ones offering no opinion were Brian and Justin, not that anyone had bothered asking either of them. Justin was, presumably, with Ethan and no one wanted to go there. Brian left for the loft but not before making it perfectly clear that he had nothing to say on the matter, and he didn't leave alone.
Late Saturday morning over brunch at the Diner it was decided among the closely-knit circle of friends that someone needed to physically check on Brian. Michael was especially concerned about his friend's state of mind as memories of Brian's scarfing incident played before him in bright Technicolor. Debbie put in her inflated two cents by saying "Brian had to have done something pretty fuckin' horrible to push Sunshine into another man's arms." Michael maintained that it was Justin who willing sought said arms. Before the emotions of mother and son ran any higher the conversation was deftly steered back on track by a truce-seeking Ben.
Only three people had a key to the loft; Justin--but no one was placing any bets on him using it any time soon--Michael and Lindsay. Michael was adamant that he should be the one to go and Lindsay agreed that it seemed only fair he enter the lion's den first. After all, he had known Brian the longest and was, as he liked to remind everyone, Brian's best friend.
The Saturday afternoon trip to Tremont Street ended badly.
No more than 10 minutes after Michael had made it past the metal door, he was unceremoniously propelled out the same door. He tried to stall for more time but the tone of Brian's voice brooked no argument. "I'm just fucking fine, Mikey. Now get the hell out and leave me the fuck alone."
In those precious few minutes Michael ascertained that Brian was alone. Although, he amended when pushed, while he hadn't actually seen anyone, that didn't rule out the bathroom being occupied. However Brian, in his opinion, was no worse for wear. A little haggard maybe, more than a little hung over and to call him cranky was the king of understatements, but he was indeed breathing in and out under his own power. Michael promptly wrote off Justin's bold move as "the best thing that could've happened to Brian." Conversely, Melanie offered that it might have been the best thing that could've happened to Justin, which earned her a sharp look from Lindsay.
Now some 30 hours after Michael's visit, and several phone calls later, the rest of those nearest and dearest to Brian had skidded well past placated and were running headlong into a brick wall of concern. Apparently Brian felt the various forms of "fuck off" he used when answering his phone weren't working and promptly relegated all calls to the machine, effectively cutting off communication with his friends.
Lindsay as the last key-holder, and as Brian's surrogate sister, sometime confidante and full-time friend--not to mention the mother of his son--knew it was time to step in. She chose to, not because Michael hadn't been the consummate best friend, doling out what little bits of information he had and running interference on Brian's behalf because God forbid someone say a disparaging word about his behavior, but because the entire episode was, as far as she was concerned, getting tiresome.
She decided that Brian needed to talk with someone who loved him, not someone who was in love with him. Michael could say all he wanted about that subject because, in spite of his deep feelings toward Ben, she knew better. There were a few unresolved issues between the two friends. Plus she was pretty ticked off at having been used as an unwitting pawn the night of the party. This was as much a personal visit as it is a fact-finding mission. She had a bone to pick.
With her son Gus sleeping soundly, his head resting under her chin and the bulk of his weight balanced on her right hip, Lindsay yanked the elevator gate closed and took the short ride up to his father's loft. A brief stab of pain bit into her side as Gus shifted his weight. Her back would pay the price later. Smiling ruefully, she dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
After a dozen raps on the metal door she used her key and slid it open as quietly as possible. She considered, briefly, just walking in. Instead calling out softly, "Brian?" she waited a beat while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She hoped he was sleeping--alone. She didn't need Gus waking at the wrong moment to see his father in all his glory.
A shiver chased itself up and down her spine. She could no longer ignore it; three times in an hour was too much. Maybe Mel was right; maybe bringing Gus along was a bad idea after all. What if Brian had done something terrible? What if...?
The loft was dark but there was just enough glow from the streetlight outside the large windows that it didn't take long for Lindsay to find him. Music played softly from the stereo on the side wall. Chewing her lip, she smiled in relief at the sight. He was the picture of incongruity. Asleep in his fine Italian leather chair in a loft that belonged on the pages of "Metropolitan Home", wrapped up in an all too familiar old and very worn blanket.
