"Midnight Clear" 48
Only two more chapters to the end. I was hoping to get both of them
out before now, but I'm giving a paper and moderating a panel at a
conference in New Hampshire this weekend and I'm swamped, so the final
two will have to wait. After that -- the next "Queer Identities" chapter
and the focus will be on that Stream for the time being.
So... without further ado:
Thinking and drinking.
By Gaedhal
Pittsburgh, December 2005
When Brian finally dragged his exhausted ass back to the loft it was almost 10:00 on Monday night. In the last 48 hours he'd presided over a Christmas party in San Francisco, flown across the country on a private jet, almost had a fistfight with his lover's father, been arrested and then sprung by Carl Horvath, snuck in to see Justin wake up, had another confrontation, this time with Justin's mother, and spent a lot of time sitting by Justin's bedside, watching over him and holding his hand.
He'd taken a few breaks, mainly to grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria or to stand outside for ten minutes and smoke a cigarette, but otherwise his focus had been on Justin.
Finally, Ray tapped him on the shoulder and suggested that it was time to go home.
"No," Brian declared. "I promised Justin I wouldn't leave him alone."
"He's sleeping," said Ray. "Not unconscious, not in any trouble, but sleeping nice and peaceful. Now you need to go home and do the same."
"But..." Brian began to protest.
"No buts!" Ray exclaimed. "I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told this boy's mama. If you wear yourself out you aren't doing him a lick of good. You make yourself sick and you won't be able to sit with him during the day when he's awake and when the doctors make their rounds. That's when you need to be here. That's when you gotta to be alert so you can ask them the questions that need to be asked, especially if you expect him to go home with you. Especially if you expect to be taking care of this boy. Because he's gonna need a lot of care when he goes home. And it looks like you're gonna be the one to give him that care."
"Who the fuck else?" Brian retorted. "He's my partner and my responsibility!"
"I know that. But you ever cared for somebody who got bashed in the head before?" Ray posed. "Or who's got his arm and hand all mashed up so's he won't be able to use it for a long time? That takes know-how. And it takes somebody who's taking care of himself."
Brian gazed at Justin's sleeping form. "What if he wakes up and I'm not here?"
"He won't," Ray stated. "Not after that pill I gave him. He'll sleep like a baby all night long."
"Well," Brian hesitated. "Maybe I'll go home for a few hours."
And now he was home.
Between his cell and the answering machine in the loft, there were too many messages for Brian to deal with, so he didn't even try. He poured himself a stiff belt of Jack Daniels and rummaged in the fridge to see if there was anything remotely edible. Besides bottled water, juice, and poppers, he found two slices of pizza that were curling up on the edges, some meatloaf from the diner, and three cartons of leftover Thai food. He dumped all of it into the trash and then topped up his glass of Jack.
He hadn't been that hungry after all.
So, he thought, as he stared at the empty loft, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Sitting by Justin's bed for so many hours had scared the shit out of Brian. It was like the first time he held Gus the night he was born -- he hadn't expected to feel so deeply or care so much, and when he did, it shocked him. Made him rethink all of his bullshit. And Brian Kinney didn't like having to rethink. Didn't like having to admit to himself that much of the front he'd built up so carefully for so long was just that, a fucking facade that was crumbling away to dust, with nothing to replace it but the naked truth. That made Brian feel raw, like an open wound.
But it made him feel something. That was the other thing. He'd spent so many years numb. Numb to love and numb to kindness. And whenever that numbness started to recede, he cajoled it back with booze and drugs. Then, starved for sensation, he ramped it up with sex and more drugs. It was an endless loop that was bound to come crashing down eventually. And this was that eventually.
There was no turning back now. The bullshit no longer worked. The reality of Justin in that fucking hospital bed with his head bashed in was something he couldn't deny. And the emotions he felt looking at him in that bed could no longer be denied, either.
Brian sat on the white sofa, took out his cell, and called Tony Conway in San Francisco.
