Entry #23 - "Seven Conversations About One"
Title: Seven Conversations About One
Written By: kayebee_12
Timeline: Post Season Five
Rating: PG-13 for strong language
Warnings: Minor character death
Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst, Humour
Seven Conversations About One
Time and again, experts tell us that the liver is the largest and most complex internal organ in a human’s body.
The fools, however, believe it is the heart.
Despite its modest size, the heart can hold so much love, more than anyone could ever think possible. And even when it feels so full of love that you’d think it will split open any minute - it can hold more.
One is loved, because one is loved.
No reason is needed for loving.
“Hey.”
I turned around to face him. “Hey back at yourself.” That Kenneth Cole suit was the perfect choice for him.
“You alright, old man?”
Nice one, smart ass. “You better watch that mouth or that’ll cost you a week of no TV,” I said, wagging my index finger at him.
He shook his head in amusement. “The ceremony is starting in five minutes.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, dropping my cigarette and snuffing it with my Italian loafers.
He nodded. “Okay, just making sure you’re not getting cold feet.”
“What? You want to feel for yourself?”
“I think I’ll pass,” he said, waving his hand and started back inside.
“Gus,” I called out. He stopped mid-step and turned to me. “You look great, Sonny Boy.”
“What can I say? You did an amazing job on me,” he said, beaming with pride.
The greater your capacity to love,
the greater your capacity to feel the pain.
New York City
July 2008
“I would have to pass on that one. Barnyard Furniture has been on Kinnetic’s ‘hot pursuit’ account for months. It’s a biggie, you can’t expect me to let Schmidt fuck this one up.”
“Well, it’ll be next month at Von Lintel’s. Oh, have I told you that Mark Sheinkman is coming? How fucking amazing is that! Sheinkman’s work in Abstraction can be likened simultaneously as paintings and drawings. He has this propensity for combining line, texture, and contrasts of light and dark to create spatially complex and visually hypnotic pieces. Eric and I could not even believe that--”
“Justin.”
“What?” he shot me a baffled look.
“You’re not listening, are you? I said I-“
“You can’t. Barnyard Furniture is a biggie, there’s no fucking way you’ll let Ted handle it. Excuse me, but you can’t always rudely interrupt whenever I talk about something of no significance or amusement to you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said apologetically. “There are just too many shit to deal with back in Pittsburgh, right now.”
“Thank you very much but how about taking care of your shit in New York? Christ, Brian! You’ve been here for three days and you decided to see me a few hours before your flight.”
“You were very aware of the tight schedule,” I said, defending my action. “Besides, your lunch hour is the most you could spare between now and my estimated time of departure.”
“Fine. You can’t come, end of conversation. Anyway, I have a feeling my colleagues are starting to take more pleasure in hearing about the million and one excuses my legendary boyfriend could come up with than actually meeting him.”
I leaned back to my seat. “You enjoy playing these guilt-trip games, don’t you? You play the wronged wife part rather excellently that you’ve become so comfortable relegating me the antagonist roles.”
“Didn’t it even occur to you that, maybe, you fit the character to a T?” said Justin, his voice hitching.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing away the imminent onset of a terrible headache. “Justin, all I’m saying is that the word ‘Ask’, does not always come with ‘and you shall receive’, combo. I could not attend your friend’s opening not because you aren’t important,” I let the words hover in the air for a few beats. “Don’t censure me for having an equally valid excuse that the presumptuous twat in you could not afford to acknowledge.”
Justin said nothing. He busied himself with moving and arranging the salt and pepper containers until they were perfectly placed together in their rack. I waited for a snap response from him, but it was clear none was forthcoming.
“You want an actual relationship,” I continued, “then, here it is. There is no fucking way I am going to omit the parts you don’t like.”
“Don’t do this,” he said finally.
“Don’t do what?” I rolled my eyes at him. “Stop being brutally honest?”
“Why do I get a nagging feeling that you get your kick on the brutality more than the virtue?”
“Jesus! Where do you fucking get off?” I said out loud drawing attention from the queer couple seated at the adjacent table. I shot them a ‘fuck off’ glare and they returned to their food. But I knew they were still listening. There was nothing queens liked better than an emotional floorshow like this.
“Just…just don’t try to hurt me because you fucking can, Brian.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “We’re not doing this again, Justin. I’m not having another portion of your lover’s-quarrel special to go with my coffee.”
“Funny you should say that,” he said, tongue in cheek, “because honestly, nostalgia is exactly very much what I’m feeling right now. You know, the ‘hey-I-think-we’ve-been-here-before’ sort of thing. I’ll tell you what, why don't you do this world a big fat fucking favor and crawl back to your mother's uterus?”
I gave him a derisive snort and threw my head back. “I hate to disappoint you, but, I can’t do that - my mother had had hysterectomy long time ago.”
That last comment didn’t faze him. Instead, Justin twirled some pasta around his fork. “You’re right, we can’t go on running this course,” he said, setting down the silverware. “Suddenly, everything feels so wrong, so disconnected. The distance might have played a big part, but it’s not fair to put all the brunt on it.”
I ran my hand in my face. “Thank fucking God… there goes a fucking light bulb. You’re finally seeing the wrong elements in our wittle relationship, aren’t you Sunshine?”
“Hmm. I won’t quite put it that way. Maybe…” he dropped his gaze and expelled a long sigh, “maybe I’m starting to question what is even right with it.” Then he reached across the table and casually snatched my cup of espresso. In one long gulp, he emptied out its content. I don't remember him chewing on something that would need coffee to assuage any substance that might be stuck somewhere down his throat.
I guess he just wanted to drink my coffee to drown whatever.
“Can I interest you gentlemen in any dessert? A crème brûlèe, perhaps?” The maitre’d startled us with his presence.
Justin’s eyes met mine, daring me, waiting for me to speak up, to say anything. The words escaped my lips before I had the chance to restrain them, “Care for a refill, honey?”
“No, thanks,” Justin said squarely. “I think we’re done.”
Perhaps I shook my head a bit heavily than I realized when Justin dashed out of the restaurant. Suddenly it just hit me how so strongly the present faded into the past right before my eyes. Then I was left wondering if anything I did ever mattered.
----
My eyes cracked open and my head shuddered violently as the blaring sound from my phone tugged me into consciousness. Well, semi-consciousness, that is. It took at least a minute of grunting and cursing before I finally picked up the goddamned call.
“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”
“I suppose it is when you begin a statement with, ‘I’m fucking sorry’!”
“Um…I’m sorry.”
“You said that already. Shit…you got any idea what time it is?”
“I do. But I’m not telling ‘cause you’d hang up on me faster than a speeding bullet.”
“How fucking convenient.”
“Yeah, I guess, so.”
“What do you want, Michael?”
“I’m in Allegheny General. Can you come down? Ben’s very sick.” Michael’s voice was very throaty, like he needed a glass of water and a good cough to clear his air-passages. I looked at the green numbers blinking on the digital clock: ten past four in the morning.
“I’ll be right there.”
In human intercourse the tragedy begins
not when there is misunderstanding about words,
but when silence is not understood.
“Three pairs of pants…check. Six shirts…check. Boxers…um, okay, check. Toiletries …towels … undergarments. Oh, three pairs of socks - -“
“Don’t forget the sun block lotion and your white bikini brief, Mikey.”
“Huh?” he said, giving me a puzzled look.
“You’re not going on a goddamn cruise, for Christ’s sake. Why do you need that much?”
“Exactly, I am not! And I’m fucking pissed that he didn’t tell me about it.”
Then it was my turn to look puzzled. “Huh?”
“Like… like I did not even earn that fucking right to know about his health condition. I’m his partner. How could he not think of the countless consequences his lying could bring?” Michael droned on, bending down to unlace his rubber shoes.