Swaying Gus to the quiet music, she wandered around the large shadowed room and let her memories take her back to Penn State.
###
Overall, the beat up blanket had seen better days but its softness--a thick brushed furry quality--and weight made up for its unusual color combination. A bold pattern of cream, maroon and orange stripes combined with a type of abstract design that when reversed changed from predominately cream to predominately orange. The dark red binding had long since fallen off three sides leaving the edges exposed and frayed. It was no wonder that someone had thrown it in a bag and carted it off to the Salvation Army. The store manager who knew that college kids buy anything, dragged it out of the storage room in late August.
In an effort to eschew her WASPish upbringing, and because she genuinely enjoyed the Bohemian lifestyle, Lindsay Peterson found the blanket while picking through the Salvation Army treasures one early October Saturday morning in her freshman year. She deemed it "perfect" and bought it for less than two dollars. It lay across the top of a nondescript faded over-sized under stuffed couch doing its job of hiding the worn spots and collecting dust right up until Brian Kinney came along a year later.
Three weeks into the first semester Brian struck up an alliance with Lindsay. After offering to buy her a cup of coffee over at the Student Union, he outlined what he thought to be the perfect divide and conquer plan of attack. He noted that they shared two classes; a Literature class, which he found to be a large waste of his time, and a Psych class, which judging from Lindsay's body language he thought she found insufferable. As luck would have it Brian enjoyed the Psych class, and Lindsay found the Lit class to be quite entertaining. In his estimation it was the "perfect plan". It didn't take much for Lindsay to admit that the idea sounded good, but she silently held some reservations concerning possible ulterior motives. They agreed to pool their notes and share their resources. Between the two of them they felt confident they could get each other through the semester. Shortly before the cups were drained she watched Brian give a very thorough once over to a freshman boy. Knowing ulterior motives were not an issue any longer she let out a quiet laugh.
In his eyes she saw something akin to anger. "Relax," she grinned and pointed over his right shoulder, "I've been watching Rebecca Tucci watch me since she sat down." A flash of understanding crossed his face and he wished her luck but bet that he'd get his before she got hers because "dykes want the warm fuzzies; fags just want to fuck."
They agreed to meet twice a week to share notes.
It was a chilly Sunday afternoon when Brian showed up at Lindsay's room to copy her notes from the Lit class he'd cut in favor of blowing some upperclassman. The first thing she noticed was how stiff and uncomfortable he looked. This wasn't the same guy who had her laughing about his escapades just 3 days before. When he dropped on to the couch he did so with such force that the blanket slid down to his shoulders, he looked mildly surprised then smiled slightly and pulled it around himself.
An hour went by as they discussed the two classes and she realized his entire posture had changed, he looked a bit more relaxed. The earlier tension had mellowed somewhat. When she lightly questioned him about any problems he replied, "family shit" and let it go at that. Watching as his fingers worried the frayed edges of the blanket she offered him her standard of no-name instant coffee and a peanut butter sandwich; he offered her a joint. Sitting on opposites ends they talked about everything in general and nothing in particular for hours, and easily made the transition from casual acquaintances and classmates to tentative friends. It was well past 10 that night when he left for home.
The number of nights they spent drinking bad coffee, eating peanut butter sandwiches and smoking joints were too many to count. Talking for hours about their lives, their hopes and dreams, their sexuality, they saw each other through the rough times. Then there were the rare times - aided by the possible overindulgence in alcohol and drugs - when they let the walls down and told each other the more painful parts of their lives. With these and other admissions they became soul mates, brother and sister born of different families but connected by parallel traits. A bond was formed.
In those early days she used to kid him by calling the blanket his 'security blanket', later she used to drape it around him when he'd come to her room, barely able to walk, so emotionally whipped after yet another legendary Kinney family blow-up. She knew what they were like; she'd been to a few Sunday dinners at his house when he couldn't stall them any longer, and he just couldn't face it alone.