"Brian! What the hell happened? I left you a message, but you never got back to me. How's your partner?" Tony's voice sounded like it was coming from another universe.
"He's going to be okay," said Brian. "But he was badly hurt. It's going to be long recovery."
"That's awful! Do they know who did it?"
"They got the guy." Brian was too tired to go into detail. "But I'm calling to tell you I won't be coming back to San Francisco. I can't. Justin needs me here and I need to be here. To pretend I can come back to work any time soon would be a lie. You need to find someone who can devote his full attention to the job -- and right now that's not me."
"I wish you'd reconsider," Tony replied. "Radev says this launch for The Maxim was the best he's ever had and he wants to plan a whole series of events at all his resorts. And then there's the cruise thing he's thinking about. You're a big part of our strategy, Brian! We need you!"
"I wish I could, but I can't," Brian said. "Maybe this whole thing wasn't meant to be. I'm not sure I'm really a P.R. guy. If I can't find another job in advertising in Pittsburgh, I may have to rethink everything. But I know I can't come back to San Francisco. I know what my priorities are and Justin is Number One."
"What about Gardner Vance?" Tony answered. "Maybe you can work something out with him, especially under the circumstances."
"I don't think so." Brian grimaced thinking about dancing with that devil again. "That train left the station a while ago. And I refuse to go back and work for him as a kind of pity-fuck."
"You're a talented guy," said Tony. "You'll find something. Good luck, Brian."
"Thanks, Tony."
Brian put down the cell and stretched his tired limbs.
The loft was so still it was uncanny. He wanted to stand up and yell, stamp his feet on the hardwood floor, throw a glass across the room and break it, anything to break the chilly silence.
He'd spent so many years living alone in this arid space, but all he could remember about those years now were the long nights he stared into space after he'd tossed that evening's trick out the door. Then Justin invaded the place. Left his dirty underwear on the floor, his empty milk glasses on the Mies van der Rohe coffee table, his pencils and sketchpads everywhere. Laughed his braying laugh way too early in the morning. Chattered on about nothing after they'd fucked when he should have been in an exhausted sleep. Poked Brian in the ribs with his bony elbows when he turned over. Put his arms around Brian in the middle of the night and told him that he loved him for no fucking reason at all.
Brian needed to call the fucking lawyers and make sure Vance gave him every dime of his payoff. And gave it to him pronto! That was their nest-egg. That money would be their future.
If he sold the Vette, they could live on that cash for awhile. He owned the loft free and clear and the maintenance fee was minimal. If worse came to worse, he could sell that, too. But that would be a last resort. There were other things he had of value. The painting Justin referred to as the Ugly Naked Guy could go and never be missed. Even used, he might be able to get a few bucks for the television and the furniture. But the thought of selling the fucking chairs right out from under their asses was depressing. But not as depressing as not eating. And not as depressing as not keeping up their health insurance. After all, what did he really need to live? A couple of futons. Some cheap booze. A bag of salad and a jar of peanut butter now and then. He'd lived with a lot less in his life and survived.
Survival. That was what was important now. Fucking surviving. And Justin getting back to normal. Whenever that might be.
"Maybe I could take Justin's shift at the Watermark?" Brian mused. "I bet I could make some decent tips. My ass may not be as prime as Justin's, but it's still pretty damn good!"
What he really needed to do was to get back into advertising. That's where he belonged. Even if he had to crawl and claw his way back. Even if he had to go into business for himself.
Without any clients. Without any money. Without any offices. Without any employees.
Well, there's me! thought Brian. That's one. That's a start. Everything has to start somewhere.
And tomorrow Justin has to start his long road back. And I'll be travelling with him.
We're both in this for the long haul.
Brian turned off the lights on Justin's little Christmas tree and went to bed. But he didn't sleep. He thought. And smoked. And planned. And wrapped his arms around a pillow that took the place of someone who wasn't there. But he would be.
