FIC: Boys of Melody (QAF)
Yes! It is true. I am now of legal age. I have to do a little dance, excuse me - *does a little dance while chanting leeeeeegal-legal-legal* - ahem. Unfortunately, I think I'm getting a cold, so my goal of immediately picking up a nicotine habit at the age of eighteen will have to wait a little while. I am a wuss that does not want to make my throat even sorer, so I'll have to see when I can pencil it in. Also? You people on my friends list? You're awesome.
In celebration of my own birthday, (my god, she's using any excuse now), here is more fic. But before you read it, let me just apologize for killing Justin. I do love Justin deeply.
Warnings: Death, Brian/Other, mild implications of (past) Justin/Ethan. Oh, and angst. Out the whazoo. Post-post-414.
They gave Brian four boxes of Justin’s sketchbooks, with an apologetic smile and a “He would have wanted you to have them.”
They gave Brian four boxes of Justin’s sketchbooks, with an apologetic smile and a “He would have wanted you to have them.” They fit very neatly in the corner of the loft, stacked one on another, side by side.
Justin’s clothes and other possessions went to his mother. Jennifer donated most of them to charity, and Brian still dreaded the day he would walk down the street and see some smug little thrift hound fag wearing that blue shirt, or that red one. He didn’t know how he’d take it if that happened. He’d probably try to rip their faces off.
Brian was getting that feeling a lot lately. And it felt like everyone else was waiting, holding their breath in order to have front row seats when Brian Kinney finally broke down.
Finally lost it. Round the bend, nutso.
But they were shit out of luck, because if there’s one thing Brian Kinney had left, it was Brian Kinney, and he was never going to cry in front of anyone, not ever again.
*
So instead of doing something dramatic, like burning the sketchbooks, or letting them sit there for months while he worked up the nerve to deal with them, Brian poured himself a few shots and sat down to look through all of it.
The first box had several sketchbooks of Rage on top. And it was brilliant work, of course, and would probably go for some good cash after the third movie came out, but...
Brian wasn’t looking for anything, but if he had been, that wouldn’t have been it.
The first sketchbook he found underneath those was an older one, from a few years back. Or at least Brian guessed it was, because it was full of pictures of... the fiddler. Ian?
No. Ethan. Ethan smiling, Ethan looking important, Ethan raising an eyebrow, Ethan naked, Ethan playing his goddamned fucking violin.
Fuck. All those months wasted, when if Brian had just - if Justin - fuck. No. No regrets. No what ifs.
Brian made himself look at it, flipping through the pages methodically. He took grim pleasure in the fact that yes, Ethan’s dick was smaller.
Flip. Flip. Fli - wait.
Brian faltered, and turned a couple of pages back. He hadn’t seen what he’d thought he’d seen. He really hadn’t.
But he had. Sandwiched between dozens of smirking Ethan Golds with smudged charcoal eyes and generously shaded hips - was his own face.
Brian’s hands started to shake, and he slammed the thing shut.
Justin had still thought of him when they’d been apart. He’d never stopped. Not ever.
Brian thought he might throw up.
*
It happened four months ago. Justin had been at the supermarket, buying batteries, eggs, and bottled water.
When he was walking across the street, heading back to his car, a drunk driver ran a red light and slammed right into him. They said Justin was killed instantly, but Brian doubted it. The fucking bastard that did it kept right on driving, and managed to wrap his truck around a telephone pole.
The telephone pole lived.
Brian doesn’t do what ifs. Besides, if anyone were going to teach Justin not to jaywalk, it would have been his parents, with their hold my hand while we cross the street, honey. And that probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway, in the end.
Brian had been working on a campaign that night. He’d been too busy to run errands.
Not saying “what if”. Just stating facts.
*
“There’s no fucking use in talking to a rock,” Brian whispered. He reached out to touch the smooth headstone, but drew his hand back before he made contact.
The freshly planted sod was leaving grass stains on Brian’s expensive slacks, but that’s what dry cleaning was for. Brian grit his teeth and exhaled all at once, feeling the breath whoosh out of his mouth.
“No fucking use,” he said again, and heard a scuff behind him.
“I’m sorry,” the person said immediately, before Brian could even turn. “I just wanted - I’ll just go.” The voice was distinctly male, and vaguely familiar.
Shit. What impeccable timing. Someone up there was amusing themselves.
Brian got to his feet and turned to face him, having to bite his lip to keep from laughing hysterically at the situation.
“Stay,” said Brian. “It’s not like he cares.”
Ethan looked like a nervous puppy waiting to be tossed in a sack with a bunch of heavy rocks. His curly, straggly dark hair twisted around his face. A face that was more tan than Brian remembered, but in an orange, fake kind of way.
“I didn’t know you would be here,” Ethan said, “But of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?”
It was the first time that Brian had been to Justin’s grave, actually, but he wasn’t going to say that.
“I just wanted to pay my respects,” said Ethan, bouncing on the soles of his feet. “He was... a really good person. He was really great.”
“Well, that’s your opinion,” said Brian. “From my experience he was kind of a shithead.”
Ethan ignored him. “He just had so much love to give, you know? He was so vibrant. And so creative.”
Try going through more than a hundred sketchbooks of that “creative”, and then see how you feel about it.
“We hadn’t spoken in a while,” Ethan said, “But I’ll miss him. He was so alive.”
“Yeah,” said Brian softly. “Yeah, he was. It’s a shame he lost that.”
Ethan cast a quizzical look at him. “He lost...?”
“One of the side effects of being dead,” Brian said, and got a small thrill out of Ethan’s startled wince.
Ethan stood there, clutching a rose between his fingers, and stared at the headstone for a minute. It was a nice headstone, Brian had to give it that. It looked expensive. Shiny.