“Relax, Mikey, at the rate you’re worrying, you’ll die of coronary long before your husband breathes his last,” I said, chiding him. “Ben was just looking out for you. He knows how you could get extremely worked up just like this. If you’re married to yourself, you’d worry about you, too.”
“Thank you for the support asshole, I feel much better now,” he barked, throwing a fucking shoe at my direction and hitting me in the arm. Okay, I did not see that one coming.
“Oww, fuck,” I said, wincing in pain.
He just rolled his eyes at me and get on with his connubial diatribe. “The subject may have become one of those things we deal with on a regular basis like, paying the bills and, and… taking out the garbage. But, it’s a fucking major thing when numbers start taking a dive. I don’t fucking care if his WBC is 2.9 or his T4-cell drops below two hundred, Brian. The bottom line is I want to know.”
“I’m sure the decision not to tell you was difficult for him, too. And, here I thought you got love all figured out. After all, you’re Italian, that’s supposed to be your national sport.”
“Love was never the issue here, Brian. Love was a given already. Ben didn’t need to solve the whole problem by himself. Two heads are better than one, right?”
“Always the romantic one.” I said in my singsong voice.
Michael chuckled dryly. “Believe me, night sweats, high fever and recurring diarrhea… they’re not exactly my definition of romantic.”
“Mmm.” I lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Anyway, thanks for offering to drive me to the hospital. I know I’ve been taking much of everyone’s time lately,” he said, snatching the cigarette from my hand. “How’ve you been?”
“Fabulous. Dandy. Busy. Pick one.”
“Good, then. Have you…have you talked to him, lately? How’s he doing?”
“I got no fucking idea,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “He’s probably fucking his nooner as we speak.”
Michael’s brows furrowed in downright confusion. “Wh- what the hell is a nooner?”
“A fuck break. You usually have them during your lunch time. If you’re lucky, you could squeeze it in between your cigarette break.”
Michael’s eyes went wide. “Wow.”
“I don’t keep tab of Justin’s life. We got our own separate lives now, remember?”
“You should at least call him to find out how he’s doing. And, tell him about Ben, too.”
“Why am I always expected to do the calling around here?” I quipped.
“For one… you can afford it and he can’t. The rest, you can figure on your own.”
“Mmm.” Fucker.
“He’s all alone in New York. Don’t underestimate what difference a single phone call can do to a lonely man.”
“Being alone, there's a certain dignity to it. Maybe the lad is having the time of his life for all we know,” I said as a matter-of-factly. “As for me, well, in the words of the great Thoreau - ‘I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude’.” Touché.
Michael looked at me. Not judgmental, not even ironic. He was deep in thought, probably cracking the subtext in my statement, like he always does. ‘In isolation, I deeply wish to unrestraint myself. And then again, it is a preference I am so afraid to pursue.’ -- that was likely how Michael interpreted my words.
“Well, you do what you got to do. I just…I just want you to be happy,” he said, dissipating the stillness that has reigned for a few beats. “I want someone to be there … not just in bed, but also to be sitting next to you.”
“It’s not as easy as you say it, Michael. You can love someone so fucking much and still not be able to make things work. Perhaps we both need more time to know what we want. Maybe then we’ll understand what we really need.”
“Wanting enough time is so overrated, if you ask me. Time is not something someone needs, Brian. It is something we all have. You either do something about it, or you waste it away. And it’s true what they say about time - it’s a great deadener - people forget, get bored, grow old and worse, go away.”
I looked at him in mock horror. “Where have you been hanging out lately, Mikey?”
He gave me weak smile. “Deathbed -- it does something to the heart and mind.”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Things between us ….they just don’t seem to work anymore. Everything we try has a side missing and neither one of us has a goddamn clue what to do about it. Try as I might, I barely know how to make him happy anymore. Maybe he was… he is happy - but then again, he could be happier. It’s a fucking conundrum how it is possible for two persons to not get along when they’re not even fucking together.”
“Then, maybe you should start listening to your queer friends that say exactly what you know, but refuse to recognize. He’s just a plane ride away. I’m sure your free miles can more than accommodate that.”
“Now, Mikey, don’t preach what you don’t follow. You could have saved yourself the trouble of packing all these had you decided to listen to your queer friends and your mother’s big mouth.”
“If this concerns Ben, please spare me the condescending remarks.” He started piling item after item inside the bag, applying downward pressure so that he could squeeze everything in.
“It would have been easier is all I am saying.” I swatted his hands off the luggage. I withdrew the towels and neatly rolled them up, placing each on the opposite side of the bag.
“Who says love is easy? Love is damn tricky and complicated. Come to think of it, there was a time when I thought that sharing the same sickness would make things easier for both of us,” Michael said casually. He tossed the toiletries bag inside the suitcase before zipping it close.
“Christ, Michael. You’re not… you didn’t --”
“No. I’m fine. I just had myself tested. It’s negative. But who knows until when?” I started to open my mouth to say something, but thought better of it and just let Michael continue. “I thought being on the same ground will make our lives less complex; that it’ll make me understand better what he was going through. Ben was so mad when I told him about this. He said that when you come to accept the limited nature of how you see your partner, you don’t always have to agree and give up what you got and what you believe in the world just so you could validate his point. Sometimes, it simply takes a little effort like suspending your view of the world for a moment and make an honest effort to see his. That is all.”
I put a single arm around him, pressing my lips to the side of his face. “You’re lucky your husband’s a fucking genius,” I told him quietly. “But you’re still goddamned crazy to even think about it.”
He chewed on his bottom lip before speaking. “I know, those were his exact words, too.”
“You’re a braver man than me, Mikey.” That made him smile and it warmed my heart to see him lighten up a bit; he hasn’t been feeling a lot of that lately.
Love me when I least deserve it,
because that is when I really need it.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
We looked at each other in silence probably both wondering what the other was thinking; but we never said a thing.
“Anyway.”
”Uh-huh,” Justin said, stifling a yawn.
“Oh, just anyway. It's a nice conversation starter.”
“It’s clever.”
“I’m glad it merits your approval, then.”
Justin turned away and started back to the living room. He plopped down onto his two-seater sofa and hugged a pillow to his chest. I closed the door behind me and was kept to standing; Justin didn’t leave much room for another person to occupy his love seat.
I surveyed his apartment and all I seemed to find are junk: carton boxes full of rubbish occupying valuable space; soiled clothes lay abandoned in the oddest of places: the window sill, on top of the fridge, underneath the coffee table. “Why do you keep that?”
“What?” he said without looking.
“That one,” I said, pointing to a broken mirror hanging next to one of his abstract painting. “You should throw that away. You know what they say about broken things bringing bad luck.”
“Yes, I know. But I like it. I like it that way,” said Justin, shooting the offending thing a pensive glance. “Well, it...uhm, it makes me look the way I feel.”
I nodded more to myself than to him. “Then maybe I should skip the part where I ask how life’s been treating you.”
“Maybe. Besides, I'm tired of hearing my own complaints. I need to get some new thoughts.”
I swatted his legs and pushed him to the other end of the sofa so that I could squeeze myself in. “So, what are you thinking about now?”
“Hmm, not much. Well, how to die, mostly.”
“How ominous,” I said, smirking. “You know what… let’s do this again. I will step off the room, do the knock-knock thing… maybe three-four times, and then you could come and get it again.” He ignored my suggestion.
“Why are you here, Brian?”
“Well, my meeting has been moved until tomorrow. I thought I’d do a pop visit.”
“Oh, I love it when you lie.”
“Do you, now? You better be careful what you ask for, Sunshine. Lying is my strongest character trait.”
“No, it's not. You have been nothing but honest with me from the beginning - and sometimes viciously so.”
There was an awkward silence in which neither of us knew what to say next. It was I who spoke first. “We both needed the space, Justin. You ought to know why, and what it meant, and what it didn’t mean.”
He lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it and shook his head; intimating that I continue.
