It's Time P.1 (Ch.1)
Title: IT’S TIME {Part 1 of 3}
Author: Kinwad
Pairing: Brian and Justin
Rating: R
Summary: “I’m going home to the place where I belong.” ©C.Daughtry
A/Ns: one year post-513
Disclaimer: I own nothing w/QAF
PART ONE
CH. I
I sit lying in wait for a chance to regain what I have lost. Waiting for your choice to go astray, but for now I am the sad shell of a man who once was. I feel as though a part of me has died deep inside. Sitting alone, for my life as I know it, was shattered when you left. John Main
After gathering his possessions from the airport security, Justin headed toward the nearest flight information screen. On Time. He breathed a sigh of relief and began the marathon hike to the gate.
Not scheduled to depart for an hour, he settled into the uncomfortable plastic seat and locked his gaze on the wall-mounted clock, willing it to speed up. He blinked in annoyance when the digital display lazily changed from 9:29a.m, to 9:30a.m., a royal fuck you to his consternation at the snail-like movement.
When he conceded that he couldn't intimidate the clock by anger, his interest shifted to the passengers in the departure lounge. Under normal circumstances, his mind would wander in an imaginative freefall, creating fanciful stories for the rowdy family across from him, the wealthy couple on his right, or the lone traveler on his left. His pencil would scratch furiously on the pad, eager to capture reality with illusion.
But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and he had no desire to sketch. All he wanted was to get on the fucking plane. Fidgeting in his chair, he decided that airports were man’s earthly purgatory. Everyone was always waiting. His tolerance for noise having peaked, the constant blare of flight announcements grated on his nerves like sandpaper. As throngs of excited vacationers and weary businessmen rushed past, he wondered how it was possible to feel so alone among so many.
This flight will change everything An undeniable fact. How it would change was another matter. The heart of the matter. The nuts and bolts of what was to be. Or not. He was jumping off the cliff and risking everything. Would it be enough for Brian to catch him?
* * *
“Hello?” The heavy weight of silence on the line had been deafening. But it was his silence. He would recognize the sound anywhere. “Brian? Shit! Don’t hang up! Please!” There was a sudden whoosh of air.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Every time the phone rings, I think, hope, it’s you. I guess this was my lucky night. I, I miss you." He hated that his voice wavered, that he sounded so weak. But, God, the pain! Brian was in every nook and cranny of his shoebox apartment as he was in every corner and crevice of his soul.
Brian would never know, no one would ever know how much it hurt-a deadly, dangerous hurt that had become unbearable. It gnawed at pieces of him during the day and ripped them off at night until he feared Justin Taylor would cease to exist and a different person would emerge from the implosion. His physical shell would be a mere host to this stranger, created out of the shattered ruins of his former self.
“Can you help me? I’m so scared that I’ll never get put back together.” ©R.Thomas
At least try had been the mantra on everyone’s lips. Let them try, he would think bitterly. See how easy it was to paint “stunning” masterpieces that showcased his “amazing” talent as doors slammed and rejections accumulated. Let them be inspired listening to sheets of angry rain drumming at the windows in perfect counterpoint to his tears. With no guarantees of survival or promises of success, the possibility of failure, of a bottomless descent into nothingness was a tightening noose around his neck.
The nights were the worst, particularly in the beginning-the long and terrible nights when he was so utterly alone, terrified he would never make it, personally or professionally. He would lay in bed, smoking a cigarette, and have conversations with the shadows on his ceiling and walls. The familiar shapes kept him company during those dark times when he feared he was losing his mind and worried when or if he found it again, would it be the same one he originally lost.
“Phantom faces at the windows, phantom shadows on the floor,
There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain that goes on and on.” ©Schoenberg
* * *
Brian inwardly cursed at the sharp intake of breath. It would be only minutes before Justin’s “allergies” kicked in. He wasn’t surprised. He had to swallow against a thickness in his own throat. Bad fucking idea, Kinney.
“I have to go. Forget I called.” He flung the phone on the sofa and slumped into the cushioned leather. He should have left well enough alone and not allowed his resolve to weaken. The raw agony of the whispered “I miss you” impaled his heart with unerring accuracy.
They saw each other frequently the first month and infrequently the second, both having reached the same unspoken conclusion. The pain of leaving overshadowed the pleasure of arriving. Despite his self-imposed exile, however, he couldn’t get the artist out of his head. Not for lack of trying. He continued to dig a trench of denial, but it was an exercise in futility. The emptiness was always present, a constant reminder of what was replaced with a legacy of what wasn't.
Not only was indiscriminate fucking and getting wasted night after night to prove he was still the invincible Brian Kinney getting old, it was starting to feel pathetic, even to him. He’d be temporarily sidetracked but when the distraction disappeared, the hollow ache kept him up more nights than he cared to admit. When he could sleep, he’d often bolt up drenched in sweat, unable to sense nothing more than shadowy images at the far edge of his subconscious. The dreams he did remember were potent-not blazing epiphanies but a gradual crystallization of his innermost desires.
He finally understood. He had known for years what he wanted and who he wanted. The bizarre notion that he could have someone who cared and still be the supercilious fuck everyone loved to hate didn’t seem so repulsive any more. Unfortunately, he never admitted or accepted it until it was too late.
“As the arrow passeth through the heart, while the warrier knew not that it was coming, so shall his life be taken away before he knoweth that he hath it.” ©Akhenaton
Continue to Part 1 Ch.2 here: http://kinfic2.livejournal.com/27131.html