THE LIGHTS ARE NO LONGER FLASHING
Title: The Lights are No Longer Flashing
Written By: tigbit
Timeline: post 513
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Suicidal themes, Angst
What if: Brian overdosed?
Summary: It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is the way the blue and white lights make his skin look young and flawless, the way the thumpa thumpa hits his heart.
Author's Notes: I’ve never tripped on acid or overdosed, nor am I a doctor. I tried to make things as realistic as I could, but we just might have to play pretend. :D Big thanks to Ilaria and Arwen for all their help. :*
***
On a Wednesday night at Babylon, Brian Kinney decides to become immortal.
It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is the way the blue and white lights make his skin look young and flawless, the way the thumpa thumpa hits his heart.
He’s already buzzing when it happens. A bump or two burns in his blood and, looking out at the dance floor, he thinks he might as well do another. And then maybe another. It’s his fucking choice, his fucking club, his fucking life, so why the fuck not?
He’s alone, of course. Mikey and Ben are off infecting the world with their Stepford-Fag love in Tibet. Ted waved off his invite at work, mumbling something about a new boy, and Emmett is at home, recuperating from a particularly nasty bikini wax. And Lindsay, well. Even if she wasn’t in Canada with Muncher Mel and Gus, she’d never want to walk through the doors of Babylon again.
But really, it’s someone else who’s missing. Walking the floor, surveying his subjects, it’s hard to remember what it feels like to do this alone. In between drinks, he misses the leaning weight on his arm, the mindless chatter, the voice of someone he learned to love.
It’s a good thing Brian Kinney refuses to regret. Arming off another trick, he heads to the backroom. Rumor has it that Anita’s back.
Immortality.
Death seems like a small price to pay.
***
Justin loves New York.
He loves the freedom and the possibility that he can be anyone or anything without asking, without regret. He loves how disappointment isn’t padded, how he has to take the hurt and swallow it just like everyone else. When he isn’t selected for a show, when someone calls his work “a valiant attempt” or “lacking vision,” he goes to his small loft and licks his wounds, but it feels good in a small way because at least he earned it.
He lives in a matchbox-sized studio that he pays for himself. Debbie is forbidden to send him food and his mother’s concerns are always mollified and pushed aside with an “I’m doing fine,” or a promise to come back and visit. He will take no handouts. Not here.
It nags at him, sometimes, that he hasn’t been back home in a year. He talked to Brian on a semi-regular basis for nearly five months, but words over a telephone line weren’t enough. He’s still not quite sure why.
Brian only visited him twice; once during a business trip and another for Justin’s birthday. (Justin always winces a bit when he eyes the new set of paintbrushes still sitting in the corner, untouched.) They made love on Justin’s ratty sofa and talked about their separate lives, but that’s just what they were: separate.
Justin still loves him - more than he admits to the men he sees, sometimes - but now he knows that things would be awkward. Between his day job, attempting to woo every gallery owner around, painting, and exploring the city, Justin has no time for apologies. Or regret.
He’ll call again, one day. Once things are settled and he’s more established, he plans on calling and making amends - explaining the why’s and how’s of his extended stay and he knows Brian will understand. And sooner or later, he’ll come home.
Someday.
***
The lights are no longer flashing, they bleed - dripping from bulbs that Brian imagines he can see flick on and off to a pounding rhythm. Reds, blues, and greens sweep across the floor and Brian feels like he’s walking inside of whateverthefuck he’s snorted and popped in his body. His hands bat at the colors when they come too close.
He’s been this high before. He can’t remember when or where, but he remembers this feeling of weightlessness, the sensation and very real fear of floating above and beyond anyone’s reach. It’s almost enough to make him worried.
But he hasn’t found immortality. It’s still there - riding on the edges of the dance floor fog and laughing in the eyes of every young twink grinding to the music. Taunting and cool, it pokes at Brian’s aging skin, his lack of love, his life, reminding him that he’s nowhere close to where he wants to be - that where he wants to be is unreachable, untouchable. Pointless.
The beat never stops. He buys another tab.
***
Justin is meeting someone tonight.
It’s nothing serious. Set up by a mutual friend Justin met from work, both of them agreed to go on a blind date to a small café near Justin’s apartment. He talked to the guy (Quinn? Quintin?) for 10 minutes on Tuesday and he seemed nice enough, if a little dull. Frankly, Justin’s half-surprised he agreed in the first place; the days when Justin Taylor is forced to dress up and suffer through a potentially awkward dinner for a fuck are far and few between.
But he goes through the motions, anyway - picking out a light blue shirt and a casual pair of pants and shoes before styling his hair. With all this effort, he sure as fuck better get laid. A small voice in the back of his head points out that all this primping and preening isn’t really necessary - all he’d have to do is move back to Pittsburgh - but he forces the thought down with a cigarette, smoking it in front of the window.
The New York lights are still too bright.