Brian watched Ethan’s face instead, lips quirking at the traces of tears in the fiddler’s eyes. It felt like a victory to Brian - of what, he wasn’t sure.
Ethan sniffed, apparently done with his “moment”, and placed the rose gently on top of the headstone. Motherfucker. The fucking thing was already wilting. Oblivious, Ethan turned to Brian and nodded.
“Listen,” said Ethan, “Do you maybe want to go for coffee or something? Or would that be awkward?”
Brian stared at him.
“We don’t have to,” Ethan added quickly. “I just thought, maybe we could talk about him. Remember. I’d like to hear some of your memories of him.”
My memories of him are worth a million times more than any memories he ever gave you, Brian thought.
He was so occupied with not saying any of his thoughts out loud that it took him a moment to realize that Ethan was still waiting for a reply.
“Why the fuck not,” said Brian.
*
He soon realized why the fuck not.
Ethan decided that he should start out their conversation by talking about his own life and career, which was boring as fuck all. Brian didn’t even have the energy to bait the poor kid, so he mainly just stared at his coffee cup, steadily stirring in more and more sugar as Ethan spoke.
“...Anyway,” Ethan said finally. “But that’s when I heard, so I came right here. How long ago did it happen?”
“Four months, give or take,” said Brian.
Ethan swallowed thickly and picked at his banana nut muffin. “I’m sorry I didn’t find out sooner,” he said. “Hell, I’m sorry I ever left.”
Brian looked up at that, eyes suddenly gone deep and mean, and something harsh in his chest. “Don’t be,” he said evenly.
Ethan blinked. “Right,” he said. He took a bite of his muffin and chewed slowly, like he’d only done it on impulse and now had no desire to swallow. “I knew you and he got back together, you know,” he said around his mouthful. “And if Justin was happy -“
“He was happy,” said Brian. “Change the subject.”
“I always knew he still loved you,” said Ethan.
“Change the subject, or I swear I will strangle you with my bare hands,” said Brian.
“Consider it changed.” Ethan looked away and rolled some muffin crumbs between his fingers. “I miss him. I do.”
Brian took a shuddering breath and said nothing.
“I know you miss him too,” Ethan said quietly. “You’ve been together for, what, four years?”
“Six,” said Brian.
“Right,” said Ethan. “Six.”
Fuck. Brian wanted to hurt him, so, so badly. Wanted to reach out and tear him apart. Not for anything he’d said, not even for that long ago time when he and Justin were fucking, just because - Oh god - he was just available. And Brian didn’t have anyone else to -
Ethan looked at Brian’s face at that moment, and his expression froze.
“What are you...” Ethan trailed off. He blinked, and blinked again, hard. He shrugged on his jacket and put some money on the table, and looked at his hands for a long moment.
“I can cover the tip,” Brian said, trying to make his voice work, and it came out hoarser than he’d intended.
He felt like a monster, like some rabid, terrible thing.
Ethan glanced up. “No. That’s okay. You wanna go somewhere?” He looked nervous, like he had actually understood Brian’s face the moment before.
Brian’s nostrils flared, and his fingernails dug into the varnish on the tabletop.
“It’s okay,” said Ethan, and he took a deep breath. “I know what you want from me.”
*
Four months ago, in the loft.
Michael had said “They did a really good job. He looked like he was sleeping.”
Debbie let out a weak sob, before choking it back. “Shit,” she said. “Shit, he looked like an angel, you mean.”
It wouldn’t have looked like that. It would have looked like Justin was dead. Brian had seen him sleeping enough times to know the difference.
Jennifer had known too, he could see it in her face. There was something stark there, a lack of something that had been there before. Brian’s mind flashed on that old clichéd adage - no parent should have to bury their child.
Brian said, “Why are you telling me this?”
Debbie pressed her lips together, suddenly annoyed. “You weren’t at the funeral,” she said. “We thought you would want to know how it went.”
“Why?” Brian hissed. “Why would I want to know how it went? Why do you think I care?”
“He was your partner, Brian,” said Debbie. “You loved that kid, so don’t you dare pretend - “
“Fuck!” Brian slammed his fists on the counter, making Jennifer jerk in surprise. “I’m not pretending anything. Fucking - Christ, what do I have left to pretend?”
“Brian,” said Jennifer. “That’s not why we came.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” said Debbie, “Listen, Brian, I know you’re hurting. I know you’re hurting really bad right now, but if you think that trying not to care will honor his memory, buster -“
“I fucking care, Deb!” Brian snapped. “I care! I just don’t want to hear this shit! He’s dead already, what good does it do?”
“You could at least pretend to miss him!” Debbie near-screamed.
Brian turned away from them and leaned on the kitchen counter, shoulders tensed.
“Ma,” said Michael. “Maybe we should get you home.”
Debbie breathed deeply a few times, Michael’s comforting arm around her. “Brian,” she said more quietly. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“She didn’t mean it,” said Michael. “Brian?”
Brian said nothing.
It was Jennifer that went up to him, touching his back gently. “Brian, we just wanted to see how you were doing. Believe me, that’s all. And no one blames you. It’s alright that you weren’t at the funeral.”
“Jennifer,” said Brian quietly, ignoring her words. “How are you holding up?”
Jennifer smiled slightly. “Not too well. I’ll be okay, it’s just - It’s just senseless.”
“Yeah,” Brian breathed.
“We’ll go now. Will you be alright?”
“I don’t know,” said Brian. “Ask me tomorrow. Ask me - ask me later.”
Jennifer rubbed his back, then stepped away, and the three of them murmured their goodbyes and left.