Soon.
***
out before now, but I'm giving a paper and moderating a panel at a
conference in New Hampshire this weekend and I'm swamped, so the final
two will have to wait. After that -- the next "Queer Identities" chapter
and the focus will be on that Stream for the time being.
So... without further ado:
Thinking and drinking.
By Gaedhal
Pittsburgh, December 2005
When Brian finally dragged his exhausted ass back to the loft it was almost 10:00 on Monday night. In the last 48 hours he'd presided over a Christmas party in San Francisco, flown across the country on a private jet, almost had a fistfight with his lover's father, been arrested and then sprung by Carl Horvath, snuck in to see Justin wake up, had another confrontation, this time with Justin's mother, and spent a lot of time sitting by Justin's bedside, watching over him and holding his hand.
He'd taken a few breaks, mainly to grab a cup of coffee in the cafeteria or to stand outside for ten minutes and smoke a cigarette, but otherwise his focus had been on Justin.
Finally, Ray tapped him on the shoulder and suggested that it was time to go home.
"No," Brian declared. "I promised Justin I wouldn't leave him alone."
"He's sleeping," said Ray. "Not unconscious, not in any trouble, but sleeping nice and peaceful. Now you need to go home and do the same."
"But..." Brian began to protest.
"No buts!" Ray exclaimed. "I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told this boy's mama. If you wear yourself out you aren't doing him a lick of good. You make yourself sick and you won't be able to sit with him during the day when he's awake and when the doctors make their rounds. That's when you need to be here. That's when you gotta to be alert so you can ask them the questions that need to be asked, especially if you expect him to go home with you. Especially if you expect to be taking care of this boy. Because he's gonna need a lot of care when he goes home. And it looks like you're gonna be the one to give him that care."
"Who the fuck else?" Brian retorted. "He's my partner and my responsibility!"
"I know that. But you ever cared for somebody who got bashed in the head before?" Ray posed. "Or who's got his arm and hand all mashed up so's he won't be able to use it for a long time? That takes know-how. And it takes somebody who's taking care of himself."
Brian gazed at Justin's sleeping form. "What if he wakes up and I'm not here?"
"He won't," Ray stated. "Not after that pill I gave him. He'll sleep like a baby all night long."
"Well," Brian hesitated. "Maybe I'll go home for a few hours."
And now he was home.
Between his cell and the answering machine in the loft, there were too many messages for Brian to deal with, so he didn't even try. He poured himself a stiff belt of Jack Daniels and rummaged in the fridge to see if there was anything remotely edible. Besides bottled water, juice, and poppers, he found two slices of pizza that were curling up on the edges, some meatloaf from the diner, and three cartons of leftover Thai food. He dumped all of it into the trash and then topped up his glass of Jack.
He hadn't been that hungry after all.
So, he thought, as he stared at the empty loft, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Sitting by Justin's bed for so many hours had scared the shit out of Brian. It was like the first time he held Gus the night he was born -- he hadn't expected to feel so deeply or care so much, and when he did, it shocked him. Made him rethink all of his bullshit. And Brian Kinney didn't like having to rethink. Didn't like having to admit to himself that much of the front he'd built up so carefully for so long was just that, a fucking facade that was crumbling away to dust, with nothing to replace it but the naked truth. That made Brian feel raw, like an open wound.
But it made him feel something. That was the other thing. He'd spent so many years numb. Numb to love and numb to kindness. And whenever that numbness started to recede, he cajoled it back with booze and drugs. Then, starved for sensation, he ramped it up with sex and more drugs. It was an endless loop that was bound to come crashing down eventually. And this was that eventually.
There was no turning back now. The bullshit no longer worked. The reality of Justin in that fucking hospital bed with his head bashed in was something he couldn't deny. And the emotions he felt looking at him in that bed could no longer be denied, either.
Brian sat on the white sofa, took out his cell, and called Tony Conway in San Francisco.