***
His body is slightly panicked, now. ‘Too much! You’re taking too much!’ it shrieks, but it’s as useless as knocking on a bolted door. The latest strip of acid deadens any warning Brian might hear, dragging him across the dance floor as he looks for a twink. If he’s going to do this right, he’s going to it right.
“You’re coming home with me,” he says, poking a random dancer in the back. When the boy turns around, Brian feels a small dash of pity; he wonders how the far into the fuck they’ll get before he’ll collapse.
“Am I?” the trick smiles before biting his lip. He still sways a bit to the music, running his hands over his abs before reaching to grab Brian’s crotch. “Are you going to fuck me?”
Brian wants to tell him to quit with the innocent shit, but he’s too busy trying to ignore the way the walls are swimming and shimmering in the light. It’s fucking bizarre.
“I’m getting a cab. Be outside in…“ he takes a look at his watch, but even with the glow light, the numbers are unreadable. “Be outside soon,” he says instead, and does his best to stalk away.
***
Quinn, as it turns out, is working on an International Business degree from some prestigious New York college. NYU, maybe - Justin didn’t really bother to remember. He’s fiery and determined in a way that reminds Justin of Brian, albeit on a different scale. Quinn’s a talker, though, which annoys Justin to no end; he’s had enough conversation to last him the entire night before the waiter comes to take their order.
Besides the talking, the dinner is fairly enjoyable. Justin eats his food and admires Quinn in an aesthetic kind of way - taking in the muscled arms and full lips with a detached sort of admiration.
He won’t mind fucking him.
***
Hot breath fogs the dirty window of the cab. Brian watches the opaque whiteness spread from the tip of his nose until the world outside is lost behind an icy film.
He has something to say, but moving his tongue is harder than he remembers; it’s fat and heavy, lying in his mouth like a lazy slug. He moves it around with some difficulty, letting it smack against his numb lips and teeth.
The twink next to him doesn’t seem to notice; he’s too busy yelling at his phone. Brian catches excited bits of “car…Kinney…loft” before he falls against the dividing seat and taps on the shoulder of the cabbie. When the car stops and the driver turns around, Brian finally manages to open his mouth, pointing at the iced window.
“It’s doing that because I’m alive,” Brian says, nodding a bit. “Did you know that? Did you know that I’m alive?” He stares with rapt attention as the cabbie raises a bushy eyebrow.
The words are slow and measured. “You okay, man? You look a little tweaked out.”
Brian growls, narrows his eyes. “I look fucking beautiful,” he spits, surprised he found the words. Falling back against his seat, Brian turns his head to watch the world pass by. The twink must have finally finished bragging; Brian thinks he can feel a hand slowly rubbing his crotch.
“Because I’m alive,” he repeats. He says it because he can, because it’s true. Soon, he won’t be able to say it without lying.
He can’t decide if that’s a saddening fact.
***
The cab drops them off and when Brian tries to give the driver his whole wallet - “Don’t get any stains on it, you fucktard” - they’re delayed yet another 10 minutes as the cabbie tries to give it back. They nearly have a tussle on the sidewalk but Brian gives up when he sees a purple monkey wave to him from the other side of the street.
“Man,” the cabbie says, and seizes his chance to stuff the wallet in Brian’s back pocket. “You’re really fucked up.” Brian is tempted to say ‘In more ways than one,’ but the cab is gone before he’s fully finished thinking out the words.
“Hey Kinney,” The twink’s words come out in short puffs of white air. “You mind if we head up? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
That’s funny; Brian hadn’t noticed the cold. He’s burning up, but the twink is bouncing on his heels - shivering and gripping his arms with a pleading look - and so Brian nods and motions towards the door.
He waves to monkey as they walk up the stairs.
***
Brian doesn’t bother to close the door when they get to the top of the stairs. He still isn’t quite sure how they managed to get it open in the first place, but it doesn’t much matter; dead men don’t care about robbers.
“Your place is hot,” gushes the trick. He goes on to mention something about the kitchen and stainless steel refrigerators, but Brian’s too dizzy to care. His heart is racing and he feels so, so hot. When he catches a strange sort of blackness creeping on the edges of his vision, he figures it’s time. He palms the pocket of his jacket, thumbing out another pill. The final pill. He pops it in his mouth and swallows before he has time to think.
Without the help of water, the pill burns in his throat. “Bed, we’re going,” he forces out, starting to stumble up the stairs.
The trick makes a face. “What? We’re fucking now?” he asks, but follows Brian anyway.
Falling onto the bed feels like falling into a deep, dangerous ocean. Brian can’t remember the sheets ever being this soft. He smoothes out a wavy patch with his hand while the trick finally plays along and starts to unbutton his and Brian’s jeans.
The boy’s smooth hand on his cock feels incredible - almost as good as the sheets. And despite the familiarity of the action, Brian is still a little surprised when he gets hard. A tap on the wrist and the trick stops, grinning and biting his lip again.