Brian stayed where he was, staring at the countertop.
*
Comfort Inn, room 254. Brian slid the key card into the slot, and watched the light turn green.
Ethan stood a couple steps away from him, but squeezed past him as Brian held the door open.
“Classy,” he said.
“You’re not getting a good hotel room on my credit card,” said Brian. “Suck it up.”
Ethan glanced back at him. “Do you mean that literally?”
Brian paused as he was taking off his suit jacket. He considered Ethan’s face for a moment, then turned his back on him to hang the jacket in the closet. “Why are you doing this?” he said.
Ethan shrugged, even though Brian couldn’t see. “I don’t know,” he said. “Call it payback? I did steal your boyfriend once.”
Brian turned back, face impassive. “Oh really,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “You’re saying you don’t want this?”
“What do you expect me to do? Punish you?”
Ethan’s breath caught uncomfortably. “That’s not what I want.”
Brian turned away again, placed the key card carefully on the nightstand. “What do you want?”
“Anything you want to do to me,” Ethan said easily. “I just - I know how hard this must be for you. And as much as I despise you, I can’t help but respond to that.” He inhaled shakily, his nervousness contradicting his words.
“But most of all, because of Justin. I owe him. He would have wanted me to help you in any way I could. And I’m guessing that this is the way.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” said Brian.
“That makes two of us,” said Ethan. “So...?”
Brian walked over to him, and placed a hand at the base of his neck, thumb pressing gently but firmly against Ethan’s collarbone. It was the first time Brian had ever touched him, and Ethan didn’t know how to read the action. Brian’s face was blank.
“No one gets hurt here,” Brian said quietly. “I may be a bastard, but that’s something I wouldn’t do. Know that.”
Ethan felt somewhat reassured, but his body wasn’t listening to Brian’s words, and his gut still clenched. “Okay,” he said anyway.
*
Echoes, and memories shared, and was this what Ethan had meant earlier? Was this what he had actually wanted? Brian couldn’t feel anything but where Justin wasn’t, in all the spaces between him and Ethan.
Brian wanted to ask, “Did he do this? Were his hands where mine are? Did he ever fuck you this hard?” but he wouldn’t let himself.
He swallowed the questions back until they burned the back of his throat. Gripped harder, thrust deeper, heard the pained grunt from underneath him but his eyes wouldn’t focus on the form.
Just a boy. Just a boy.
He’d said he wouldn’t hurt him.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.
Ethan squirmed under him, and Brian couldn’t tell if it was discomfort or pleasure.
Brian made himself stop thrusting, the muscles in his body beginning to spasm. Made himself wet his lips to say “Are you okay?” but before he could ask anything, Ethan’s ass squeezed around his cock and Brian came.
Getting off had never felt so wrong to Brian before.
*
“What do you think?” said Justin.
“Hmm?” Brian shuffled some papers around, looking for the product information sheets. Justin came up and draped his arms around Brian’s neck.
“I was thinking scrambled,” and Brian ignored Justin’s words in favor of Justin’s hand, which was stroking his nipple through the cotton of his T-shirt. “Brian? Brian.”
“Scrambled,” said Brian, “I’m listening. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Justin nuzzled behind his ear. “We have no eggs. Thus, we have no breakfast tomorrow.”
“Cholesterol. No. Just make sure we have coffee.”
“I’ll get the fucking fake eggs, then.”
“With coffee?”
“We have coffee.”
Brian laughed. “Make sure, before you go out.”
Justin smirked, kissed him on the eyebrow. “Hmm,” he said. “Brian Kinney, so domestic.”
“Shut up,” said Brian, and stroked Justin’s hand. “I have work to do.”
Justin squeezed him tighter for a moment, and let go. “I know. Need anything else?”
Brian spun his chair around to face Justin. “I think we’re out of bottled water. Can’t really think of anything else.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Nah,” said Justin, “I know this is an important campaign. Stay here. I’ll be back soon, okay? I can distract you some more.”
Brian smiled. “I love it when you distract me.”
Justin smiled back. “Love you.”
He leaned forward and kissed Brian, brushing his tongue over Brian’s lips until they parted, which was pretty much immediately.
Justin broke away. “There’s more where that came from.”
Brian raised an eyebrow and turned back to his work. He shifted slightly in his seat to adjust himself, and Justin chuckled.
Brian doesn’t remember the sound of the loft door shutting.
Brian will eventually forget the exact shape of Justin’s nose, and the exact shade of Justin’s eyes, but there are some things he’ll never forget, not ever.
The feel of Justin’s skin. The smell of Justin’s skin.
He never saw the body. He never went to the funeral. All he had was a space where the shutting of the loft door should be.
*
Brian drew out gingerly, stripping off the condom and bending over the bed to toss it in the wastebin. Once he had, he rested his elbows on the edge of the mattress, hung his head, and along with the gagging feeling in his chest, considered the wastebin in a new and interesting way.
“Are you crying?” Ethan asked.
“No,” said Brian, and dragged the wastebin closer with one hand as he threw up.
God, it hurt, he hadn’t eaten properly in days. It was all acrid, bitter, spit and coffee -
Ethan was trying to pat his back, and as soon as Brian got his breath, he said “Fuck off.”
“I’m sorry -“ Ethan started to say, and Brian didn’t know what Ethan was trying to apologize for, but whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear another word.
He kissed Ethan hard, kissed him with the taste of bile fresh in his mouth. Ethan jerked in surprise, almost drew away, but then, then he didn’t.
Brian did. He yanked himself away, feet found the floor and body found balance, walk, walk, find pants, socks, shoes. Pick them up. Methodical. Get out.
Ethan didn’t say a word, just sat and watched.