And so I did. I told him that I did respect his hasty decision to leave Pittsburgh. Maybe my poor heart got hurt a little, and I acted like I didn’t care a great deal - but I sure as hell was NOT punishing him for pursuing his dreams. After all, a man’s gotta dream big. My actions - unfounded and immature as they may be - were my own fucked-up way of coping with the sudden change; the distance, the loneliness and all. In conclusion, I think I may have thrown in some silly lines like, ‘If you love someone, set them free’, in my little speech.
Justin let out a short laugh. “Tell me you didn’t just quote a Sting song to me.”
I looked at him, my eyes wide as the moon. “Fine, you can strike that part. See, I am not like you. I can’t feel things and just know what they mean. I don’t know how to explain them. I’m not fucking smart about that like you are, Justin. Fuck, half the time, I don’t know what the hell I was feeling till you let me know.”
Justin snorted. It was the most eloquent snort I’ve ever heard.
“I’m not doing a good job explaining myself, am I?”
He shook his head. “Yes… I mean, no, I think you did a fine job. It’s not solely your fault we’re in this bad shape. If my memory serves right, we were both in the same fucked-up relationship. The only difference was you thrive in the most terrible situation while I always seem to get stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“It couldn’t be that bad.”
Justin blinked, looking like he hadn’t thought about it, himself. “I have no idea.” Suddenly, he grinned. “Well, I quit my stupid, aimless, boring job - which means I’ve got no source of income. I received my final eviction notice, yesterday. My landlady said I’m three months behind my rent. Seriously, I thought it was just two. And…uhm… oh, yeah, I got seventy bucks in my savings account. So, maybe, my proverbial, just-add-hot-water-noodle life is not that bad.”
“Look, everyone has the right to make an ass out of themselves. Really, what is life without the occasional bumps and glitches?” He deserved better than meaningless banality, but that was all I had in stock. Still, clichés are clichés for a reason. They exist to fill in conversational gaps.
“Please stop romanticizing my fucked-up life.”
“You’re the least person who needs help in that department, believe me,” I retorted.
“Maybe.”
“Unequivocally.”
“Possibly.”
“Indisputably.”
He sighed, deflating. “This is fun for you? It just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?”
“You honestly think that I’m making fun of you?”
“You just happened to hit the gas as I walked in front of your car, asshole,” he barked. “Shit, I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 25.”
”Justin, you are somebody.” I gave him my most patronizing tone.
“I don't know who that is anymore.”
“I do. And I know a few more that do know him. In fact they all love him. And I love him. He breaks my heart again and again. But I love that little shit.”
He looked at me, his eyes starting to well up. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“Hmn, this makes for a nice change. Usually that line is screamed at me by some twink I throw out the door after a tragic blowjob.”
“Everyone thinks their situation is tragic. Well, I guess, I’m no exception.” He swiped the tears in his eyes.
“If it’s any consolation, you do give an amazing head.”
He offered me a faint smile. “I got my HIV test results. It’s a false positive.”
I shook my head, too dumbfounded by the news to digest the words. He said it like he was reciting Gus’ fucking nursery rhyme.
“What? When…when did you get tested?” I spat the words like bitter pill.
“Couple of weeks ago. But like all laboratory tests, it could be just a false alarm. It DOES NOT automatically indicate that I am infected with the HIV virus. However, the clinic recommends that I take the Western Blot within my window period. It’s a confirmatory test that’s usually performed after a false positive ELISA.”
Suddenly my heart’s doing weird things in my chest. It felt like one of those oxygen bags they hook up to those people in intensive care; filling and emptying. “False positive… Elisa Fucker test… window period…. what the fu -- you sound just like Michael.” I looked around, trying to find the goddamn bathroom.
There was a long pause. “Well, I guess so. Oh… speaking of Michael,” he said, taking in a shaky breath, “how is Ben doing?”
“God, you make the stupidest mistakes, Justin,” I managed to tell him before I started for the toilet.
Love is the ultimate outlaw.
It just won't adhere to any rules.
The most any of us can do is sign on as its accomplice.
It had been a little over six months since Justin had gotten his Western Blot HIV test results.
It was negative with a capital N.
I had been informed that false positive ELISA test results can occur if someone is tested right after events that temporarily stimulate the immune system, such as viral infections or immunizations or, simply laboratory error. In Justin’s case, it was a matter of three things: He was stupid to have engaged in unprotected sex; he realized too soon how stupid he was and so he took the test even at the height of his allergy attack; and, finally, he was well, um… just plain stupid.
To make the long stupid story, short - he moved back to Pittsburgh, re-enrolled in PIFA and started part-time work in a small Art Gallery.
So, Justin was sitting on the sofa, earnestly browsing his just arrived subscription of Bomb® Magazine; his feet kicked up on the coffee table. I, on the other hand, was at the end of the couch; legs stretched out in front of him and watching the late night news. Then it hit me, we were barely touching, not even speaking and yet we felt just as in synch.
I got to thinking that, maybe physical intimacy wasn’t all about touching. Maybe it’s all about being able to sit next to someone at dinner and not care if he steals something off your plate or reaches across you for the ketchup bottle. Maybe it’s about sharing the space with another person and not going fucking crazy because you can’t get away from him.
My introspection was cut short by the ringing of the phone. The time was quarter past eleven in the evening.
“Hello?”
There was a long pause. Justin craned his head above the glossy covers of his artsy magazine. He waited a few beats before giving me a perplexed look. I promptly averted my eyes off him.
“Michael, calm down, I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying. What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down which I knew I wasn’t doing a good job at when I noticed Justin’s feet came down off the coffee table.
”Okay. Right. I’ll let the others know, as well.”
Justin quickly got up as soon as I hung up the phone. “Brian, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“It’s Ben,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the phone. “It’s another stroke. Michael said we should come by, he feels it’s time.” Justin didn’t say a word. He slumped back onto the sofa just as quickly.
----
Ben had fallen deliriously ill by that time. His immune system had rapidly deteriorated as if he’s got this huge magnet attached to him contracting all sort of infections; from pneumonia to hepatitis. When it got so bad that he needed to be admitted back in the hospital, he refused to go. Ben’s last wish was to spend his remaining days in the home he shared with Michael. How can Michael refuse that?
The etiquette of a death watch was as elaborate as Kabuki; the watchers’ movements and conversations are so few and yet so magnified. It’s like being in a parallel universe.
There was heaviness in the air as I entered Michael and Ben’s bedroom. It felt as if I was shrinking and the walls were squeezing on me. At one point, I thought I was going to be sick, myself.
I looked at Ben and I hardly recognize him; his rib cage was like a pair of praying hands, every bone distinct. My gaze fell at the empty chair beside the bed and instantly, a torrent of mixed emotions gripped my body. I was filled with tremendous compassion and admiration for Michael, for standing by his man, notwithstanding the prospect of losing. Then, I felt my face flushed with embarrassment. How could I be feeling relief and joy over Justin’s negative result in the face of another man’s death? Am I a really a heartless son of a bitch? I felt anger surged within me, making my blood reach boiling point. I cursed AIDS and its entire minion for their audacity to render a man’s hopes and dreams - all of it - compact enough to fit in a box.
In one swift moment, I leaned in close to Ben’s ear and spoke with tender force. “Hey, Professor, it’s okay, you can let go now,” I said, gripping his right hand. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll take care of him. I promise.”
There was no indication that he heard me; no twitch of a finger nor a slight nod of the head. He just laid there, his frail body almost lifeless, battered by a merciless disease he and Michael gallantly braved together for eight long years.
More cups of black coffee served and three hours had passed by when the dissonant sound of Debbie’s soft cry filled the entire house. I heard the bedroom door creaked open and saw Michael walked out; his face a shadow of exhaustion. He didn't weep, or collapse into tears. He just seemed to lose control of his muscles while his bones turned to jelly. Next thing I knew, Justin was holding him, rubbing his back and murmuring words of comfort that probably meant nothing to a grieving husband. Eventually Justin ran out of nonsense words, so he just held him. He held Michael until his arms went numb and his back ached, but he didn't let go.