Often he drifted off on the couch with it pulled tight, his long legs tucked under himself, sleeping for an hour or so. He'd wake and the face he reserved for the rest of the world would be in place. Mumbling "Thanks", dropping a kiss on her cheek, he would transform back into the Brian Kinney everyone else knew and walk out in search of the kind of comfort she couldn't offer.
Except for one night when not enough sleep collided with too much wine and pot, and clouded their common sense. She offered him a chance and for reasons she didn't know, he took her up on it.
Their obvious discomfort the following morning was palpable, and the whispered mutual promise of 'no hard feelings but...' led to more than one tongue-in-cheek joke. In hindsight Lindsay acknowledged to herself that she was probably more in love with the idea of being in love with him than anything else. They both knew who they were and what they were about. Although he was much better at self-assessment than she was.
They said it would never happen again. While that wasn't entirely the case their bond still survived.
When they packed for home the final time, he took the blanket. Fingering the soft unbound edges absentmindedly, he grinned a lop-sided grin and told her he was doing her a favor. "Let's be honest here, you'll only toss it in the garbage when you get home. Your parents would shit if you brought this thing into the house."
He knew it was a lie.
She wouldn't have thrown it out, but this had been their game, a language only they understood. Throwing it away would have been like throwing away their history, and they were too uncertain of their future. He was ready to change the advertising world, and using art as a tool she was ready to shape minds.
And she knew he'd never ask for it outright.
They never lost touch. Their bond grew stronger and years later it became irrefutable, much to Mel's obvious chagrin, by taking the form of Gus.
###
Gus's fussing stirred Brian from his sleep and dragged Lindsay away from her reminiscing.
Seeing him this way broke her heart. The cold silver-white from the streetlight outside the window stole his coloring while the glass projected the streaming rain onto his face, streaking it with tears he'd never shed. He looked so tired, so old and so sad. She was almost willing to forget being so angry at being used in his plan to hurt Justin.
Almost.
"Bri? You asleep?"
"Yes. Go away, Linds."
Snicking out a chuckle she replied, "You shit, the hell I will."
Feigning mock dismay, he motioned to take Gus from her arms; she bit back the sigh of relief that nearly escaped as she handed their child over and shifted her stance.
"Do you kiss my son with that mouth? Speaking of ... what the hell kind of mother are you, taking him out in this weather? C'mon sonny-boy, let's have a good look at you."
Gus reached out his pudgy arms and wrapped them tightly around his father's neck.
Knowing the show of paternal affection was as much a stall for time as a need to feel the unconditional love only his son could offer Lindsay waited, but the smile on Brian's lips never quite reached his eyes.
Taking the opportunity to do a little observing of her own, she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the rumpled clothes and the 2 day shadow and surmised that he hadn't slept much since Thursday night, and hadn't stepped foot out of the loft since he got home early Saturday morning. She was also fairly certain he hadn't done any entertaining, not looking like that. Wouldn't want anyone to see him in less than impeccable condition, she thought.
Dropping into the nearest chair, she began, "Brian, we need to talk--"
"Wrong, Linds. And for fuck's sake, don't use that phrase on me. I heard it enough growing up. Nothing good ever came out of those words, and in the end it was usually me who got the short end of the deal."
Refusing to be put off she continued as if he had never spoken, "You listen to me, Brian Kinney. You used me, and Mel too. You told us to find him. You wanted Justin to see you with ... that guy ... whatever his name is. I know you two were having problems but did you have to do it that way? Did you have to cut him to his knees in front of everyone? You made a public spectacle of it. Plus, you got Mel and me involved and that wasn't fair to us."
His eyes flashed in anger until Gus patted his cheek. Settling on a scowl he ground out, "What do you want from me, Linds? An apology? Don't hold your breath. I had no other way. Besides, what the fuck did I do? Other than fuck? At least it was only once..." He faltered, but only for a moment. "Don't do this, Linds. I'm too tired, okay? Just ... don't."
Raising her head slightly, she watched as his face colored up. 'I had no other way' caught in her mind. She knew she was making headway.
