NO LOOKING BACK - Prologue & Chapter One
A/N: This is a finished story, told in 30 chapters. It is a sequel to Crazy Thought, a very short ficlet that I posted a long, long time ago. For this story, the ficlet has become the prologue. Please note that I have no fixed posting schedule; a new chapter will be up every couple of days.
Credits: Thank you to Jessica, Amy, and Silvia for their help. But my biggest gratitude goes out to Pet who’s been a tremendous support and my proverbial walking stick. A thank you is too inadequate.
Warnings: Angst. But don’t worry - nobody’s dying and there is no BJ/other.
Summary: The story starts where 513 ended. Another tragedy strikes.
Feedback: An honest opinion is always welcomed and appreciated.
NO LOOKING BACK
Prologue
Brian’s POV
What a crazy thought!
I had watched him fuck countless men, with or without him knowing I was there. I had watched him being fucked by other men - a parade of tricks that knelt before him to worship his cock. And, maybe not as many but still an impressive number of men, that were brought to their proverbial knees by his talented tongue and full pouty lips.
And it never bothered me. Have I been fooling myself this whole time? Because suddenly the thought of him being kissed, stroked, touched, caressed, looked at by someone else - someone other than me - made the bile rise to my throat.
I was okay with him leaving for New York; it wouldn’t be the end. This I had made sure of. And I had made a promise to myself: I’d do everything I could not to push him away. No matter what people were going to say, no matter how many smirks I had to endure, or how many people whispered gossip behind my back. He would never leave me again; at least not because I failed to give him something he needed or craved.
Justin leaving for New York had as much to do with him figuring out which path to follow as it had with us knowing that something as small as a few hundred miles in between us would never hold any power over us. Me not wanting (or maybe not able) to let go of his smaller frame that I clutched to as we stood in the entrance area of the loft with his bags beside him, had nothing to do with insecurity or doubts, and everything to do with one tiny little word that I had successfully steered away from for the last couple of decades:
Jealousy.
He was mine! As retrograde and primitive as it sounded, he belonged to me! Pittsburgh, for all its questionable glory, held one trump card over New York: No fag in the good old ‘burgh would ever cross certain lines unless they were weary of life. They knew (or were made to understand) that Justin was taken and learned to enjoy the pleasure and very short time of attention he was bestowing upon them - or upon certain anatomical parts of them, to be more precise. New York however was another, and infinitely larger, pond with correspondingly bigger fish. None of which I wanted to lay their dirty hands on the way too trusting and candid blond.
And since Brian Kinney never asks for anything, except for said blond to marry him - twice - I developed an intricate plan of sheer genius to make sure that he’d forever remain mine. The first stage was already set in motion. All I had to do was wait.
Justin’s POV
I pulled the knapsack onto my knees as soon as the seatbelt lights were switched off. It was a late flight, and most people in the first class - Brian’s (for the time being) last gift - dozed off or tried to relax after a stressful day. I fished around for my sketch pad and carbon pencil, itching to draw the clear and defined lines of Brian’s back as long as they were still fresh on my mind; as long as I still had his scent on me, reminding me of his beautiful lean form stretched out across the loft’s bed.
Flipping open the book to a fresh page, I found something lodged between the sheets of paper: An envelope. I ripped it open and pulled out what appeared to be a plane ticket.
New York - Pittsburgh.
August, 19th.
Exactly three months from today. On it a yellow sticky note with Brian’s neat handwriting:
You.
Me.
And nothing in between us.
I was instantly hard, the voice in my head screaming ‘OH MY GOD’ in Dolby surround sound. I started counting frantically... 92 more days to go.
Chapter One
Even years after, there would still be times when he would stumble upon something that triggered a memory, and he would think back to this one day, and his heart would give a painful stab, so intense he’d have to pause for a moment to catch his breath again.