Then I knew that an understanding between Ben and I was made concrete. To this day, I still feel that it was the most eloquent, albeit succinct conversation I’d ever had with the good professor.
Your task is not to seek for love,
but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself
that you have built against.
I walked along the aisle adorned with spray of fresh flowers. I wasn’t sure what they’re called, but I overheard a woman gushing over them, “They must have spent a fortune on the flower arrangements. Casablanca lilies are really expensive, you know.” I almost cried out - ’frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn’ - luckily, my good sense got ahead of me. Wrong fucking film.
Scanning the quaint chapel, I saw quite a few faces that I couldn’t put a name on but somehow, looked familiar. It felt surreal to see different sorts of people wearing something alike: Bliss. It was like at that moment, Satan and his posse decided to try therapy and malevolence was a thing of the past.
Walking further, my gaze fell near the altar. I saw Michael pinning a corsage on Gus’ tuxedo and they were smiling as if some inside joke was being shared. Seated all prim and proper in the front wooden pew and talking in muted tones were Carl, Melanie and Jenny Rebecca. Shortly, they were joined in by Hunter and a lady friend. Debbie and Lindsay, on the other hand, were busy distributing hymnals, making sure everyone has their copy. Soft laughter echoed from the adjoining hall; there stood Emmett - the appointed wedding coordinator - with Theodore and Blake, chatting about in their typical animated way. I could not help but shake my head in delight. Some things never change.
My people-watching was cut short by a familiar voice. I turned around and saw Justin standing at the chapel’s vestibule. He looked so fucking beautiful in his dark suit. I felt my throat close for a minute and I had a hard time swallowing. God, I have never seen such joy on a human face. If you had seen the look on Justin’s face, you’d know what I’m talking about. Most people would rip out a lung to have someone look or smile at them that way. It’s just a fucking smile - but, it’s something you would not mind seeing every minute of your life.
Justin stepped toward me, closing the gap between us. “You are, hands down, the most beautiful father of the groom I have ever seen,” he said.
I felt a rush of pride burned my cheeks. I pulled Justin close to me and kissed him tenderly on the lips. When the kiss broke, he hooked his arms around mine and we walked to our designated place. Just in time as the Wedding March was cued to begin.
----
“And the minister said: ‘May I have the rings, please’.” Michael circled his arms from behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “You made a dashing ring bearer, Brian Kinney.” He rewarded me with a quick peck on the cheek.
“I’m always great at what I do.” I tilted my head to the side to look at him. Michael had this huge silly grin on his face. I punched him lightly on the shoulder then he fixed me with an exaggerated hurt look. Michael may be in his fifties, with extra pounds to his belly and grey streaks in his hair to prove it, but those doe-y eyes will always look sixteen to me.
I caught a glimpse of Justin intimately chatting with Gus’ lovely wife, Frances, who looked glowing and radiant in her white wedding gown. Their faces bore a semblance of seriousness. As if the tenet on dealing with Kinney Men was being dissected. I suppressed a chuckle at the thought of Justin sharing his time-tested expertise: culinary and fellatio.
“This is really a lovely party, Brian. It’s like one of those weddings you only see in the movies,” said Michael, taking the seat beside me.
“Mmn. I was thinking splendid and fabulous. I don’t throw out looo-vely parties, Mikey.”
“Of course, of course, you’re Brian Kinney, after all,” he said enthusiastically. “Too bad Ben missed this. He loved get-togethers. Big celebrations just like this. God, I remember that one we had back in Toronto. For a long time, he kept on telling me how he still couldn’t believe you had that cake delivered for us.” Michael paused to clear his throat and fell silent as if contemplating whether to continue or not. I held his hand and gave it a soft squeeze.
Death ends life,
not a relationship.
They say that when someone you love dies, you don't lose him all at once; you lose him in bits and pieces over time, like how the scent fades from the memory. What I’d remember most to this day was that early morning call from Michael, several months after Ben had passed away. He was bawling on the other end of the line and when it seemed like there were no more tears to shed, he spoke dispassionately.
“I got home tonight, very tired and went straight to bed,” he began. “I was this close to hitting the sleep zone when it suddenly hits me. Ben’s scent had disappeared from the bed sheet and my pillows. It just felt odd and I panicked. I rummaged around the drawers and boxes where I kept his clothes and his books. I took them all out and scattered them; on the floor, in the kitchen, on the sofa… on our bed. Everywhere. It made me feel good.” Michael kept on rambling, it’s like his tongue was in auto-pilot mode. “I’m sorry, Brian. I shouldn’t have called you. I know it’s late ….or, is too early? Fuck, did I wake Justin up? Shit, I’m so sorry.”
“No, the lad is snoring like a babe,” I told him reassuringly.
“Good,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh. “You think I am crazy, but… I’m not. I’m just …I’m just not ready yet.” Then he sputtered into silence.
“It’s alright. It’s alright, Mikey. You hold on to him as long as you want.” It was the most I could say to him.
Sometimes the most momentous or terrible things in life happen so fast, but you live through them really slow.
After I hung up the phone and went back to bed, I felt the need to snuggle up close to Justin and breathe in the smell that was no one else. Justin stirred and I slipped my arm about his neck, hugging him fiercely.
“Hmn. Was that Michael? Do you need to go see him?” Justin murmured, still half in a dream.
“Sshh. Go back to sleep. I’m not going anywhere,” I said before kissing him lightly on the forehead.
Perhaps it was that - the nearness, the feeling of a warm body against me, the smell of Justin’s hair - that made me cry that night. They were tears that made no noise, flowing easy because there was someone to hold.
----
“So,” Michael continued, “when are you and Justin going to wear your own?”
“I don’t want to hear one word”, I cautioned him. “Maybe you’ll see us wearing them. Maybe you won’t. And don’t ask me what it means because I don’t know.”
Michael made a zipping-the-mouth gesture.
“Justin and I are not going to wear those expensive rings and have a commitment ceremony just to indulge five hundred queers in Liberty Avenue to drink this vintage Château Clos L'Eglise,” I said, toasting my wine glass up in the air. Michael nodded genially.
“Well, make no mistake though, Justin is still a volatile pain in the ass,” I continued. “But, he’s good to me, and he’s good for me. That’s all that matters.”
There’s a saying old says that love is blind
Still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind…
A man in grey suit emerged from the hall, catching Michael’s attention. He graciously excused himself and quickly set off to meet him. “You came,” I overheard Michael told the sandy-haired guy. His name is Bernard. He and Michael met at a comic convention in Chicago few moths ago. One of these days, I’ll have to ask Michael when this fetish with the letter B ever started.
There’s a somebody I’m longing to see
I know that he turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me….
“Penny for your thoughts.” He leaned down and kissed me.
“It’ll take more than a million of that to pay for this wedding.”
He pouted. “Hmm… try as I might, my ass is not as plump as they used to be. I don’t think peddling them out will get us anywhere.”
“Then you better lug your ass down the kitchen and start washing the dishes as early as now,” I said with an all knowing air, but will real tenderness in my voice.
“You’d rather cart your flat ass than let my princess hands get dried up like prunes from all the rinsing,” he said, chuckling.
“I don't know if its ironic symmetry that I might be spending what could be the last precious moments of my life with you.”
“Oh, would you just quit yapping and just dance with me, darling.”
“Please don’t call me that. And honestly, I don't think confronting my fate should be considered yapping,” I said irritably. But Justin was no longer close by to hear me whine.
…Won't you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me…
There he stood, patiently waiting for me in the middle of the ballroom; looking exactly the way he was on that first night we danced together.
I got up, squared my shoulders and made my way to him. Then a smile crept up on my face - - I’m fucking glad I wore my dancing shoes.
FIN.