"He hurt you. He wants more than you can give. He let you down. He lied. He screwed around behind your back. He broke the rules. Am I getting warm?"
Her only response was a quiet noise from Gus as he played with his father's hands.
"You know, Bri, we all make mistakes and sometimes you have to make allowances for the people who aren't quite as perfect as you." It was low and she knew it.
"Fuck you, Lindsay."
Bull's-eye, she thought. "Oh! Now who's got the mouth?"
"This is getting tedious." Standing, with Gus still in his arms, he made his way around the loft switching on lights. "I'm fine, Linds. I haven't cut my wrist or chased down a bottle of pills with a bottle of Jim. This was inevitable. It was ... I'm fine. Tell Mikey I'm fine. Tell everyone I'm fine--"
She couldn't resist. "And what do I tell Justin when I see him?"
Refusing to take the bait, his voice went flat. "Don't you have something waiting at home for you? Go, Linds. Go forth and munch, but for Gus's sake, wait until he's sleeping. Remember, we have a deal concerning lesbo activities while he's awake." He sat Gus on the counter and smoothed the sweater then put him on the floor and watched as the boy wandered off to the low bookshelf that hid some of his toys. A nearly imperceptible sag hit his shoulders.
Lindsay picked up the discarded blanket and slipped it around him. Cupping his chin in her hand she spoke softly, "Hey Bri, it's me. Drop the posturing and talk about what really happened. How did it get to this place?" Turning his head a fraction of an inch, he said nothing.
"I'm not taking sides, Brian. I'm not defending his actions ... or yours. I'm offering you an unbiased ear."
She left him standing there, staring at some invisible spot on the floor seemingly caught up in the lyrics of the quiet song.
"Maybe I've been here before. I know this room; I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble lodge; love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."
Lindsay turned back. "Shrek?"
He looked in her direction but not directly at her. "No, just some songs I pulled from the net but this is on that soundtrack, too."
"I knew I'd heard it from someplace." She listened to the next set of lyrics.
"There was a time you let me know what's real and going on below but now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you, the holy dove was movin' too and every breath we drew was Hallelujah."
She looked back to say something but the words never came. It didn't matter, he never would have heard them.
"Maybe there's a God above and all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.
And it's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."
Looking back at him she said, "Sad", and continued toward the kitchen knowing she wouldn't get a response. 'How very sad,' was her only thought.
On her way to the sink she asked over her shoulder, "Where do you keep the instant?"
Shaking his head as if to clear the lyrics, he gave her a look of disgust. "I don't have instant--"
Cutting him short she replied, "But you have peanut butter, right?"
His half smile said he knew what she was doing. "Yeah, in there," motioning toward the refrigerator with his chin.
She found the jar and grinned at the fact that it was reduced-fat. "Well, that's a start. C'mon," she said, "make some coffee and find someplace suitable for your son to nap. I think we're looking at a late night."
It was without a doubt the last thing Brian wanted to do -- sit and talk about what had happened. As if he really gave a damn about how he'd gotten to "this place", as Lindsay called it. Actually he did but he certainly didn't want to, and damned if she wasn't set on getting him to do exactly that. In a perfect world he could tell her to go home, and make her understand that he truly meant it. Go home, put the kid to bed, crawl under the covers with Melanie and do whatever it is lesbians do with each other. Blocking out the disturbing visual, he thought about how in a perfect world she would leave him alone, they all would. But he didn't live in a perfect world, he lived in Pittsburgh which was about as far from a perfect world as one could get. Damn her and her touchy-feely Kumbaya sessions. Why did she have this incessant need to talk everything out? There was a lot to be said for solitude and silence.
That was Lindsay, and experience taught him that she had to examine, shake, and talk an issue to death. Although he had to admit that by the time she was done he usually felt a little better - not much, but a little. An early memory crept up and caught him off-guard; Lindsay, sitting up half the night with him after a particularly grueling little dinner at his parents' house. He was all for drinking and smoking it away but not her, no, she wanted to talk and console. They did a lot of each. By the time he left he felt almost human again. She did that a lot ... made him feel human. Very few people in his life could. She could, Mikey could, Deb too, when she put her mind to it -- not always a good thing. Gus always could. And Justin could ... did.