Brian walked into the conference room, feeling slightly uneasy. He straightened his tie, checked to make sure the boards were all lined up perfectly, adjusted the drinking glasses on the tray with beverages that Cynthia had refilled earlier. They were ready. Brian let his eyes stray over the papers that outlined the campaign he and one of his account executives had come up with - impeccable. The client would be a moron not to hire Kinnetik. And even though he knew from experience that, unfortunately, the world wasn’t devoid of those, it was not what was making his guts clench. Brian squirmed in his seat at the top of the table, not liking the feeling of dread rapidly settling over him. Glancing at his watch and, realizing he still had twenty minutes until the client was due to come in, he rose from his chair and made his way over to the art department.
As usual, the approaching CEO made the atmosphere in the large studio-like wing of the building buzz with nervousness at potential reprimands. Brian walked from booth to booth, from table to table, checking on current projects in various stages of completion. Supplying a suggestion on color or font, he couldn’t detect any major fuck-ups and was forced to leave without being able to vent some of his inexplicable inner turmoil. A sudden thought grazed his preoccupied mind and he hurried to a somewhat secluded corner for privacy. Pulling out his mobile phone from an inside pocket, he dialed Mel and Lindsay’s number in Canada. He was almost about to close the phone when the call was finally picked up.
A noticeably breathless Lindsay answered on the other end of the line, “Hello?”
“What’s going on? Has something happened?” Brian asked, not bothering with a greeting and bracing himself internally for the answer.
“Brian? That’s an odd time for you to call,” Lindsay replied instead of an answer.
“Where’s Gus?” Brian knew he was being rude but, right then, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Brian, don’t freak out, okay? Everything’s fine. We just had a minor accident,” Lindsay tried to calm him.
“Define ‘accident’ and how minor is ‘minor’?” Brian gritted out between tightly clenched teeth.
“You remember how I’d told you the upper banister had a few loose posts that needed fixing? Well, Gus threw a major fit because he didn’t want to get dressed this morning and didn’t hear when I told him to be careful. He ran away from me and up the stairs and when I followed, he stumbled and fell against the banister which gave. He…” she paused for a moment before continuing, “he fell and we had to take him to the emergency room.”
Brian listened, lips pressed together so tightly, all color drained from them.
“It’s nothing too serious,” Lindsay hurried to appease him. “He has one cracked rib and a sprained wrist. He’ll be okay in a couple of weeks. Brian, how did you even know that something was wrong?”
“Nothing too serious?!” Brian threw her words back at her in a sneering voice. “Is that a bad joke?” And, completely ignoring her question, he continued, “You told me about the banister weeks ago. Why hasn’t it been repaired yet? I remember telling Cynthia to send you a check for the repair costs. Didn’t you get one?”
“Yes, Brian, we did get it. However, there were more pressing matters at that time that needed to be taken care of first,” Lindsay tried to explain.
“More pressing than the children’s safety?” Brian asked incredulously.
“Brian…” Lindsay tried in that placating voice of hers but Brian was having none of that.
“Don’t Brian me,” he exploded. “Let me talk to Gus!”
She hesitated and cleared her throat.
“What?” Brian barked.
“He’s been given a sedative and is sleeping right now.”
“I want you to call me as soon as he wakes up,” Brian’s tone allowed for no protests.
“I will,” Lindsay relented in a small voice.
“Fuck!” Brian muttered quietly after disconnecting the call and shutting his phone. He concentrated on breathing deeply through his nose for a few minutes in an attempt to get a reign over his emotions. The feeling in his gut wouldn’t subside. Brian blamed it on his anger at Lindsay and concern for Gus’ wellbeing. Rubbing his face with his hands vigorously and straightening his shoulders, he walked over to Cynthia’s desk, mentally going over and rearranging his schedule for the rest of the week to squeeze in a visit to the lesbian paradise.
“Cynthia, find a carpenter in Toronto and have him call Mel and Linds to make an appointment for some repair work around the house, ASAP. Have him tell you a cost estimate, then fill out this check for double the amount and send it over to the munchers,” Brian ordered, quickly signing a blank check. “And make sure to clear my schedule for the rest of the week.”