Brian uses the one arm not stroking the sheet to flip the trick on his belly, earning a pleased grunt. The trick is content to rub against the sheets while Brian tries to remember where he put the condoms and lube; he’d bet the two remaining minutes of his life that that monkey bastard stole it.
‘It’s a shame,’ some part of his working brain thinks, ‘that you’re doing this. This isn’t where you want to be.’
“Shut up,” Brian says to the air.
The trick looks over his shoulder, confused. He must be wondering if this is part of the Kinney Experience.
Brian has enough time to chuckle before he gasps.
The blackness has stolen his vision; blearily, he can make out the hazy glow of the trick beneath him. Something is very wrong - his body knows it - and Brian suddenly wants to take a deep breath; he feels like he’s about to drown in his own mind.
Less than a second before Brian dies, the world loses sound. He can no longer hear the trick, the cars outside his window, or the hum of the broken elevator. The loft is slowly stripped away until Brian is only left with himself. He’d have laughed, if he could - if he hadn’t lost the ability to move - because it was just like he’d always feared.
You really do die alone.
***
Justin wakes up the day after his dinner date - a little bleary, a little sore - and stretches his back. He hadn’t fucked anyone in a good, solid month before Quinn and his muscles are protesting. He groans when his feet touch the cold floor before scampering to the bathroom.
One long, hot shower later and he feels more human. Quinn’s number glares at him from the post-it on the refrigerator and Justin fingers it for a second before throwing it in the trash.
Only then does he notice the red ‘blip, blip, blip’ of his answering machine. Running a hand through his damp hair, he pads over to the phone.
5 new messages. He scans through them with practiced efficiency; one weekly check-up from his mother, one from his work friend interested about the date, and…three from Ted? He has no idea why Ted would call him; his finger hovers above the red button before firmly pushing it in.
Ted’s voice is cold and panicked.
Justin, this is Ted. Ted Schmidt. I, uh…you need to pick up your phone. Justin, please pick up your phone. … Look, I’m in the hospital with Brian, there’s been some kind of accident. Call me as soon as you can.”
A thousand things fly through Justin’s mind - cancer, a car accident, possibly a shooting. He has enough time to picture Brian bloody and alone on an abandoned street before the next message starts.
“Justin, pick up your phone. Pick it up … I’m still at the hospital. I don’t know where Brian is, they took him into a different room. I-I have no idea what’s going on. The nurse said something about an overdose. Call me back.”
Justin forces himself to breathe; the extra puff of effort it takes to exhale echoes in the small room. He feels poisoned, paralyzed. The last message plays and he’s moving to his computer before he can think. In less than five minutes, he’s booked a flight.
The last message echoes in his mind.
“Justin, you need to come home.”
***
Whiteness.
It’s the first thing he sees.
Wrapped in starchy sheets, Brian moves his legs experimentally. They work - bending and not bending in all the right places - which is nice, but he thinks he’d rather a big, burly bear come in and bash them with a sledgehammer if it meant that his head would stop pounding. His stomach and throat feel raw and exposed; he reaches up a hand to stroke his neck, half expecting it come back bloody.
He knows he’s alive; Brian can taste, smell, and hear the hospital around him. The antiseptic, the lights, the impersonal sterility that seems to follow nurses and doctors wherever they go is inescapable; he really wants to brush his teeth. Or maybe cut off his head.
Slowly, Brian moves his eyes to left of his bed. A blond boy sits there, hunched and resting his head on drawn-up legs. Brian watches him until the chair shifts.
Waking sounds are made and after a jaw-breaking yawn, Justin looks up.
No one moves until Justin hand flies to his mouth, forcing him to breathe through his fingers. His other hand grips the edge of the chair, tightening until the knuckles turn white.
A metal gurney rolls by. Brian hears someone complain about the weather. The clock ticks.
“Brian?”
He considers denying it if it means escaping this conversation for the next 10 minutes. But the facts are against him. Brian rubs the blanket with his thumb before looking up, sighing.
“Yes?
“Wh-what are you…are you okay?” Justin still hasn’t moved to touch him; his hand hovers above the metal bed railing, shaking a bit. Probably from stress, Brian thinks, and makes a note to tell him that as they’re already fucking here, he might as well get it checked out. But he decides to answer the stupid question, instead.
“No.”
This must surprise Justin a bit; his mouth opens and closes before sputtering, “But you’re going to be okay, right? The doctor said you’d be okay.” He finally manages to grab Brian’s hand. “You’ll be fine.” His eyes are so bright and so wide that Brian can’t act as pessimistic as he wants to.
“I guess,” he grounds out, more interested in getting pain meds than the direction of this conversation.
“Don’t you fucking say that.” Brian looks up, shocked. The soft and caring questioning is gone, replaced with edged fury. “Don’t you fucking act like you aren’t happy to be alive.”