*
Brian found himself in front of the loft, with no memory of leaving the hotel parking lot. He must’ve driven home in a daze. Shit, he shouldn’t have let himself do that, it was dangerous - he could’ve - killed someone -
A sob escaped, and Brian clenched a hand over his mouth to keep it from becoming anything more. He’d bite his fucking fingers if he had to.
After a few minutes, he got out of the car and walked steadily into the building. Got into the elevator, shut the gate, waited, opened the gate, got off, slid open the loft door, and walked over to the boxes of sketchbooks. Shoulders straight, chin up, fucking in control.
*
Two weeks ago.
The house lights were making everyone glow in shades of putridly florescent orange and green, the go-go boys were wearing hot pink corsets and very little else, and Brian couldn’t help but wonder if it was “Let’s Make Everyone That’s Remotely Attractive Look Completely Nauseating Instead” Night at Babylon.
Or maybe it’d always been this kitschy and disgusting here, and he’d just never noticed it before.
Michael poked him in the side, and raised his voice to be heard over the music. (Which, as Brian focused on it momentarily, turned out to be Yoko Ono. Christ. Was the universe conspiring against him?)
Michael tugged at his arm, still trying to get Brian’s attention. “Are you sure you want to be here?” he said.
Brian opened his mouth, wanting to assure Michael that there was absolutely no reason to be such a fucking nag. Nothing came out.
Luckily, Michael grabbed him and started pushing him toward the door before Brian’s lack of argument became obvious. “I can’t believe you,” he heard Michael mutter.
“Mikey, I’m fine,” he said, but followed him to the coat check.
Michael simply raised an eyebrow. Fuck, they’d been around each other way too long.
“What?” said Brian. “Did you expect me to fall down sobbing at the sight of Babylon? It’s been months since he died. I can handle it.”
Michael handed him his jacket. “We’re not talking about this here.”
They clomped down the steps, making the drastic transition from the swirling chaos in Babylon to the calm streetlamp glow outside. There was a chill in the air.
“Fuck,” said Brian. “It feels like it’s sub-zero out here.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, glancing back up at the Babylon exit, and not at Michael. “It’s only August, usually it doesn’t freeze to arctic temperatures until at least September.”
“Brian - Brian, stop.” Michael rested his hands on Brian’s, halting his agitated motion. “I’m worried about you, is all.”
Brian took a deep breath, his exhale still hanging in the air in front of his face. He carefully stepped forward and folded Michael into his arms, and Michael hugged him back tightly.
“I know sometimes I’m kind of...” Brian trailed off, not finding an appropriate word.
“Freaky?” said Michael, muffled into Brian’s chest.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” said Brian.
Michael drew back to look him in the face. “I know. But it’s what I’m saying. You’re acting freaky.”
Brian smiled rather condescendingly. “And how’s that, exactly?”
Michael stared at him. “Like - Now that Justin’s been gone for a few months, it’s like you think you should be over it. You’re acting like you’re over it. You don’t have to. I know if I lost Ben...”
“So, what? You think because my life is getting back to normal, that I’m not ‘grieving appropriately’? Tell me what you expect, Mikey, cause I don’t understand what you want from me here.” Brian yanked himself out of Michael’s arms and took a couple of paces backwards, fighting the urge to lash out. “Should I rend my sheets? My Prada? Tear my hair out, smear my face in ashes? It would be very Greek tragedy of me.”
“But your life isn’t normal, Brian!” Michael shouted. He immediately seemed to regret the volume of his outburst, and gave a half-laugh, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I mean, god, Brian. Everybody’s wondering what you’re going to do now. You might think you can just go back -“
“Why can’t I?” Brian interrupted. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because,” said Michael, “When you met Justin, everything changed for you.”
Brian turned away and stared into the street, the blacktop still slightly shiny from the rain earlier that evening. He didn’t even realize there was someone standing under the streetlamp in front of them until a car went by, throwing their shadow onto the sidewalk.
“And it’s not just going to change back,” said Michael. “I saw you in Babylon, and no matter what you say, I could tell you didn’t want to be there. And what, are you going to go back to ‘fuck ‘em once and leave them’? Have you fucked anyone since he died?”
The guy under the streetlamp was way too tall, and way too skinny. The posture was all wrong. His hair wasn’t even blond.
Brian turned back to Michael, suddenly tired. “Why are you so angry with me?” he asked.
Michael deflated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just want to see you happy again.”
“Michael.” Brian bit his lip, trying to get his words straightened out in his mind. He wanted Michael to understand.
“I feel a lot better. I do,” said Brian. “Especially compared to how I was right after it happened. But if you want to see me happy like when - I don’t know if that’s going to be possible. This...” he shrugged. “This is all I’ve got.”
Michael squeezed Brian’s shoulder. “I know. I know. But you know what I keep thinking?”
“What?” said Brian.
“That you never even went to the funeral. No - wait, I don’t mean it like that. But Ben says that for him, seeing someone’s body can help... set you at rest, I guess. It helps you. And you never got that closure.”
Brian shook his head. “There was no way I was going to see him like that, Mikey.”
Michael just looked at him, brows furrowed, pain and worry in his eyes. Brian hated that Michael cared that much. It wasn’t worth it. And it made Brian feel itchy and restless.
Brian swung an arm over Michael’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, “I’m freezing my ass off. Let’s go get utterly trashed at Woody’s. Isn’t it karaoke night?”
*
Brian knocked at the hotel door, and it opened.
Ethan looked out at him, face all red and puffy from tears. He was in the process of pulling his coat on. He stopped, stared at Brian. “I thought maybe the cab driver was here,” he said.
“No,” said Brian. “Not yet.”