Written By: kayebee_12
Timeline: Post Season Five
Rating: PG-13 for strong language
Warnings: Minor character death
Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst, Humour
Seven Conversations About One
Time and again, experts tell us that the liver is the largest and most complex internal organ in a human’s body.
The fools, however, believe it is the heart.
Despite its modest size, the heart can hold so much love, more than anyone could ever think possible. And even when it feels so full of love that you’d think it will split open any minute - it can hold more.
One is loved, because one is loved.
No reason is needed for loving.
“Hey.”
I turned around to face him. “Hey back at yourself.” That Kenneth Cole suit was the perfect choice for him.
“You alright, old man?”
Nice one, smart ass. “You better watch that mouth or that’ll cost you a week of no TV,” I said, wagging my index finger at him.
He shook his head in amusement. “The ceremony is starting in five minutes.”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, dropping my cigarette and snuffing it with my Italian loafers.
He nodded. “Okay, just making sure you’re not getting cold feet.”
“What? You want to feel for yourself?”
“I think I’ll pass,” he said, waving his hand and started back inside.
“Gus,” I called out. He stopped mid-step and turned to me. “You look great, Sonny Boy.”
“What can I say? You did an amazing job on me,” he said, beaming with pride.
The greater your capacity to love,
the greater your capacity to feel the pain.
New York City
July 2008
“I would have to pass on that one. Barnyard Furniture has been on Kinnetic’s ‘hot pursuit’ account for months. It’s a biggie, you can’t expect me to let Schmidt fuck this one up.”
“Well, it’ll be next month at Von Lintel’s. Oh, have I told you that Mark Sheinkman is coming? How fucking amazing is that! Sheinkman’s work in Abstraction can be likened simultaneously as paintings and drawings. He has this propensity for combining line, texture, and contrasts of light and dark to create spatially complex and visually hypnotic pieces. Eric and I could not even believe that--”
“Justin.”
“What?” he shot me a baffled look.
“You’re not listening, are you? I said I-“
“You can’t. Barnyard Furniture is a biggie, there’s no fucking way you’ll let Ted handle it. Excuse me, but you can’t always rudely interrupt whenever I talk about something of no significance or amusement to you.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said apologetically. “There are just too many shit to deal with back in Pittsburgh, right now.”
“Thank you very much but how about taking care of your shit in New York? Christ, Brian! You’ve been here for three days and you decided to see me a few hours before your flight.”
“You were very aware of the tight schedule,” I said, defending my action. “Besides, your lunch hour is the most you could spare between now and my estimated time of departure.”
“Fine. You can’t come, end of conversation. Anyway, I have a feeling my colleagues are starting to take more pleasure in hearing about the million and one excuses my legendary boyfriend could come up with than actually meeting him.”
I leaned back to my seat. “You enjoy playing these guilt-trip games, don’t you? You play the wronged wife part rather excellently that you’ve become so comfortable relegating me the antagonist roles.”
“Didn’t it even occur to you that, maybe, you fit the character to a T?” said Justin, his voice hitching.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, willing away the imminent onset of a terrible headache. “Justin, all I’m saying is that the word ‘Ask’, does not always come with ‘and you shall receive’, combo. I could not attend your friend’s opening not because you aren’t important,” I let the words hover in the air for a few beats. “Don’t censure me for having an equally valid excuse that the presumptuous twat in you could not afford to acknowledge.”
Justin said nothing. He busied himself with moving and arranging the salt and pepper containers until they were perfectly placed together in their rack. I waited for a snap response from him, but it was clear none was forthcoming.
“You want an actual relationship,” I continued, “then, here it is. There is no fucking way I am going to omit the parts you don’t like.”
“Don’t do this,” he said finally.
“Don’t do what?” I rolled my eyes at him. “Stop being brutally honest?”
“Why do I get a nagging feeling that you get your kick on the brutality more than the virtue?”
“Jesus! Where do you fucking get off?” I said out loud drawing attention from the queer couple seated at the adjacent table. I shot them a ‘fuck off’ glare and they returned to their food. But I knew they were still listening. There was nothing queens liked better than an emotional floorshow like this.
“Just…just don’t try to hurt me because you fucking can, Brian.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “We’re not doing this again, Justin. I’m not having another portion of your lover’s-quarrel special to go with my coffee.”
“Funny you should say that,” he said, tongue in cheek, “because honestly, nostalgia is exactly very much what I’m feeling right now. You know, the ‘hey-I-think-we’ve-been-here-before’ sort of thing. I’ll tell you what, why don't you do this world a big fat fucking favor and crawl back to your mother's uterus?”
I gave him a derisive snort and threw my head back. “I hate to disappoint you, but, I can’t do that - my mother had had hysterectomy long time ago.”
That last comment didn’t faze him. Instead, Justin twirled some pasta around his fork. “You’re right, we can’t go on running this course,” he said, setting down the silverware. “Suddenly, everything feels so wrong, so disconnected. The distance might have played a big part, but it’s not fair to put all the brunt on it.”
I ran my hand in my face. “Thank fucking God… there goes a fucking light bulb. You’re finally seeing the wrong elements in our wittle relationship, aren’t you Sunshine?”
“Hmm. I won’t quite put it that way. Maybe…” he dropped his gaze and expelled a long sigh, “maybe I’m starting to question what is even right with it.” Then he reached across the table and casually snatched my cup of espresso. In one long gulp, he emptied out its content. I don't remember him chewing on something that would need coffee to assuage any substance that might be stuck somewhere down his throat.
I guess he just wanted to drink my coffee to drown whatever.
“Can I interest you gentlemen in any dessert? A crème brûlèe, perhaps?” The maitre’d startled us with his presence.
Justin’s eyes met mine, daring me, waiting for me to speak up, to say anything. The words escaped my lips before I had the chance to restrain them, “Care for a refill, honey?”
“No, thanks,” Justin said squarely. “I think we’re done.”
Perhaps I shook my head a bit heavily than I realized when Justin dashed out of the restaurant. Suddenly it just hit me how so strongly the present faded into the past right before my eyes. Then I was left wondering if anything I did ever mattered.
----
My eyes cracked open and my head shuddered violently as the blaring sound from my phone tugged me into consciousness. Well, semi-consciousness, that is. It took at least a minute of grunting and cursing before I finally picked up the goddamned call.
“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”
“I suppose it is when you begin a statement with, ‘I’m fucking sorry’!”
“Um…I’m sorry.”
“You said that already. Shit…you got any idea what time it is?”
“I do. But I’m not telling ‘cause you’d hang up on me faster than a speeding bullet.”
“How fucking convenient.”
“Yeah, I guess, so.”
“What do you want, Michael?”
“I’m in Allegheny General. Can you come down? Ben’s very sick.” Michael’s voice was very throaty, like he needed a glass of water and a good cough to clear his air-passages. I looked at the green numbers blinking on the digital clock: ten past four in the morning.
“I’ll be right there.”
In human intercourse the tragedy begins
not when there is misunderstanding about words,
but when silence is not understood.
“Three pairs of pants…check. Six shirts…check. Boxers…um, okay, check. Toiletries …towels … undergarments. Oh, three pairs of socks - -“
“Don’t forget the sun block lotion and your white bikini brief, Mikey.”
“Huh?” he said, giving me a puzzled look.
“You’re not going on a goddamn cruise, for Christ’s sake. Why do you need that much?”
“Exactly, I am not! And I’m fucking pissed that he didn’t tell me about it.”
Then it was my turn to look puzzled. “Huh?”
“Like… like I did not even earn that fucking right to know about his health condition. I’m his partner. How could he not think of the countless consequences his lying could bring?” Michael droned on, bending down to unlace his rubber shoes.
“Relax, Mikey, at the rate you’re worrying, you’ll die of coronary long before your husband breathes his last,” I said, chiding him. “Ben was just looking out for you. He knows how you could get extremely worked up just like this. If you’re married to yourself, you’d worry about you, too.”