And what can he say? Brian opens his mouth - ready to speak his defense - but Justin cuts him off.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are? The doctor told me what you took. You should be dead, Brian; he has no idea how you managed to survive.”
There’s not much Brian can say to that, really. He is lucky - he knows it. He shouldn’t have done what he did, but it’s already happened. It’s already in the past.
When Justin realizes Brian has nothing to say, he starts again. “Do you…do you have any idea what it felt like to get that phone call?” His voice breaks. In any other circumstance, it would have made Brian laugh. But now - lying in this bed, watching Justin cry - he only feels pity and the smallest, growing sensation of regret.
“Why the fuck did you do it, Brian?” The tears fall without shame; Brian reaches up a hand to wipe them away, but Justin sharply moves his head out of reach. “Don’t try to touch me. Why?”
Brian swallows a breath. He mutters the answer through his teeth.
Justin leans forward. “What?”
“I said to be immortal.”
Quick and hard, Justin slaps him across the face. “Fuck you,” he says, before standing up and moving for the door. “Fuck you.”
Brain watches him walk away.
***
He’s been home for three days.
Fending off phone calls and suffering through nearly hourly visits from Mikey and Ben, Debbie, Lindsay, Ted, Emmett, Cynthia, and even Mel takes up the better part of his day. He’s listened through hours of tears, reprimands, and professions of love since he got home; it’s fucking out of control.
He hasn’t seen or heard from Justin since the slapping incident. Brian knows he deserves this in some small way, but it still hurts not to have him around. There are still things that need to be said.
Other than that, recuperating is boring business. Cynthia and Ted refuse to let him come into the office for at least the rest of the week, so Brian spends his time looking through furniture catalogs and rearranging the fruit.
He’s in the middle of wondering whether or not to replace apples with pomegranates when he hears a click and the sliding of the steel door. He looks over, green apple in hand.
“Hey.” Justin is waiting in the doorframe, managing to look uncomfortable and relaxed at the same time. His hand bats an uneasy rhythm on the door and he keeps his eyes on the floor.
Brian sets the apple down next to the glass bowl and turns around to lean on the table. “Hey.”
Justin still hasn’t moved. Brian shakes his head before saying, “Come in.”
The words work. Justin nods and takes a few tentative steps inside. They stand in silence for a few moments before Brian throws up his hands. “Let’s sit,” he says, moving to grab Justin’s arm and dragging him to the sofa before they waste whatever time they have.
Justin comes along willingly, even scoots closer to Brian once they sit down. Brian’s not sure what to expect: more rage? More questioning? Professions of disappointment? Fortunately, Justin makes himself clear in less than a minute.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Brian can hear a thousand different meanings behind those words, but none of them make sense.
“Why?” he asks.
“For not being here, I should ha -”
“I didn’t do it because of you,” Brian interrupts, angry both at the idea that Justin blames himself and at the notion that that’s why he nearly swallowed and popped his way into death. He didn’t do it because Justin was gone.
“I know,” Justin is quick to mollify, “I know you didn’t do it because I was in New York. But…fuck Brian, I don’t know. I’m sorry that you felt the need to do it and if, and if I contributed to it in any way, I. I’d need to know.”
“You didn’t.” Brian reaches out and grips Justin’s chin. “Do you hear me? You didn’t. It was a stupid idea with a stupid reason and I shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t because of you.”
Justin breathes and searches Brian’s face. Blinking far too fast, he nods and some of the tension leaves his body. “I miss you,” he says to his knees, “and I hate that it took a fucking overdose for me to realize it. I really hate that.”
Brian accepts the hand that now rests on his knee. “I hate it too.”
“I want to come home,” Justin whispers, leaning in on Brian’s shoulder. He must have been expecting Brian’s answer because he doesn’t even flinch when Brian pushes him back.
“You’re not leaving New York. This wasn’t some fucking cry for help, Justin. My mistakes aren’t allowed to fuck with your career.”
“What about my mistakes?” Justin covers Brian’s mouth with his hand before he can protest. “I haven’t done anything these past few days but think. Yeah I love New York, but…I think it was a mistake to leave. I know I can gain credibility in Pittsburgh. Even though she moved away, Lindsay still has connections. If I can wow the critics here a bit more, maybe make a bigger name for myself, there’s no reason why I can’t come back. The truth is, I’d be lying to myself if I said this isn’t where I want to be.” Slowly, he lowers his hand.
“But -”
“Brian, I’m sure.” Justin leans closer, again, and looks at Brian’s lips.
It’s too soon. Brian knows he can’t let Justin make a decision like that, not without making sure it’s what he really wants. He can’t let it happen just because of his overdose; he has to make sure that Justin isn’t panicking or thinking without care. But when Justin looks at him like that - smiles and licks his lips like that, scoots closer and looks at him and kisses him like that, well. Maybe that discussion can wait.