He shook off the thought only to have another memory grab him. His father showing up to drop off an ancient picture and in the process formally meet his grandson. Lindsay stayed to make sure he was okay. The dam burst that night and he had no sandbags, but he had her and his son ... and gallons of coffee.
One more -- it hurt as much now as it did then -- Lindsay trying to piece him back together after Justin's bashing. One would have thought the loft had a revolving door; he'd no sooner pushed Mikey out when she pushed her way in, refusing to take 'no' for an answer. No peanut butter sandwiches then, he was too far gone for those. They wouldn't have mixed well with the alcohol and half the letters of the alphabet he had already poured into his system. Thankfully he didn't have to pretend to be strong around her, he was too wiped out. Plus she already knew his weaknesses and loved him anyway.
Lindsay took care of the people she cared about. He couldn't fault her for trying to help in her own way because while he would sooner chew ground glass than admit it, he was a lot like that too. The difference was she used the front door while he chose the back.
So instead of ushering her out much the same way he did with Mikey the day before, he set the coffee maker to grind and brew the beans, and left her to forage for food, assuring her that he had more than old peanut butter to offer. "Fuck, Linds, we're not starving college kids any more. I do have real food." He didn't see her raise her eyebrows, but he knew she had. "I do," he threw over his shoulder, "... somewhere. Just look for it."
Lindsay remembered him telling her how a blissfully ignorant Jennifer Taylor found his "head cleaner" in the refrigerator one day and laughed out, "Is it safe? God knows what I'll find in this kitchen. Or where."
After sticking his middle finger up in her general direction, he gathered Gus up in his arms and went about trying to settle the cranky child down for a nap. "Yeah, I know sonny-boy, believe me, I know. I feel exactly the same way. At least you're young. People tend to frown on adults throwing tantrums." Arching his brow, he grinned while thinking about a few of his 'adult' tantrums -- not that anyone's opinion ever mattered in his book.
They stared hard at each other while he walked Gus around the bedroom; the toddler yawned and offered up a sleepy smile of resignation. Brian smiled in return and for a moment forgot about everyone and everything, and instead chose to enjoy a few quiet minutes with his son. A couple more laps in front of the bed and Gus was just about ready for what his father hoped would be a long nap.
His eyes scanned the nightstand for the clock. 9:55. Christ. This day was almost as much of a blur as yesterday. If he counted backwards he'd be able to pinpoint the exact moment it all went to hell, but his dick was soft enough without wallowing in self-pity. It just wasn't something he routinely did and never in the presence of others.
Leaning against the opening of his bedroom, he rubbed the sore muscles in the back of his neck and watched Gus find his spot among the banked pillows on the platform bed. Once, twice, three times the toddler turned and rolled before settling on the far corner. Brian smiled in spite of the fact that he was insanely jealous of the boy. He ached to crawl in right alongside him and sleep. The floor creaked. He waited but she was quiet. Breaking the silence first he said, "Stop watching me, Linds. You know I fucking hate that."
"Who said I was watching you?" There was a smile in her voice. "This is one of my favorite times with Gus. When he's just falling asleep, all warm and--"
"Dry," he deadpanned.
"Yes, and dry," she quietly laughed. "I'll be glad when he's potty-trained, but I do miss walking the floor with him the way I used to at bedtime. He's getting so big now. Usually all it takes these days is a bottle and a story." On her way down the steps she added, "Coffee's ready, Bri."
Watching his son sleep a few seconds longer, he thought how Gus was very much like him; right now a bottle and a story sounded pretty damned good. Better yet, fuck the story just give him the bottle. He allowed himself a small smile and followed her, wondering if he was ready for what was ahead. Offense was the best defense in his book. "You know, Linds, the only reason you can practice this pseudo psycho bullshit is because I got you through the courses. And this is the thanks I get? You trying to analyze me again?"