“Thank you for the support asshole, I feel much better now,” he barked, throwing a fucking shoe at my direction and hitting me in the arm. Okay, I did not see that one coming.
“Oww, fuck,” I said, wincing in pain.
He just rolled his eyes at me and get on with his connubial diatribe. “The subject may have become one of those things we deal with on a regular basis like, paying the bills and, and… taking out the garbage. But, it’s a fucking major thing when numbers start taking a dive. I don’t fucking care if his WBC is 2.9 or his T4-cell drops below two hundred, Brian. The bottom line is I want to know.”
“I’m sure the decision not to tell you was difficult for him, too. And, here I thought you got love all figured out. After all, you’re Italian, that’s supposed to be your national sport.”
“Love was never the issue here, Brian. Love was a given already. Ben didn’t need to solve the whole problem by himself. Two heads are better than one, right?”
“Always the romantic one.” I said in my singsong voice.
Michael chuckled dryly. “Believe me, night sweats, high fever and recurring diarrhea… they’re not exactly my definition of romantic.”
“Mmm.” I lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Anyway, thanks for offering to drive me to the hospital. I know I’ve been taking much of everyone’s time lately,” he said, snatching the cigarette from my hand. “How’ve you been?”
“Fabulous. Dandy. Busy. Pick one.”
“Good, then. Have you…have you talked to him, lately? How’s he doing?”
“I got no fucking idea,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “He’s probably fucking his nooner as we speak.”
Michael’s brows furrowed in downright confusion. “Wh- what the hell is a nooner?”
“A fuck break. You usually have them during your lunch time. If you’re lucky, you could squeeze it in between your cigarette break.”
Michael’s eyes went wide. “Wow.”
“I don’t keep tab of Justin’s life. We got our own separate lives now, remember?”
“You should at least call him to find out how he’s doing. And, tell him about Ben, too.”
“Why am I always expected to do the calling around here?” I quipped.
“For one… you can afford it and he can’t. The rest, you can figure on your own.”
“Mmm.” Fucker.
“He’s all alone in New York. Don’t underestimate what difference a single phone call can do to a lonely man.”
“Being alone, there's a certain dignity to it. Maybe the lad is having the time of his life for all we know,” I said as a matter-of-factly. “As for me, well, in the words of the great Thoreau - ‘I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude’.” Touché.
Michael looked at me. Not judgmental, not even ironic. He was deep in thought, probably cracking the subtext in my statement, like he always does. ‘In isolation, I deeply wish to unrestraint myself. And then again, it is a preference I am so afraid to pursue.’ -- that was likely how Michael interpreted my words.
“Well, you do what you got to do. I just…I just want you to be happy,” he said, dissipating the stillness that has reigned for a few beats. “I want someone to be there … not just in bed, but also to be sitting next to you.”
“It’s not as easy as you say it, Michael. You can love someone so fucking much and still not be able to make things work. Perhaps we both need more time to know what we want. Maybe then we’ll understand what we really need.”
“Wanting enough time is so overrated, if you ask me. Time is not something someone needs, Brian. It is something we all have. You either do something about it, or you waste it away. And it’s true what they say about time - it’s a great deadener - people forget, get bored, grow old and worse, go away.”
I looked at him in mock horror. “Where have you been hanging out lately, Mikey?”
He gave me weak smile. “Deathbed -- it does something to the heart and mind.”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Things between us ….they just don’t seem to work anymore. Everything we try has a side missing and neither one of us has a goddamn clue what to do about it. Try as I might, I barely know how to make him happy anymore. Maybe he was… he is happy - but then again, he could be happier. It’s a fucking conundrum how it is possible for two persons to not get along when they’re not even fucking together.”
“Then, maybe you should start listening to your queer friends that say exactly what you know, but refuse to recognize. He’s just a plane ride away. I’m sure your free miles can more than accommodate that.”
“Now, Mikey, don’t preach what you don’t follow. You could have saved yourself the trouble of packing all these had you decided to listen to your queer friends and your mother’s big mouth.”
“If this concerns Ben, please spare me the condescending remarks.” He started piling item after item inside the bag, applying downward pressure so that he could squeeze everything in.
“It would have been easier is all I am saying.” I swatted his hands off the luggage. I withdrew the towels and neatly rolled them up, placing each on the opposite side of the bag.
“Who says love is easy? Love is damn tricky and complicated. Come to think of it, there was a time when I thought that sharing the same sickness would make things easier for both of us,” Michael said casually. He tossed the toiletries bag inside the suitcase before zipping it close.
“Christ, Michael. You’re not… you didn’t --”
“No. I’m fine. I just had myself tested. It’s negative. But who knows until when?” I started to open my mouth to say something, but thought better of it and just let Michael continue. “I thought being on the same ground will make our lives less complex; that it’ll make me understand better what he was going through. Ben was so mad when I told him about this. He said that when you come to accept the limited nature of how you see your partner, you don’t always have to agree and give up what you got and what you believe in the world just so you could validate his point. Sometimes, it simply takes a little effort like suspending your view of the world for a moment and make an honest effort to see his. That is all.”
I put a single arm around him, pressing my lips to the side of his face. “You’re lucky your husband’s a fucking genius,” I told him quietly. “But you’re still goddamned crazy to even think about it.”
He chewed on his bottom lip before speaking. “I know, those were his exact words, too.”
“You’re a braver man than me, Mikey.” That made him smile and it warmed my heart to see him lighten up a bit; he hasn’t been feeling a lot of that lately.
Love me when I least deserve it,
because that is when I really need it.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
We looked at each other in silence probably both wondering what the other was thinking; but we never said a thing.
“Anyway.”
”Uh-huh,” Justin said, stifling a yawn.
“Oh, just anyway. It's a nice conversation starter.”
“It’s clever.”
“I’m glad it merits your approval, then.”
Justin turned away and started back to the living room. He plopped down onto his two-seater sofa and hugged a pillow to his chest. I closed the door behind me and was kept to standing; Justin didn’t leave much room for another person to occupy his love seat.
I surveyed his apartment and all I seemed to find are junk: carton boxes full of rubbish occupying valuable space; soiled clothes lay abandoned in the oddest of places: the window sill, on top of the fridge, underneath the coffee table. “Why do you keep that?”
“What?” he said without looking.
“That one,” I said, pointing to a broken mirror hanging next to one of his abstract painting. “You should throw that away. You know what they say about broken things bringing bad luck.”
“Yes, I know. But I like it. I like it that way,” said Justin, shooting the offending thing a pensive glance. “Well, it...uhm, it makes me look the way I feel.”
I nodded more to myself than to him. “Then maybe I should skip the part where I ask how life’s been treating you.”
“Maybe. Besides, I'm tired of hearing my own complaints. I need to get some new thoughts.”
I swatted his legs and pushed him to the other end of the sofa so that I could squeeze myself in. “So, what are you thinking about now?”
“Hmm, not much. Well, how to die, mostly.”
“How ominous,” I said, smirking. “You know what… let’s do this again. I will step off the room, do the knock-knock thing… maybe three-four times, and then you could come and get it again.” He ignored my suggestion.
“Why are you here, Brian?”
“Well, my meeting has been moved until tomorrow. I thought I’d do a pop visit.”
“Oh, I love it when you lie.”
“Do you, now? You better be careful what you ask for, Sunshine. Lying is my strongest character trait.”
“No, it's not. You have been nothing but honest with me from the beginning - and sometimes viciously so.”
There was an awkward silence in which neither of us knew what to say next. It was I who spoke first. “We both needed the space, Justin. You ought to know why, and what it meant, and what it didn’t mean.”
He lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it and shook his head; intimating that I continue.