***
End
Written By: tigbit
Timeline: post 513
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Suicidal themes, Angst
What if: Brian overdosed?
Summary: It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is the way the blue and white lights make his skin look young and flawless, the way the thumpa thumpa hits his heart.
Author's Notes: I’ve never tripped on acid or overdosed, nor am I a doctor. I tried to make things as realistic as I could, but we just might have to play pretend. :D Big thanks to Ilaria and Arwen for all their help. :*
***
On a Wednesday night at Babylon, Brian Kinney decides to become immortal.
It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is the way the blue and white lights make his skin look young and flawless, the way the thumpa thumpa hits his heart.
He’s already buzzing when it happens. A bump or two burns in his blood and, looking out at the dance floor, he thinks he might as well do another. And then maybe another. It’s his fucking choice, his fucking club, his fucking life, so why the fuck not?
He’s alone, of course. Mikey and Ben are off infecting the world with their Stepford-Fag love in Tibet. Ted waved off his invite at work, mumbling something about a new boy, and Emmett is at home, recuperating from a particularly nasty bikini wax. And Lindsay, well. Even if she wasn’t in Canada with Muncher Mel and Gus, she’d never want to walk through the doors of Babylon again.
But really, it’s someone else who’s missing. Walking the floor, surveying his subjects, it’s hard to remember what it feels like to do this alone. In between drinks, he misses the leaning weight on his arm, the mindless chatter, the voice of someone he learned to love.
It’s a good thing Brian Kinney refuses to regret. Arming off another trick, he heads to the backroom. Rumor has it that Anita’s back.
Immortality.
Death seems like a small price to pay.
***
Justin loves New York.
He loves the freedom and the possibility that he can be anyone or anything without asking, without regret. He loves how disappointment isn’t padded, how he has to take the hurt and swallow it just like everyone else. When he isn’t selected for a show, when someone calls his work “a valiant attempt” or “lacking vision,” he goes to his small loft and licks his wounds, but it feels good in a small way because at least he earned it.
He lives in a matchbox-sized studio that he pays for himself. Debbie is forbidden to send him food and his mother’s concerns are always mollified and pushed aside with an “I’m doing fine,” or a promise to come back and visit. He will take no handouts. Not here.
It nags at him, sometimes, that he hasn’t been back home in a year. He talked to Brian on a semi-regular basis for nearly five months, but words over a telephone line weren’t enough. He’s still not quite sure why.
Brian only visited him twice; once during a business trip and another for Justin’s birthday. (Justin always winces a bit when he eyes the new set of paintbrushes still sitting in the corner, untouched.) They made love on Justin’s ratty sofa and talked about their separate lives, but that’s just what they were: separate.
Justin still loves him - more than he admits to the men he sees, sometimes - but now he knows that things would be awkward. Between his day job, attempting to woo every gallery owner around, painting, and exploring the city, Justin has no time for apologies. Or regret.
He’ll call again, one day. Once things are settled and he’s more established, he plans on calling and making amends - explaining the why’s and how’s of his extended stay and he knows Brian will understand. And sooner or later, he’ll come home.
Someday.
***
The lights are no longer flashing, they bleed - dripping from bulbs that Brian imagines he can see flick on and off to a pounding rhythm. Reds, blues, and greens sweep across the floor and Brian feels like he’s walking inside of whateverthefuck he’s snorted and popped in his body. His hands bat at the colors when they come too close.
He’s been this high before. He can’t remember when or where, but he remembers this feeling of weightlessness, the sensation and very real fear of floating above and beyond anyone’s reach. It’s almost enough to make him worried.
But he hasn’t found immortality. It’s still there - riding on the edges of the dance floor fog and laughing in the eyes of every young twink grinding to the music. Taunting and cool, it pokes at Brian’s aging skin, his lack of love, his life, reminding him that he’s nowhere close to where he wants to be - that where he wants to be is unreachable, untouchable. Pointless.
The beat never stops. He buys another tab.
***
Justin is meeting someone tonight.
It’s nothing serious. Set up by a mutual friend Justin met from work, both of them agreed to go on a blind date to a small café near Justin’s apartment. He talked to the guy (Quinn? Quintin?) for 10 minutes on Tuesday and he seemed nice enough, if a little dull. Frankly, Justin’s half-surprised he agreed in the first place; the days when Justin Taylor is forced to dress up and suffer through a potentially awkward dinner for a fuck are far and few between.
But he goes through the motions, anyway - picking out a light blue shirt and a casual pair of pants and shoes before styling his hair. With all this effort, he sure as fuck better get laid. A small voice in the back of his head points out that all this primping and preening isn’t really necessary - all he’d have to do is move back to Pittsburgh - but he forces the thought down with a cigarette, smoking it in front of the window.
The New York lights are still too bright.