He handed Ethan two sketchbooks. “He would have wanted you to have them,” he said.
Ethan looked at him, a look of amazement starting to come across his face. “They’re Justin’s?”
“Yes,” said Brian. “Take them. I still have all the others. These are the ones from - these are of you.”
“Thank you,” said Ethan. He slowly brought the sketchbooks to his chest, and nodded once. His jaw worked for a moment, but he didn’t say anything else.
Brian walked away down the hall. Ethan’s cab would be here soon. He’d be gone. Brian would never have to see him again.
Ethan would have to see him, though, nestled amongst some of those pages. Brian Kinney, still leering out from Justin’s drawings, all caricature and angry pencil scratches and - loved.
*
Four months ago, the phone rang.
Brian gave a start, and almost knocked a stack of papers onto the floor. The light from his desk illuminated only a patch of the pitch-dark loft. He’d fallen asleep in his chair while working. Justin must not have come back yet.
“Shit,” said Brian, and rubbed at the grit in his eyes. “Fuck.” How long had it been?
He was about to glance at the clock and see what time it was, but the phone rang again, and this time Brian answered.
*
Now.
“I don’t know why they didn’t just cremate you,” said Brian.
Justin’s headstone didn’t answer him. Neither did Justin’s grave - six feet deep, buried, expensive casket embedded in concrete. And within that, Justin’s perfectly posed body decaying, hair and fingernails and blistering skin, and -
Brian stepped off of the raised patch of ground, suddenly, irrationally convinced that Justin would somehow feel him standing there. Stupid. There was nothing there, not really.
“You stupid fuck,” Brian whispered. “You would have hated this. You would have wanted them to scatter you to the wind, or flush you. Not put you on display. Not pump you full of shit just to try and keep you from rotting.”
Justin had been like Brian in that respect. Justin wouldn’t have seen the fucking point of a coffin. But there was nothing Brian could do about it, was there? Especially not now.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” said Brian. “It’s not like you’ll hear me. But... oh god. I want you to hear me.” He sank to his knees, and placed his hand on the raised turf.
“I miss you so fucking much, Justin,” he said, but he wasn’t sure if it came out as sound, wasn’t sure if it made its way past his dry mouth. “Fuck,” and his eyes were burning, and tears were already running down his face and dripping into his collar. Brian squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward until his forehead touched his knees.
He tried to stop crying, but that didn’t work, and he tried to stop thinking, but that didn’t work either, so instead he tried to keep breathing in and out. And that seemed to work better.
Eventually, Brian managed to raise his head. “That’s all,” he said quietly, strained. “I think that’s all I really wanted to say.”
He stared at the words on the white granite marker. Justin Taylor. Beloved son and brother. A few decorative fleur-de-lys around the corners, and of course, two dates.
There was so much that the headstone couldn’t convey. Brian wondered how many little old ladies would walk past this grave, read the sparse words, and think, sadly, That poor boy. He was never even married.
And they would never, ever realize that it didn’t even matter that he never married. That he’d been gay, and proud. That Justin had something worth more than all of that, something you couldn’t just pin a happy little label on.
He’d had a life, a happy one, and people that he loved.
Brian got up slowly, brushed off his knees, and paused. He picked the limp, shriveled rose off the top of the headstone, and tossed it to the side.
“They never do learn, do they?” said Brian softly. “None of them. They’re always trying to give you flowers.”
Brian brushed his hand across the top of the polished stone, fingers momentarily tracing the edge, then he turned and walked away.
In celebration of my own birthday, (my god, she's using any excuse now), here is more fic. But before you read it, let me just apologize for killing Justin. I do love Justin deeply.
Warnings: Death, Brian/Other, mild implications of (past) Justin/Ethan. Oh, and angst. Out the whazoo. Post-post-414.
They gave Brian four boxes of Justin’s sketchbooks, with an apologetic smile and a “He would have wanted you to have them.”
They gave Brian four boxes of Justin’s sketchbooks, with an apologetic smile and a “He would have wanted you to have them.” They fit very neatly in the corner of the loft, stacked one on another, side by side.
Justin’s clothes and other possessions went to his mother. Jennifer donated most of them to charity, and Brian still dreaded the day he would walk down the street and see some smug little thrift hound fag wearing that blue shirt, or that red one. He didn’t know how he’d take it if that happened. He’d probably try to rip their faces off.
Brian was getting that feeling a lot lately. And it felt like everyone else was waiting, holding their breath in order to have front row seats when Brian Kinney finally broke down.
Finally lost it. Round the bend, nutso.
But they were shit out of luck, because if there’s one thing Brian Kinney had left, it was Brian Kinney, and he was never going to cry in front of anyone, not ever again.
*
So instead of doing something dramatic, like burning the sketchbooks, or letting them sit there for months while he worked up the nerve to deal with them, Brian poured himself a few shots and sat down to look through all of it.
The first box had several sketchbooks of Rage on top. And it was brilliant work, of course, and would probably go for some good cash after the third movie came out, but...
Brian wasn’t looking for anything, but if he had been, that wouldn’t have been it.
The first sketchbook he found underneath those was an older one, from a few years back. Or at least Brian guessed it was, because it was full of pictures of... the fiddler. Ian?
No. Ethan. Ethan smiling, Ethan looking important, Ethan raising an eyebrow, Ethan naked, Ethan playing his goddamned fucking violin.
Fuck. All those months wasted, when if Brian had just - if Justin - fuck. No. No regrets. No what ifs.
Brian made himself look at it, flipping through the pages methodically. He took grim pleasure in the fact that yes, Ethan’s dick was smaller.
Flip. Flip. Fli - wait.