Her back was to him as she set up a tray. "Why Brian, I have no idea what you're talking about." Turning, she nearly walked into him. "I thought we were just going to have a friendly chat over coffee and sandwiches--"
"Cut the shit," he snapped and took the tray to set it down on the kitchen table. "You don't lie well, Linds. You never could. This was a recon mission, plain and simple."
"I was worried, Brian. We all were. I know how this must have hurt. I--"
"Don't take my inventory for me," he cut in angrily, "and don't project your lezzie notions of how you think I should feel on me, either. Just what the fuck did you think I was going to do, Linds? Do you have so little faith in me?"
Knowing there wasn't much ambiguity in that sentence, she found herself painted into a corner while his challenging eyes waited for an answer. Evading the questions she began, "Brian, I've lived this--"
"Lived this?" Harsh laughter resonated throughout the loft. He watched her eyes flicker toward the bedroom but didn't care. Gus could sleep through a train wreck; she knew it as well as he. "Are you trying to say that what happened between Melanie and you is even remotely close to what happened to Justin and me? Wrong. There is no parallel. I knew what he was going to do before he knew it. Fuck, I practically set up the scene."
She filed that piece of information away for future reference and countered, "Always in control, right Brian?"
"Damn straight, Lindsay," his voice unexpectedly quiet. "No surprises when you're in control. Look, we ..." he couldn't say 'broke up' because to do so would give credence to some type of relationship and he wasn't ready to battle that particular devil just yet. "He left." That worked, he thought, and it was the truth. Although a lie by omission was still a lie, isn't that what they taught in Sunday school? Not that he ever paid attention. He was losing ground and he knew it. "His needs weren't being met. He left. End of story. He did the exact same thing I would have done." He waited to see what she would do with the offering.
Taking the bait she said, "You taught him well, didn't you? So how come you never wanted out?"
"Why would I? My needs were being met." The accompanying sound could have passed for a laugh under different circumstances but at that moment it sounded somewhat maniacal. "Je-sus you suck at this, Lindsay! Stick with art and leave the psych shit to the pros, okay?"
"C'mon, Brian. He was more than just a willing piece of ass to you. He never would have been allowed past the door after that first night if that was all he meant. There was something about him from the beginning. You have well over a year invested in this. If there was nothing why did you let him stay?" She watched him stare into his coffee and knew his non-answer was as close to an actual answer as she was going to get.
"Brian?" She waited for his full attention before she continued, "You're not going to ask me to cut him out of our lives are you? Out of Gus's? Because ..." Her voice trailed off, unspoken words hung in the air. He just couldn't ask her that of her. This would all heal in time, she was certain of it. Time healed everything, didn't it? How far did he expect the boundaries of friendship to go?
Her quietly plaintive words brought him up short. He hadn't planned on her asking that, at least not this soon. Now it became a question of 'loyalty', of taking sides and he didn't want to see that happen. "Fuck. I'm not that cruel--" he caught her look and amended, "okay, I can be but I won't be this time. Nothing should change between you and him, or him and anyone else. Although I have a feeling Mikey's going to be giving him shit for quite a while." He waited for her to smile and when she didn't its absence made him feel more than a little vulnerable.
He found himself backpedaling, hating every word coming from his mouth, hating the alien need to explain. The score was Lindsay 1, Brian 0; maybe she was better at the psych shit than he thought. "He's still a part of your life, of Gus's. Jesus, Deb would cut my heart out with a butcher's knife if she thought I was sabotaging his friendships with everyone. Nothing has changed in that respect. He's just not a part of my life. Not like he was." The words came out sounding bitter but he ignored it and continued. "I won't cross the street when I see him coming and I'll still eat at the diner. I'll even be civil ... to both of them. I want him to--" He wanted to say 'be happy' but just couldn't choke out the words, not yet. The wound was still too fresh and who could blame him for wanting to lick it a little more? "I'm fine, Lindsay. Get it through your head, it was time."