***
His body is slightly panicked, now. ‘Too much! You’re taking too much!’ it shrieks, but it’s as useless as knocking on a bolted door. The latest strip of acid deadens any warning Brian might hear, dragging him across the dance floor as he looks for a twink. If he’s going to do this right, he’s going to it right.
“You’re coming home with me,” he says, poking a random dancer in the back. When the boy turns around, Brian feels a small dash of pity; he wonders how the far into the fuck they’ll get before he’ll collapse.
“Am I?” the trick smiles before biting his lip. He still sways a bit to the music, running his hands over his abs before reaching to grab Brian’s crotch. “Are you going to fuck me?”
Brian wants to tell him to quit with the innocent shit, but he’s too busy trying to ignore the way the walls are swimming and shimmering in the light. It’s fucking bizarre.
“I’m getting a cab. Be outside in…“ he takes a look at his watch, but even with the glow light, the numbers are unreadable. “Be outside soon,” he says instead, and does his best to stalk away.
***
Quinn, as it turns out, is working on an International Business degree from some prestigious New York college. NYU, maybe - Justin didn’t really bother to remember. He’s fiery and determined in a way that reminds Justin of Brian, albeit on a different scale. Quinn’s a talker, though, which annoys Justin to no end; he’s had enough conversation to last him the entire night before the waiter comes to take their order.
Besides the talking, the dinner is fairly enjoyable. Justin eats his food and admires Quinn in an aesthetic kind of way - taking in the muscled arms and full lips with a detached sort of admiration.
He won’t mind fucking him.
***
Hot breath fogs the dirty window of the cab. Brian watches the opaque whiteness spread from the tip of his nose until the world outside is lost behind an icy film.
He has something to say, but moving his tongue is harder than he remembers; it’s fat and heavy, lying in his mouth like a lazy slug. He moves it around with some difficulty, letting it smack against his numb lips and teeth.
The twink next to him doesn’t seem to notice; he’s too busy yelling at his phone. Brian catches excited bits of “car…Kinney…loft” before he falls against the dividing seat and taps on the shoulder of the cabbie. When the car stops and the driver turns around, Brian finally manages to open his mouth, pointing at the iced window.
“It’s doing that because I’m alive,” Brian says, nodding a bit. “Did you know that? Did you know that I’m alive?” He stares with rapt attention as the cabbie raises a bushy eyebrow.
The words are slow and measured. “You okay, man? You look a little tweaked out.”
Brian growls, narrows his eyes. “I look fucking beautiful,” he spits, surprised he found the words. Falling back against his seat, Brian turns his head to watch the world pass by. The twink must have finally finished bragging; Brian thinks he can feel a hand slowly rubbing his crotch.
“Because I’m alive,” he repeats. He says it because he can, because it’s true. Soon, he won’t be able to say it without lying.
He can’t decide if that’s a saddening fact.
***
The cab drops them off and when Brian tries to give the driver his whole wallet - “Don’t get any stains on it, you fucktard” - they’re delayed yet another 10 minutes as the cabbie tries to give it back. They nearly have a tussle on the sidewalk but Brian gives up when he sees a purple monkey wave to him from the other side of the street.
“Man,” the cabbie says, and seizes his chance to stuff the wallet in Brian’s back pocket. “You’re really fucked up.” Brian is tempted to say ‘In more ways than one,’ but the cab is gone before he’s fully finished thinking out the words.
“Hey Kinney,” The twink’s words come out in short puffs of white air. “You mind if we head up? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
That’s funny; Brian hadn’t noticed the cold. He’s burning up, but the twink is bouncing on his heels - shivering and gripping his arms with a pleading look - and so Brian nods and motions towards the door.
He waves to monkey as they walk up the stairs.
***
Brian doesn’t bother to close the door when they get to the top of the stairs. He still isn’t quite sure how they managed to get it open in the first place, but it doesn’t much matter; dead men don’t care about robbers.
“Your place is hot,” gushes the trick. He goes on to mention something about the kitchen and stainless steel refrigerators, but Brian’s too dizzy to care. His heart is racing and he feels so, so hot. When he catches a strange sort of blackness creeping on the edges of his vision, he figures it’s time. He palms the pocket of his jacket, thumbing out another pill. The final pill. He pops it in his mouth and swallows before he has time to think.
Without the help of water, the pill burns in his throat. “Bed, we’re going,” he forces out, starting to stumble up the stairs.
The trick makes a face. “What? We’re fucking now?” he asks, but follows Brian anyway.
Falling onto the bed feels like falling into a deep, dangerous ocean. Brian can’t remember the sheets ever being this soft. He smoothes out a wavy patch with his hand while the trick finally plays along and starts to unbutton his and Brian’s jeans.
The boy’s smooth hand on his cock feels incredible - almost as good as the sheets. And despite the familiarity of the action, Brian is still a little surprised when he gets hard. A tap on the wrist and the trick stops, grinning and biting his lip again.