“Bri, where have you been? I’ve been searching all over the place for you,” Cynthia exclaimed in agitation. “You got two calls. First a man named Vasili or something like that; the last name was unpronounceable; and the accent barely understandable. I still have no idea what he wanted, but he sounded concerned. And then a girl named,” she glanced at the note in her hand, “Tasha called here fifteen minutes ago and asked for you. She wouldn’t let up until I promised to make you call her. She sounded worried.” Cynthia risked a nervous glance at Brian to gauge his reaction. There was none.
Brian furrowed his brow in concentration. “Who the fuck is she? I don’t know anyone by the name of Tasha.” And he made it a rule not to ask guys for their names - pronounceable or not, he added in his mind. Brian turned to walk away and headed towards the conference room. The client should be here any minute now.
“The girl’s Daphne’s friend… from New York.” Cynthia let the implication hang there, not knowing exactly what this was all about but dreading the worst. “The other number, this Russian guy, was calling from a number with a NYC area code too.”
Brian froze in his steps and turned around quickly. Something in his mind clicked and he recalled a conversation from about four weeks ago, when a New York greenhorn Justin had called Brian in the middle of the night, high on excitement, the big city energy, and the promise of a certain event taking place on August 19th. Brian had still been in bed, not able to sleep, trying to numb some of his feelings with pot from his private stash. His mind slightly addled by the drugs, he’d let Justin ramble on about everything and nothing; admittedly, not really listening to what he was saying but simply enjoying the sound of the younger man’s voice. Brian thought he could recall the blond mentioning his roommate by name. There was a good chance he had called her Tasha, but Brian wouldn’t have placed a bet on it. However, since his New York connections were limited to past tricks (none of whom would have the audacity to call him and of course were not girls) and current as well as prospective clients (whom Brian made a habit to know the names of, including those of spouses or significant others), it left only a certain blond. Making the connection, the feeling in his gut made itself known once more with an exceptionally painful clench.
He hesitated for a moment and considered if he was overreacting. After a moment he decided to trust his gut and just do what his instinct told him to do. He turned to Cynthia again and asked, “Get me Justin on the phone, please, ASAP?”
A crease appeared between Cynthia’s eyebrows as she found Justin’s number among the saved shortcuts on her desk phone. Brian had said please which meant he was either too distraught to notice or too concerned about something else to care. Either way, something was wrong and Cynthia didn’t like it one bit.
“I get the voicemail only,” she said in Brian’s direction. “Do you want me to leave a message?”
Brian shook his head. “No.” After another moment’s hesitation, Brian asked, “Has that girl, Tasha, said what her call was about?” Brian asked, trying to keep his cool and getting slightly angry at himself when he noticed his hand shake a little as he reached for the note in Cynthia’s hand.
“She didn’t. She refused to tell me anything; only said it was of utmost importance that she gets a hold of you.”
“Thank you. Make sure the money will be on its way today, okay?” Brian added and was about to take off when Cynthia’s voice called him back once more.
“You still want me to cancel your appointments for this week?” Her voice was a little unsure, quite un-Cynthia-like.
Brian nodded once gravely. He wasn’t sure where he would be headed in a while - Canada or New York - but he had an inkling that a trip to see his son would have to wait.
Instead of walking to the conference room as originally intended, Brian swerved and entered his office, walking over to his white leather couch and sitting down. Pulling out his cell phone once again, he dialed the number on the yellow sticky note with shaky fingers and waited for the call to be picked up, trying to block images of worst case the scenarios from his seemingly frozen brain.
After four dial tones, the answering machine picked up and Brian heard a chipper girly voice cracking a joke and telling him to leave a message. “Yes, this is Brian Kinney. You left a message with my assistant to-“
“Brian?!” The same girly voice, though determinedly less chipper, interrupted his speech. “Hi, this is Tasha, Justin’s friend and roommate. We don’t know each other… Well, we haven’t met, but I feel like I know everything about you,” the girl babbled nervously in a fast New York City dialect.
Brian tried to interrupt but found it difficult to get even a syllable in between her fast-paced prattling.