"Brian! What the hell happened? I left you a message, but you never got back to me. How's your partner?" Tony's voice sounded like it was coming from another universe.
"He's going to be okay," said Brian. "But he was badly hurt. It's going to be long recovery."
"That's awful! Do they know who did it?"
"They got the guy." Brian was too tired to go into detail. "But I'm calling to tell you I won't be coming back to San Francisco. I can't. Justin needs me here and I need to be here. To pretend I can come back to work any time soon would be a lie. You need to find someone who can devote his full attention to the job -- and right now that's not me."
"I wish you'd reconsider," Tony replied. "Radev says this launch for The Maxim was the best he's ever had and he wants to plan a whole series of events at all his resorts. And then there's the cruise thing he's thinking about. You're a big part of our strategy, Brian! We need you!"
"I wish I could, but I can't," Brian said. "Maybe this whole thing wasn't meant to be. I'm not sure I'm really a P.R. guy. If I can't find another job in advertising in Pittsburgh, I may have to rethink everything. But I know I can't come back to San Francisco. I know what my priorities are and Justin is Number One."
"What about Gardner Vance?" Tony answered. "Maybe you can work something out with him, especially under the circumstances."
"I don't think so." Brian grimaced thinking about dancing with that devil again. "That train left the station a while ago. And I refuse to go back and work for him as a kind of pity-fuck."
"You're a talented guy," said Tony. "You'll find something. Good luck, Brian."
"Thanks, Tony."
Brian put down the cell and stretched his tired limbs.
The loft was so still it was uncanny. He wanted to stand up and yell, stamp his feet on the hardwood floor, throw a glass across the room and break it, anything to break the chilly silence.
He'd spent so many years living alone in this arid space, but all he could remember about those years now were the long nights he stared into space after he'd tossed that evening's trick out the door. Then Justin invaded the place. Left his dirty underwear on the floor, his empty milk glasses on the Mies van der Rohe coffee table, his pencils and sketchpads everywhere. Laughed his braying laugh way too early in the morning. Chattered on about nothing after they'd fucked when he should have been in an exhausted sleep. Poked Brian in the ribs with his bony elbows when he turned over. Put his arms around Brian in the middle of the night and told him that he loved him for no fucking reason at all.
Brian needed to call the fucking lawyers and make sure Vance gave him every dime of his payoff. And gave it to him pronto! That was their nest-egg. That money would be their future.
If he sold the Vette, they could live on that cash for awhile. He owned the loft free and clear and the maintenance fee was minimal. If worse came to worse, he could sell that, too. But that would be a last resort. There were other things he had of value. The painting Justin referred to as the Ugly Naked Guy could go and never be missed. Even used, he might be able to get a few bucks for the television and the furniture. But the thought of selling the fucking chairs right out from under their asses was depressing. But not as depressing as not eating. And not as depressing as not keeping up their health insurance. After all, what did he really need to live? A couple of futons. Some cheap booze. A bag of salad and a jar of peanut butter now and then. He'd lived with a lot less in his life and survived.
Survival. That was what was important now. Fucking surviving. And Justin getting back to normal. Whenever that might be.
"Maybe I could take Justin's shift at the Watermark?" Brian mused. "I bet I could make some decent tips. My ass may not be as prime as Justin's, but it's still pretty damn good!"
What he really needed to do was to get back into advertising. That's where he belonged. Even if he had to crawl and claw his way back. Even if he had to go into business for himself.
Without any clients. Without any money. Without any offices. Without any employees.
Well, there's me! thought Brian. That's one. That's a start. Everything has to start somewhere.
And tomorrow Justin has to start his long road back. And I'll be travelling with him.
We're both in this for the long haul.
Brian turned off the lights on Justin's little Christmas tree and went to bed. But he didn't sleep. He thought. And smoked. And planned. And wrapped his arms around a pillow that took the place of someone who wasn't there. But he would be.
Soon.
***