Brian uses the one arm not stroking the sheet to flip the trick on his belly, earning a pleased grunt. The trick is content to rub against the sheets while Brian tries to remember where he put the condoms and lube; he’d bet the two remaining minutes of his life that that monkey bastard stole it.
‘It’s a shame,’ some part of his working brain thinks, ‘that you’re doing this. This isn’t where you want to be.’
“Shut up,” Brian says to the air.
The trick looks over his shoulder, confused. He must be wondering if this is part of the Kinney Experience.
Brian has enough time to chuckle before he gasps.
The blackness has stolen his vision; blearily, he can make out the hazy glow of the trick beneath him. Something is very wrong - his body knows it - and Brian suddenly wants to take a deep breath; he feels like he’s about to drown in his own mind.
Less than a second before Brian dies, the world loses sound. He can no longer hear the trick, the cars outside his window, or the hum of the broken elevator. The loft is slowly stripped away until Brian is only left with himself. He’d have laughed, if he could - if he hadn’t lost the ability to move - because it was just like he’d always feared.
You really do die alone.
***
Justin wakes up the day after his dinner date - a little bleary, a little sore - and stretches his back. He hadn’t fucked anyone in a good, solid month before Quinn and his muscles are protesting. He groans when his feet touch the cold floor before scampering to the bathroom.
One long, hot shower later and he feels more human. Quinn’s number glares at him from the post-it on the refrigerator and Justin fingers it for a second before throwing it in the trash.
Only then does he notice the red ‘blip, blip, blip’ of his answering machine. Running a hand through his damp hair, he pads over to the phone.
5 new messages. He scans through them with practiced efficiency; one weekly check-up from his mother, one from his work friend interested about the date, and…three from Ted? He has no idea why Ted would call him; his finger hovers above the red button before firmly pushing it in.
Ted’s voice is cold and panicked.
Justin, this is Ted. Ted Schmidt. I, uh…you need to pick up your phone. Justin, please pick up your phone. … Look, I’m in the hospital with Brian, there’s been some kind of accident. Call me as soon as you can.”
A thousand things fly through Justin’s mind - cancer, a car accident, possibly a shooting. He has enough time to picture Brian bloody and alone on an abandoned street before the next message starts.
“Justin, pick up your phone. Pick it up … I’m still at the hospital. I don’t know where Brian is, they took him into a different room. I-I have no idea what’s going on. The nurse said something about an overdose. Call me back.”
Justin forces himself to breathe; the extra puff of effort it takes to exhale echoes in the small room. He feels poisoned, paralyzed. The last message plays and he’s moving to his computer before he can think. In less than five minutes, he’s booked a flight.
The last message echoes in his mind.
“Justin, you need to come home.”
***
Whiteness.
It’s the first thing he sees.
Wrapped in starchy sheets, Brian moves his legs experimentally. They work - bending and not bending in all the right places - which is nice, but he thinks he’d rather a big, burly bear come in and bash them with a sledgehammer if it meant that his head would stop pounding. His stomach and throat feel raw and exposed; he reaches up a hand to stroke his neck, half expecting it come back bloody.
He knows he’s alive; Brian can taste, smell, and hear the hospital around him. The antiseptic, the lights, the impersonal sterility that seems to follow nurses and doctors wherever they go is inescapable; he really wants to brush his teeth. Or maybe cut off his head.
Slowly, Brian moves his eyes to left of his bed. A blond boy sits there, hunched and resting his head on drawn-up legs. Brian watches him until the chair shifts.
Waking sounds are made and after a jaw-breaking yawn, Justin looks up.
No one moves until Justin hand flies to his mouth, forcing him to breathe through his fingers. His other hand grips the edge of the chair, tightening until the knuckles turn white.
A metal gurney rolls by. Brian hears someone complain about the weather. The clock ticks.
“Brian?”
He considers denying it if it means escaping this conversation for the next 10 minutes. But the facts are against him. Brian rubs the blanket with his thumb before looking up, sighing.
“Yes?
“Wh-what are you…are you okay?” Justin still hasn’t moved to touch him; his hand hovers above the metal bed railing, shaking a bit. Probably from stress, Brian thinks, and makes a note to tell him that as they’re already fucking here, he might as well get it checked out. But he decides to answer the stupid question, instead.
“No.”
This must surprise Justin a bit; his mouth opens and closes before sputtering, “But you’re going to be okay, right? The doctor said you’d be okay.” He finally manages to grab Brian’s hand. “You’ll be fine.” His eyes are so bright and so wide that Brian can’t act as pessimistic as he wants to.
“I guess,” he grounds out, more interested in getting pain meds than the direction of this conversation.
“Don’t you fucking say that.” Brian looks up, shocked. The soft and caring questioning is gone, replaced with edged fury. “Don’t you fucking act like you aren’t happy to be alive.”