Brian faltered, and turned a couple of pages back. He hadn’t seen what he’d thought he’d seen. He really hadn’t.
But he had. Sandwiched between dozens of smirking Ethan Golds with smudged charcoal eyes and generously shaded hips - was his own face.
Brian’s hands started to shake, and he slammed the thing shut.
Justin had still thought of him when they’d been apart. He’d never stopped. Not ever.
Brian thought he might throw up.
*
It happened four months ago. Justin had been at the supermarket, buying batteries, eggs, and bottled water.
When he was walking across the street, heading back to his car, a drunk driver ran a red light and slammed right into him. They said Justin was killed instantly, but Brian doubted it. The fucking bastard that did it kept right on driving, and managed to wrap his truck around a telephone pole.
The telephone pole lived.
Brian doesn’t do what ifs. Besides, if anyone were going to teach Justin not to jaywalk, it would have been his parents, with their hold my hand while we cross the street, honey. And that probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway, in the end.
Brian had been working on a campaign that night. He’d been too busy to run errands.
Not saying “what if”. Just stating facts.
*
“There’s no fucking use in talking to a rock,” Brian whispered. He reached out to touch the smooth headstone, but drew his hand back before he made contact.
The freshly planted sod was leaving grass stains on Brian’s expensive slacks, but that’s what dry cleaning was for. Brian grit his teeth and exhaled all at once, feeling the breath whoosh out of his mouth.
“No fucking use,” he said again, and heard a scuff behind him.
“I’m sorry,” the person said immediately, before Brian could even turn. “I just wanted - I’ll just go.” The voice was distinctly male, and vaguely familiar.
Shit. What impeccable timing. Someone up there was amusing themselves.
Brian got to his feet and turned to face him, having to bite his lip to keep from laughing hysterically at the situation.
“Stay,” said Brian. “It’s not like he cares.”
Ethan looked like a nervous puppy waiting to be tossed in a sack with a bunch of heavy rocks. His curly, straggly dark hair twisted around his face. A face that was more tan than Brian remembered, but in an orange, fake kind of way.
“I didn’t know you would be here,” Ethan said, “But of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?”
It was the first time that Brian had been to Justin’s grave, actually, but he wasn’t going to say that.
“I just wanted to pay my respects,” said Ethan, bouncing on the soles of his feet. “He was... a really good person. He was really great.”
“Well, that’s your opinion,” said Brian. “From my experience he was kind of a shithead.”
Ethan ignored him. “He just had so much love to give, you know? He was so vibrant. And so creative.”
Try going through more than a hundred sketchbooks of that “creative”, and then see how you feel about it.
“We hadn’t spoken in a while,” Ethan said, “But I’ll miss him. He was so alive.”
“Yeah,” said Brian softly. “Yeah, he was. It’s a shame he lost that.”
Ethan cast a quizzical look at him. “He lost...?”
“One of the side effects of being dead,” Brian said, and got a small thrill out of Ethan’s startled wince.
Ethan stood there, clutching a rose between his fingers, and stared at the headstone for a minute. It was a nice headstone, Brian had to give it that. It looked expensive. Shiny.
Brian watched Ethan’s face instead, lips quirking at the traces of tears in the fiddler’s eyes. It felt like a victory to Brian - of what, he wasn’t sure.
Ethan sniffed, apparently done with his “moment”, and placed the rose gently on top of the headstone. Motherfucker. The fucking thing was already wilting. Oblivious, Ethan turned to Brian and nodded.
“Listen,” said Ethan, “Do you maybe want to go for coffee or something? Or would that be awkward?”
Brian stared at him.
“We don’t have to,” Ethan added quickly. “I just thought, maybe we could talk about him. Remember. I’d like to hear some of your memories of him.”
My memories of him are worth a million times more than any memories he ever gave you, Brian thought.
He was so occupied with not saying any of his thoughts out loud that it took him a moment to realize that Ethan was still waiting for a reply.
“Why the fuck not,” said Brian.
*
He soon realized why the fuck not.
Ethan decided that he should start out their conversation by talking about his own life and career, which was boring as fuck all. Brian didn’t even have the energy to bait the poor kid, so he mainly just stared at his coffee cup, steadily stirring in more and more sugar as Ethan spoke.
“...Anyway,” Ethan said finally. “But that’s when I heard, so I came right here. How long ago did it happen?”
“Four months, give or take,” said Brian.
Ethan swallowed thickly and picked at his banana nut muffin. “I’m sorry I didn’t find out sooner,” he said. “Hell, I’m sorry I ever left.”
Brian looked up at that, eyes suddenly gone deep and mean, and something harsh in his chest. “Don’t be,” he said evenly.
Ethan blinked. “Right,” he said. He took a bite of his muffin and chewed slowly, like he’d only done it on impulse and now had no desire to swallow. “I knew you and he got back together, you know,” he said around his mouthful. “And if Justin was happy -“
“He was happy,” said Brian. “Change the subject.”
“I always knew he still loved you,” said Ethan.
“Change the subject, or I swear I will strangle you with my bare hands,” said Brian.
“Consider it changed.” Ethan looked away and rolled some muffin crumbs between his fingers. “I miss him. I do.”
Brian took a shuddering breath and said nothing.
“I know you miss him too,” Ethan said quietly. “You’ve been together for, what, four years?”
“Six,” said Brian.
“Right,” said Ethan. “Six.”
Fuck. Brian wanted to hurt him, so, so badly. Wanted to reach out and tear him apart. Not for anything he’d said, not even for that long ago time when he and Justin were fucking, just because - Oh god - he was just available. And Brian didn’t have anyone else to -
Ethan looked at Brian’s face at that moment, and his expression froze.