And so I did. I told him that I did respect his hasty decision to leave Pittsburgh. Maybe my poor heart got hurt a little, and I acted like I didn’t care a great deal - but I sure as hell was NOT punishing him for pursuing his dreams. After all, a man’s gotta dream big. My actions - unfounded and immature as they may be - were my own fucked-up way of coping with the sudden change; the distance, the loneliness and all. In conclusion, I think I may have thrown in some silly lines like, ‘If you love someone, set them free’, in my little speech.
Justin let out a short laugh. “Tell me you didn’t just quote a Sting song to me.”
I looked at him, my eyes wide as the moon. “Fine, you can strike that part. See, I am not like you. I can’t feel things and just know what they mean. I don’t know how to explain them. I’m not fucking smart about that like you are, Justin. Fuck, half the time, I don’t know what the hell I was feeling till you let me know.”
Justin snorted. It was the most eloquent snort I’ve ever heard.
“I’m not doing a good job explaining myself, am I?”
He shook his head. “Yes… I mean, no, I think you did a fine job. It’s not solely your fault we’re in this bad shape. If my memory serves right, we were both in the same fucked-up relationship. The only difference was you thrive in the most terrible situation while I always seem to get stuck in the middle of nowhere.”
“It couldn’t be that bad.”
Justin blinked, looking like he hadn’t thought about it, himself. “I have no idea.” Suddenly, he grinned. “Well, I quit my stupid, aimless, boring job - which means I’ve got no source of income. I received my final eviction notice, yesterday. My landlady said I’m three months behind my rent. Seriously, I thought it was just two. And…uhm… oh, yeah, I got seventy bucks in my savings account. So, maybe, my proverbial, just-add-hot-water-noodle life is not that bad.”
“Look, everyone has the right to make an ass out of themselves. Really, what is life without the occasional bumps and glitches?” He deserved better than meaningless banality, but that was all I had in stock. Still, clichés are clichés for a reason. They exist to fill in conversational gaps.
“Please stop romanticizing my fucked-up life.”
“You’re the least person who needs help in that department, believe me,” I retorted.
“Maybe.”
“Unequivocally.”
“Possibly.”
“Indisputably.”
He sighed, deflating. “This is fun for you? It just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?”
“You honestly think that I’m making fun of you?”
“You just happened to hit the gas as I walked in front of your car, asshole,” he barked. “Shit, I was really going to be somebody by the time I was 25.”
”Justin, you are somebody.” I gave him my most patronizing tone.
“I don't know who that is anymore.”
“I do. And I know a few more that do know him. In fact they all love him. And I love him. He breaks my heart again and again. But I love that little shit.”
He looked at me, his eyes starting to well up. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“Hmn, this makes for a nice change. Usually that line is screamed at me by some twink I throw out the door after a tragic blowjob.”
“Everyone thinks their situation is tragic. Well, I guess, I’m no exception.” He swiped the tears in his eyes.
“If it’s any consolation, you do give an amazing head.”
He offered me a faint smile. “I got my HIV test results. It’s a false positive.”
I shook my head, too dumbfounded by the news to digest the words. He said it like he was reciting Gus’ fucking nursery rhyme.
“What? When…when did you get tested?” I spat the words like bitter pill.
“Couple of weeks ago. But like all laboratory tests, it could be just a false alarm. It DOES NOT automatically indicate that I am infected with the HIV virus. However, the clinic recommends that I take the Western Blot within my window period. It’s a confirmatory test that’s usually performed after a false positive ELISA.”
Suddenly my heart’s doing weird things in my chest. It felt like one of those oxygen bags they hook up to those people in intensive care; filling and emptying. “False positive… Elisa Fucker test… window period…. what the fu -- you sound just like Michael.” I looked around, trying to find the goddamn bathroom.
There was a long pause. “Well, I guess so. Oh… speaking of Michael,” he said, taking in a shaky breath, “how is Ben doing?”
“God, you make the stupidest mistakes, Justin,” I managed to tell him before I started for the toilet.
Love is the ultimate outlaw.
It just won't adhere to any rules.
The most any of us can do is sign on as its accomplice.
It had been a little over six months since Justin had gotten his Western Blot HIV test results.
It was negative with a capital N.
I had been informed that false positive ELISA test results can occur if someone is tested right after events that temporarily stimulate the immune system, such as viral infections or immunizations or, simply laboratory error. In Justin’s case, it was a matter of three things: He was stupid to have engaged in unprotected sex; he realized too soon how stupid he was and so he took the test even at the height of his allergy attack; and, finally, he was well, um… just plain stupid.
To make the long stupid story, short - he moved back to Pittsburgh, re-enrolled in PIFA and started part-time work in a small Art Gallery.
So, Justin was sitting on the sofa, earnestly browsing his just arrived subscription of Bomb® Magazine; his feet kicked up on the coffee table. I, on the other hand, was at the end of the couch; legs stretched out in front of him and watching the late night news. Then it hit me, we were barely touching, not even speaking and yet we felt just as in synch.
I got to thinking that, maybe physical intimacy wasn’t all about touching. Maybe it’s all about being able to sit next to someone at dinner and not care if he steals something off your plate or reaches across you for the ketchup bottle. Maybe it’s about sharing the space with another person and not going fucking crazy because you can’t get away from him.
My introspection was cut short by the ringing of the phone. The time was quarter past eleven in the evening.
“Hello?”
There was a long pause. Justin craned his head above the glossy covers of his artsy magazine. He waited a few beats before giving me a perplexed look. I promptly averted my eyes off him.
“Michael, calm down, I can’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying. What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down which I knew I wasn’t doing a good job at when I noticed Justin’s feet came down off the coffee table.
”Okay. Right. I’ll let the others know, as well.”
Justin quickly got up as soon as I hung up the phone. “Brian, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“It’s Ben,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the phone. “It’s another stroke. Michael said we should come by, he feels it’s time.” Justin didn’t say a word. He slumped back onto the sofa just as quickly.
----
Ben had fallen deliriously ill by that time. His immune system had rapidly deteriorated as if he’s got this huge magnet attached to him contracting all sort of infections; from pneumonia to hepatitis. When it got so bad that he needed to be admitted back in the hospital, he refused to go. Ben’s last wish was to spend his remaining days in the home he shared with Michael. How can Michael refuse that?
The etiquette of a death watch was as elaborate as Kabuki; the watchers’ movements and conversations are so few and yet so magnified. It’s like being in a parallel universe.
There was heaviness in the air as I entered Michael and Ben’s bedroom. It felt as if I was shrinking and the walls were squeezing on me. At one point, I thought I was going to be sick, myself.
I looked at Ben and I hardly recognize him; his rib cage was like a pair of praying hands, every bone distinct. My gaze fell at the empty chair beside the bed and instantly, a torrent of mixed emotions gripped my body. I was filled with tremendous compassion and admiration for Michael, for standing by his man, notwithstanding the prospect of losing. Then, I felt my face flushed with embarrassment. How could I be feeling relief and joy over Justin’s negative result in the face of another man’s death? Am I a really a heartless son of a bitch? I felt anger surged within me, making my blood reach boiling point. I cursed AIDS and its entire minion for their audacity to render a man’s hopes and dreams - all of it - compact enough to fit in a box.
In one swift moment, I leaned in close to Ben’s ear and spoke with tender force. “Hey, Professor, it’s okay, you can let go now,” I said, gripping his right hand. “It’s going to be alright. I’ll take care of him. I promise.”
There was no indication that he heard me; no twitch of a finger nor a slight nod of the head. He just laid there, his frail body almost lifeless, battered by a merciless disease he and Michael gallantly braved together for eight long years.
More cups of black coffee served and three hours had passed by when the dissonant sound of Debbie’s soft cry filled the entire house. I heard the bedroom door creaked open and saw Michael walked out; his face a shadow of exhaustion. He didn't weep, or collapse into tears. He just seemed to lose control of his muscles while his bones turned to jelly. Next thing I knew, Justin was holding him, rubbing his back and murmuring words of comfort that probably meant nothing to a grieving husband. Eventually Justin ran out of nonsense words, so he just held him. He held Michael until his arms went numb and his back ached, but he didn't let go.