And what can he say? Brian opens his mouth - ready to speak his defense - but Justin cuts him off.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are? The doctor told me what you took. You should be dead, Brian; he has no idea how you managed to survive.”
There’s not much Brian can say to that, really. He is lucky - he knows it. He shouldn’t have done what he did, but it’s already happened. It’s already in the past.
When Justin realizes Brian has nothing to say, he starts again. “Do you…do you have any idea what it felt like to get that phone call?” His voice breaks. In any other circumstance, it would have made Brian laugh. But now - lying in this bed, watching Justin cry - he only feels pity and the smallest, growing sensation of regret.
“Why the fuck did you do it, Brian?” The tears fall without shame; Brian reaches up a hand to wipe them away, but Justin sharply moves his head out of reach. “Don’t try to touch me. Why?”
Brian swallows a breath. He mutters the answer through his teeth.
Justin leans forward. “What?”
“I said to be immortal.”
Quick and hard, Justin slaps him across the face. “Fuck you,” he says, before standing up and moving for the door. “Fuck you.”
Brain watches him walk away.
***
He’s been home for three days.
Fending off phone calls and suffering through nearly hourly visits from Mikey and Ben, Debbie, Lindsay, Ted, Emmett, Cynthia, and even Mel takes up the better part of his day. He’s listened through hours of tears, reprimands, and professions of love since he got home; it’s fucking out of control.
He hasn’t seen or heard from Justin since the slapping incident. Brian knows he deserves this in some small way, but it still hurts not to have him around. There are still things that need to be said.
Other than that, recuperating is boring business. Cynthia and Ted refuse to let him come into the office for at least the rest of the week, so Brian spends his time looking through furniture catalogs and rearranging the fruit.
He’s in the middle of wondering whether or not to replace apples with pomegranates when he hears a click and the sliding of the steel door. He looks over, green apple in hand.
“Hey.” Justin is waiting in the doorframe, managing to look uncomfortable and relaxed at the same time. His hand bats an uneasy rhythm on the door and he keeps his eyes on the floor.
Brian sets the apple down next to the glass bowl and turns around to lean on the table. “Hey.”
Justin still hasn’t moved. Brian shakes his head before saying, “Come in.”
The words work. Justin nods and takes a few tentative steps inside. They stand in silence for a few moments before Brian throws up his hands. “Let’s sit,” he says, moving to grab Justin’s arm and dragging him to the sofa before they waste whatever time they have.
Justin comes along willingly, even scoots closer to Brian once they sit down. Brian’s not sure what to expect: more rage? More questioning? Professions of disappointment? Fortunately, Justin makes himself clear in less than a minute.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Brian can hear a thousand different meanings behind those words, but none of them make sense.
“Why?” he asks.
“For not being here, I should ha -”
“I didn’t do it because of you,” Brian interrupts, angry both at the idea that Justin blames himself and at the notion that that’s why he nearly swallowed and popped his way into death. He didn’t do it because Justin was gone.
“I know,” Justin is quick to mollify, “I know you didn’t do it because I was in New York. But…fuck Brian, I don’t know. I’m sorry that you felt the need to do it and if, and if I contributed to it in any way, I. I’d need to know.”
“You didn’t.” Brian reaches out and grips Justin’s chin. “Do you hear me? You didn’t. It was a stupid idea with a stupid reason and I shouldn’t have done it. It wasn’t because of you.”
Justin breathes and searches Brian’s face. Blinking far too fast, he nods and some of the tension leaves his body. “I miss you,” he says to his knees, “and I hate that it took a fucking overdose for me to realize it. I really hate that.”
Brian accepts the hand that now rests on his knee. “I hate it too.”
“I want to come home,” Justin whispers, leaning in on Brian’s shoulder. He must have been expecting Brian’s answer because he doesn’t even flinch when Brian pushes him back.
“You’re not leaving New York. This wasn’t some fucking cry for help, Justin. My mistakes aren’t allowed to fuck with your career.”
“What about my mistakes?” Justin covers Brian’s mouth with his hand before he can protest. “I haven’t done anything these past few days but think. Yeah I love New York, but…I think it was a mistake to leave. I know I can gain credibility in Pittsburgh. Even though she moved away, Lindsay still has connections. If I can wow the critics here a bit more, maybe make a bigger name for myself, there’s no reason why I can’t come back. The truth is, I’d be lying to myself if I said this isn’t where I want to be.” Slowly, he lowers his hand.
“But -”
“Brian, I’m sure.” Justin leans closer, again, and looks at Brian’s lips.
It’s too soon. Brian knows he can’t let Justin make a decision like that, not without making sure it’s what he really wants. He can’t let it happen just because of his overdose; he has to make sure that Justin isn’t panicking or thinking without care. But when Justin looks at him like that - smiles and licks his lips like that, scoots closer and looks at him and kisses him like that, well. Maybe that discussion can wait.
***
End