“What are you...” Ethan trailed off. He blinked, and blinked again, hard. He shrugged on his jacket and put some money on the table, and looked at his hands for a long moment.
“I can cover the tip,” Brian said, trying to make his voice work, and it came out hoarser than he’d intended.
He felt like a monster, like some rabid, terrible thing.
Ethan glanced up. “No. That’s okay. You wanna go somewhere?” He looked nervous, like he had actually understood Brian’s face the moment before.
Brian’s nostrils flared, and his fingernails dug into the varnish on the tabletop.
“It’s okay,” said Ethan, and he took a deep breath. “I know what you want from me.”
*
Four months ago, in the loft.
Michael had said “They did a really good job. He looked like he was sleeping.”
Debbie let out a weak sob, before choking it back. “Shit,” she said. “Shit, he looked like an angel, you mean.”
It wouldn’t have looked like that. It would have looked like Justin was dead. Brian had seen him sleeping enough times to know the difference.
Jennifer had known too, he could see it in her face. There was something stark there, a lack of something that had been there before. Brian’s mind flashed on that old clichéd adage - no parent should have to bury their child.
Brian said, “Why are you telling me this?”
Debbie pressed her lips together, suddenly annoyed. “You weren’t at the funeral,” she said. “We thought you would want to know how it went.”
“Why?” Brian hissed. “Why would I want to know how it went? Why do you think I care?”
“He was your partner, Brian,” said Debbie. “You loved that kid, so don’t you dare pretend - “
“Fuck!” Brian slammed his fists on the counter, making Jennifer jerk in surprise. “I’m not pretending anything. Fucking - Christ, what do I have left to pretend?”
“Brian,” said Jennifer. “That’s not why we came.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” said Debbie, “Listen, Brian, I know you’re hurting. I know you’re hurting really bad right now, but if you think that trying not to care will honor his memory, buster -“
“I fucking care, Deb!” Brian snapped. “I care! I just don’t want to hear this shit! He’s dead already, what good does it do?”
“You could at least pretend to miss him!” Debbie near-screamed.
Brian turned away from them and leaned on the kitchen counter, shoulders tensed.
“Ma,” said Michael. “Maybe we should get you home.”
Debbie breathed deeply a few times, Michael’s comforting arm around her. “Brian,” she said more quietly. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“She didn’t mean it,” said Michael. “Brian?”
Brian said nothing.
It was Jennifer that went up to him, touching his back gently. “Brian, we just wanted to see how you were doing. Believe me, that’s all. And no one blames you. It’s alright that you weren’t at the funeral.”
“Jennifer,” said Brian quietly, ignoring her words. “How are you holding up?”
Jennifer smiled slightly. “Not too well. I’ll be okay, it’s just - It’s just senseless.”
“Yeah,” Brian breathed.
“We’ll go now. Will you be alright?”
“I don’t know,” said Brian. “Ask me tomorrow. Ask me - ask me later.”
Jennifer rubbed his back, then stepped away, and the three of them murmured their goodbyes and left.
Brian stayed where he was, staring at the countertop.
*
Comfort Inn, room 254. Brian slid the key card into the slot, and watched the light turn green.
Ethan stood a couple steps away from him, but squeezed past him as Brian held the door open.
“Classy,” he said.
“You’re not getting a good hotel room on my credit card,” said Brian. “Suck it up.”
Ethan glanced back at him. “Do you mean that literally?”
Brian paused as he was taking off his suit jacket. He considered Ethan’s face for a moment, then turned his back on him to hang the jacket in the closet. “Why are you doing this?” he said.
Ethan shrugged, even though Brian couldn’t see. “I don’t know,” he said. “Call it payback? I did steal your boyfriend once.”
Brian turned back, face impassive. “Oh really,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Ethan cleared his throat. “You’re saying you don’t want this?”
“What do you expect me to do? Punish you?”
Ethan’s breath caught uncomfortably. “That’s not what I want.”
Brian turned away again, placed the key card carefully on the nightstand. “What do you want?”
“Anything you want to do to me,” Ethan said easily. “I just - I know how hard this must be for you. And as much as I despise you, I can’t help but respond to that.” He inhaled shakily, his nervousness contradicting his words.
“But most of all, because of Justin. I owe him. He would have wanted me to help you in any way I could. And I’m guessing that this is the way.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” said Brian.
“That makes two of us,” said Ethan. “So...?”
Brian walked over to him, and placed a hand at the base of his neck, thumb pressing gently but firmly against Ethan’s collarbone. It was the first time Brian had ever touched him, and Ethan didn’t know how to read the action. Brian’s face was blank.
“No one gets hurt here,” Brian said quietly. “I may be a bastard, but that’s something I wouldn’t do. Know that.”
Ethan felt somewhat reassured, but his body wasn’t listening to Brian’s words, and his gut still clenched. “Okay,” he said anyway.
*
Echoes, and memories shared, and was this what Ethan had meant earlier? Was this what he had actually wanted? Brian couldn’t feel anything but where Justin wasn’t, in all the spaces between him and Ethan.
Brian wanted to ask, “Did he do this? Were his hands where mine are? Did he ever fuck you this hard?” but he wouldn’t let himself.
He swallowed the questions back until they burned the back of his throat. Gripped harder, thrust deeper, heard the pained grunt from underneath him but his eyes wouldn’t focus on the form.
Just a boy. Just a boy.
He’d said he wouldn’t hurt him.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t.
Ethan squirmed under him, and Brian couldn’t tell if it was discomfort or pleasure.
Brian made himself stop thrusting, the muscles in his body beginning to spasm. Made himself wet his lips to say “Are you okay?” but before he could ask anything, Ethan’s ass squeezed around his cock and Brian came.