The part about not being fine was a lie and they both knew it, but each let it ride.
"But it would have played out better had he handled it differently?" Lindsay made sure to pose the question in the least threatening manner she could. Not knowing the details made it difficult to ask the right ones but it didn't really matter, she just wanted to keep him talking because it had been proven in the past that a tired Brian will talk more than a well-rested one. She knew she wasn't fooling him in the least. He'd tell her only what he wanted, and in the end would expect a promise of silence. That was fine by her, theirs was a relationship built on mutual trust. She could write a book with what she knew about Brian Kinney. If the others had half a clue they would see him in a different light, Michael included. Instead she owned that gift of total honesty, because she knew that he knew he didn't have to pretend to be something he wasn't. He may live behind a nearly impenetrable wall of complex emotions but when all was said and done, he was human and he bled just like everyone else. Silently she grieved for his obvious pain and forced indifference, and wondered just how long he could continue to keep up the facade.
Whistling a quiet sigh he rested his elbows on the table and dropped his forehead against the mug, the heat on his skin soothed the headache that was spider-walking up his temples. Sliding it down to his mouth he looked over the top. "I think it would have played out better had he been a little more honest." His voice grew soft. "But maybe he didn't know how, maybe I didn't make it very easy for him, maybe I wasn't listening ... maybe ... I don't know ... in the end I think he still would have left because I won't give him what he needs." Once again his voice changed, more resolute than before. "I won't say those so-called 'magic words'. Want to know why, Linds?" He knew she wouldn't actually answer so he kept on talking, "Because I'm not in love with him, I never was. We've had this discussion before; I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's quick and it's mutually satisfying. Happy now?" He reached for the bottle on the floor. Pouring two fingers worth of liquid courage into his coffee, he waited for what he assumed would be a lengthy, emotional rebuttal.
He didn't have long to wait.
"That is such crap, Brian. When are you going to grow up?" She watched his eyes close and heard his disgusted groan. They'd been around this bend before but now it was going to be a little different. A decade of friendship granted her the license to be brutally honest. "You've been spouting this 'I don't believe in love' speech since I first met you. It's old. Find something better. Admit the real reason. Admit you're so fucking scared that you use sex as a substitute for everything. It allows you to feel good --about yourself. The same way the clothes, money, great career and fabulous loft make you feel good. But it's shallow."
Shooting his best condescending stare he drawled, "You're not going to give me the 'You feel unworthy of being loved' speech are you? Or is it the--"
"Shut up, Brian. Can you at least admit that your first exposure to love was more than a little warped? You didn't have an idyllic childhood, not many people have. Hell, the only reason I believed I did was because they told me I did. It took growing up to see it for what it was."
"For fuck's sake, we're not going to sit here and compare childhoods are we?" Feeling agitated and trapped he took his coffee and walked to the bedroom opening under the guise of checking on Gus. It was after 11. Jesus, when would he be able to get rid of her?
She was right on his heels. "Your father was an abusive alcoholic and when the chips went down your mother chose religion over her family." Touching his cheek to get him to look at her she whispered, "But you survived, Brian. You turned it all in your favor -- on the outside. Now this 19 year old kid is offering you a chance to change your views from the inside and it terrifies you. You don't want your emotions laid bare and scrutinized. You don't want to love because you don't want to get hurt. I think you equate love with emotional pain."
Backing away from her touch he turned then looked back, a thin wash of irritation colored his words. "Let me reiterate. You suck at this, Lindsay!"
"Let me ask you this, Brian, do you believe love is a 50/50 proposition?"
He cut her off quickly, "No! On a good day it's, at best, 60/40 but I'd be more inclined to say 65/35." Watching the corners of her mouth curve ever so slightly, he nearly missed the quiet question that cost him the game. "How do you know?" And there it was; game, set and match, and all he could do was give her that deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare while 'fuck me' rang out over and over in his head.
The hum of the sudden silence was eerie. They eyed each other warily and broke only when the ringing of Lindsay's cell phone startled them into movement.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Sorry, folks, that's all I have ...