Then I knew that an understanding between Ben and I was made concrete. To this day, I still feel that it was the most eloquent, albeit succinct conversation I’d ever had with the good professor.
Your task is not to seek for love,
but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself
that you have built against.
I walked along the aisle adorned with spray of fresh flowers. I wasn’t sure what they’re called, but I overheard a woman gushing over them, “They must have spent a fortune on the flower arrangements. Casablanca lilies are really expensive, you know.” I almost cried out - ’frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn’ - luckily, my good sense got ahead of me. Wrong fucking film.
Scanning the quaint chapel, I saw quite a few faces that I couldn’t put a name on but somehow, looked familiar. It felt surreal to see different sorts of people wearing something alike: Bliss. It was like at that moment, Satan and his posse decided to try therapy and malevolence was a thing of the past.
Walking further, my gaze fell near the altar. I saw Michael pinning a corsage on Gus’ tuxedo and they were smiling as if some inside joke was being shared. Seated all prim and proper in the front wooden pew and talking in muted tones were Carl, Melanie and Jenny Rebecca. Shortly, they were joined in by Hunter and a lady friend. Debbie and Lindsay, on the other hand, were busy distributing hymnals, making sure everyone has their copy. Soft laughter echoed from the adjoining hall; there stood Emmett - the appointed wedding coordinator - with Theodore and Blake, chatting about in their typical animated way. I could not help but shake my head in delight. Some things never change.
My people-watching was cut short by a familiar voice. I turned around and saw Justin standing at the chapel’s vestibule. He looked so fucking beautiful in his dark suit. I felt my throat close for a minute and I had a hard time swallowing. God, I have never seen such joy on a human face. If you had seen the look on Justin’s face, you’d know what I’m talking about. Most people would rip out a lung to have someone look or smile at them that way. It’s just a fucking smile - but, it’s something you would not mind seeing every minute of your life.
Justin stepped toward me, closing the gap between us. “You are, hands down, the most beautiful father of the groom I have ever seen,” he said.
I felt a rush of pride burned my cheeks. I pulled Justin close to me and kissed him tenderly on the lips. When the kiss broke, he hooked his arms around mine and we walked to our designated place. Just in time as the Wedding March was cued to begin.
----
“And the minister said: ‘May I have the rings, please’.” Michael circled his arms from behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “You made a dashing ring bearer, Brian Kinney.” He rewarded me with a quick peck on the cheek.
“I’m always great at what I do.” I tilted my head to the side to look at him. Michael had this huge silly grin on his face. I punched him lightly on the shoulder then he fixed me with an exaggerated hurt look. Michael may be in his fifties, with extra pounds to his belly and grey streaks in his hair to prove it, but those doe-y eyes will always look sixteen to me.
I caught a glimpse of Justin intimately chatting with Gus’ lovely wife, Frances, who looked glowing and radiant in her white wedding gown. Their faces bore a semblance of seriousness. As if the tenet on dealing with Kinney Men was being dissected. I suppressed a chuckle at the thought of Justin sharing his time-tested expertise: culinary and fellatio.
“This is really a lovely party, Brian. It’s like one of those weddings you only see in the movies,” said Michael, taking the seat beside me.
“Mmn. I was thinking splendid and fabulous. I don’t throw out looo-vely parties, Mikey.”
“Of course, of course, you’re Brian Kinney, after all,” he said enthusiastically. “Too bad Ben missed this. He loved get-togethers. Big celebrations just like this. God, I remember that one we had back in Toronto. For a long time, he kept on telling me how he still couldn’t believe you had that cake delivered for us.” Michael paused to clear his throat and fell silent as if contemplating whether to continue or not. I held his hand and gave it a soft squeeze.
Death ends life,
not a relationship.
They say that when someone you love dies, you don't lose him all at once; you lose him in bits and pieces over time, like how the scent fades from the memory. What I’d remember most to this day was that early morning call from Michael, several months after Ben had passed away. He was bawling on the other end of the line and when it seemed like there were no more tears to shed, he spoke dispassionately.
“I got home tonight, very tired and went straight to bed,” he began. “I was this close to hitting the sleep zone when it suddenly hits me. Ben’s scent had disappeared from the bed sheet and my pillows. It just felt odd and I panicked. I rummaged around the drawers and boxes where I kept his clothes and his books. I took them all out and scattered them; on the floor, in the kitchen, on the sofa… on our bed. Everywhere. It made me feel good.” Michael kept on rambling, it’s like his tongue was in auto-pilot mode. “I’m sorry, Brian. I shouldn’t have called you. I know it’s late ….or, is too early? Fuck, did I wake Justin up? Shit, I’m so sorry.”
“No, the lad is snoring like a babe,” I told him reassuringly.
“Good,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh. “You think I am crazy, but… I’m not. I’m just …I’m just not ready yet.” Then he sputtered into silence.
“It’s alright. It’s alright, Mikey. You hold on to him as long as you want.” It was the most I could say to him.
Sometimes the most momentous or terrible things in life happen so fast, but you live through them really slow.
After I hung up the phone and went back to bed, I felt the need to snuggle up close to Justin and breathe in the smell that was no one else. Justin stirred and I slipped my arm about his neck, hugging him fiercely.
“Hmn. Was that Michael? Do you need to go see him?” Justin murmured, still half in a dream.
“Sshh. Go back to sleep. I’m not going anywhere,” I said before kissing him lightly on the forehead.
Perhaps it was that - the nearness, the feeling of a warm body against me, the smell of Justin’s hair - that made me cry that night. They were tears that made no noise, flowing easy because there was someone to hold.
----
“So,” Michael continued, “when are you and Justin going to wear your own?”
“I don’t want to hear one word”, I cautioned him. “Maybe you’ll see us wearing them. Maybe you won’t. And don’t ask me what it means because I don’t know.”
Michael made a zipping-the-mouth gesture.
“Justin and I are not going to wear those expensive rings and have a commitment ceremony just to indulge five hundred queers in Liberty Avenue to drink this vintage Château Clos L'Eglise,” I said, toasting my wine glass up in the air. Michael nodded genially.
“Well, make no mistake though, Justin is still a volatile pain in the ass,” I continued. “But, he’s good to me, and he’s good for me. That’s all that matters.”
There’s a saying old says that love is blind
Still we’re often told, seek and ye shall find
So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind…
A man in grey suit emerged from the hall, catching Michael’s attention. He graciously excused himself and quickly set off to meet him. “You came,” I overheard Michael told the sandy-haired guy. His name is Bernard. He and Michael met at a comic convention in Chicago few moths ago. One of these days, I’ll have to ask Michael when this fetish with the letter B ever started.
There’s a somebody I’m longing to see
I know that he turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me….
“Penny for your thoughts.” He leaned down and kissed me.
“It’ll take more than a million of that to pay for this wedding.”
He pouted. “Hmm… try as I might, my ass is not as plump as they used to be. I don’t think peddling them out will get us anywhere.”
“Then you better lug your ass down the kitchen and start washing the dishes as early as now,” I said with an all knowing air, but will real tenderness in my voice.
“You’d rather cart your flat ass than let my princess hands get dried up like prunes from all the rinsing,” he said, chuckling.
“I don't know if its ironic symmetry that I might be spending what could be the last precious moments of my life with you.”
“Oh, would you just quit yapping and just dance with me, darling.”
“Please don’t call me that. And honestly, I don't think confronting my fate should be considered yapping,” I said irritably. But Justin was no longer close by to hear me whine.
…Won't you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me…
There he stood, patiently waiting for me in the middle of the ballroom; looking exactly the way he was on that first night we danced together.
I got up, squared my shoulders and made my way to him. Then a smile crept up on my face - - I’m fucking glad I wore my dancing shoes.
FIN.