“I’m so glad you called. I didn’t know who else to turn to. I mean, I know he has a mother. But I don’t know anything about her or how to get hold of her. Don’t even know her full name. He’s a 22 year old guy, you know; it’s not like they talk much about their moms at that age. It’d probably be a little creepy if he did, don’t you think? You on the other hand I know every detail about. He really likes to talk, doesn’t he? I never realized how much he actually told me before today. When I couldn’t reach you on the landline, I remembered he told me about your company. So I called information. You have a very bulldog assistant, you know that? She wouldn’t put me through to you.”
Brian squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a headache that had been slowly taking form behind his eyes ever since his talk with Lindsay. He listened to the inane chatter while his stomach and gut steadily turned into something solid and stony.
“Yes, I know. And yes, he does like to talk,” Brian pressed out, hoping to steer the girl’s verbal diarrhea into a direction that would provide him with some information. “Where’s Justin? Why can’t I reach him on his phone? What happened?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I only know what that Polish guy told me. Something about an accident in the gallery where Justin secured a spot in the upcoming show. This guy has a terrible accent; I think I only understood the words ‘accident’ and something that could mean ‘ambulance’.”
Squelching down the bile that threatened to rise to his throat, Brian was about to demand more information but a discreet beeping sound told him he had another incoming call. Holding the phone away from his ear, he glanced at the display quickly, and saw a NYC number and hurried to answer.
“Tasha, I have another call. I’ll have to call you back.” Not waiting for her reply, he switched over to the other line and picked up the call.
“Brian Kinney,” Brian answered stiffly.
“Mr. Kinney, this is Nurse Claudia from the emergency room at the Brooklyn Hospital Center. You’re listed as the emergency contact for one Justin Taylor.”
“I know. Is he seriously hurt? How is he doing?” Brian replied, intending to take a shortcut on the formalities. He wanted the nurse to tell him if Justin was alright.
“He’s been brought in with a trauma to his head. The MRI and X-ray show no signs of lesion or injury. However, Mr. Taylor seems to be experiencing some complications, probably resulting from a former head trauma. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information over the phone.”
“I’ll get on the next plane to New York but it will take a couple of hours,” Brian answered, scribbling some information on a piece of paper and walking over to his desk to buzz for Cynthia. When she appeared, he slipped her the note he had written and mouthed ‘ASAP’ while pushing her out the door. Cynthia would make sure to book him on the next plane leaving for New York and have a car ready to pick him up. He spoke into the phone, “Tell me if he’s alright. Is he conscious? What are you doing to him?”
“As I already said, there does not seem to be a visible injury or inner bleeding. Mr. Taylor was having a panic attack on admission and we were forced to give him something so he wouldn’t hurt himself. He’s conscious right now but very groggy. He refuses to speak or answer any questions.”
“He can’t speak?” Brian interrupted.
“He can speak, he just refuses to do so,” the nurse clarified. “We asked him if there was someone he wanted us to call, besides the emergency contact, and he shook his head. He’s disoriented. He asked where he was. That’s really the only thing he said and he didn’t like the answer too much. We asked if he could recall the accident but he refused to cooperate. The attending doctor sent for a psychologist. But Mr. Taylor refuses to talk to him as well. The major problem right now is that he won’t let anyone touch him. He goes into a panic as soon as someone tries to examine him or even comes too close. As I explained, we had to sedate him to do the initial examination. You should probably hurry. Maybe seeing a familiar face will help.”
“I’m on my way.” Brian disconnected the call and rushed out of his office to check with Cynthia on the current status.
“The next flight will depart in less than twenty minutes. There’s no chance you will be able to make that one with the time it takes to get to the airport and through security. The next one after that will be in a couple of hours.”
“I don’t have a couple of hours!” Brian barked. “Get some private charter ready. And have them waiting with clearance for takeoff. I want a cab waiting outside in five minutes max. Understood?”
Any other day, Cynthia would not have tolerated Brian speaking to her in such a tone and would have barked a witty reply at him, but seeing Brian on the verge like this, barely holding it together, her heart went out to the man who apparently, yet again, was struck by a tragedy. She didn’t know what happened or if it was going to be alright again, but she got angry on their both account: Weren’t fate or God or the Powers that Be ever going to let those two be?
Continued in Chapter Two