Getting off had never felt so wrong to Brian before.
*
“What do you think?” said Justin.
“Hmm?” Brian shuffled some papers around, looking for the product information sheets. Justin came up and draped his arms around Brian’s neck.
“I was thinking scrambled,” and Brian ignored Justin’s words in favor of Justin’s hand, which was stroking his nipple through the cotton of his T-shirt. “Brian? Brian.”
“Scrambled,” said Brian, “I’m listening. What the fuck are you talking about?”
Justin nuzzled behind his ear. “We have no eggs. Thus, we have no breakfast tomorrow.”
“Cholesterol. No. Just make sure we have coffee.”
“I’ll get the fucking fake eggs, then.”
“With coffee?”
“We have coffee.”
Brian laughed. “Make sure, before you go out.”
Justin smirked, kissed him on the eyebrow. “Hmm,” he said. “Brian Kinney, so domestic.”
“Shut up,” said Brian, and stroked Justin’s hand. “I have work to do.”
Justin squeezed him tighter for a moment, and let go. “I know. Need anything else?”
Brian spun his chair around to face Justin. “I think we’re out of bottled water. Can’t really think of anything else.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Nah,” said Justin, “I know this is an important campaign. Stay here. I’ll be back soon, okay? I can distract you some more.”
Brian smiled. “I love it when you distract me.”
Justin smiled back. “Love you.”
He leaned forward and kissed Brian, brushing his tongue over Brian’s lips until they parted, which was pretty much immediately.
Justin broke away. “There’s more where that came from.”
Brian raised an eyebrow and turned back to his work. He shifted slightly in his seat to adjust himself, and Justin chuckled.
Brian doesn’t remember the sound of the loft door shutting.
Brian will eventually forget the exact shape of Justin’s nose, and the exact shade of Justin’s eyes, but there are some things he’ll never forget, not ever.
The feel of Justin’s skin. The smell of Justin’s skin.
He never saw the body. He never went to the funeral. All he had was a space where the shutting of the loft door should be.
*
Brian drew out gingerly, stripping off the condom and bending over the bed to toss it in the wastebin. Once he had, he rested his elbows on the edge of the mattress, hung his head, and along with the gagging feeling in his chest, considered the wastebin in a new and interesting way.
“Are you crying?” Ethan asked.
“No,” said Brian, and dragged the wastebin closer with one hand as he threw up.
God, it hurt, he hadn’t eaten properly in days. It was all acrid, bitter, spit and coffee -
Ethan was trying to pat his back, and as soon as Brian got his breath, he said “Fuck off.”
“I’m sorry -“ Ethan started to say, and Brian didn’t know what Ethan was trying to apologize for, but whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear another word.
He kissed Ethan hard, kissed him with the taste of bile fresh in his mouth. Ethan jerked in surprise, almost drew away, but then, then he didn’t.
Brian did. He yanked himself away, feet found the floor and body found balance, walk, walk, find pants, socks, shoes. Pick them up. Methodical. Get out.
Ethan didn’t say a word, just sat and watched.
*
Brian found himself in front of the loft, with no memory of leaving the hotel parking lot. He must’ve driven home in a daze. Shit, he shouldn’t have let himself do that, it was dangerous - he could’ve - killed someone -
A sob escaped, and Brian clenched a hand over his mouth to keep it from becoming anything more. He’d bite his fucking fingers if he had to.
After a few minutes, he got out of the car and walked steadily into the building. Got into the elevator, shut the gate, waited, opened the gate, got off, slid open the loft door, and walked over to the boxes of sketchbooks. Shoulders straight, chin up, fucking in control.
*
Two weeks ago.
The house lights were making everyone glow in shades of putridly florescent orange and green, the go-go boys were wearing hot pink corsets and very little else, and Brian couldn’t help but wonder if it was “Let’s Make Everyone That’s Remotely Attractive Look Completely Nauseating Instead” Night at Babylon.
Or maybe it’d always been this kitschy and disgusting here, and he’d just never noticed it before.
Michael poked him in the side, and raised his voice to be heard over the music. (Which, as Brian focused on it momentarily, turned out to be Yoko Ono. Christ. Was the universe conspiring against him?)
Michael tugged at his arm, still trying to get Brian’s attention. “Are you sure you want to be here?” he said.
Brian opened his mouth, wanting to assure Michael that there was absolutely no reason to be such a fucking nag. Nothing came out.
Luckily, Michael grabbed him and started pushing him toward the door before Brian’s lack of argument became obvious. “I can’t believe you,” he heard Michael mutter.
“Mikey, I’m fine,” he said, but followed him to the coat check.
Michael simply raised an eyebrow. Fuck, they’d been around each other way too long.
“What?” said Brian. “Did you expect me to fall down sobbing at the sight of Babylon? It’s been months since he died. I can handle it.”
Michael handed him his jacket. “We’re not talking about this here.”
They clomped down the steps, making the drastic transition from the swirling chaos in Babylon to the calm streetlamp glow outside. There was a chill in the air.
“Fuck,” said Brian. “It feels like it’s sub-zero out here.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, glancing back up at the Babylon exit, and not at Michael. “It’s only August, usually it doesn’t freeze to arctic temperatures until at least September.”
“Brian - Brian, stop.” Michael rested his hands on Brian’s, halting his agitated motion. “I’m worried about you, is all.”
Brian took a deep breath, his exhale still hanging in the air in front of his face. He carefully stepped forward and folded Michael into his arms, and Michael hugged him back tightly.
“I know sometimes I’m kind of...” Brian trailed off, not finding an appropriate word.
“Freaky?” said Michael, muffled into Brian’s chest.
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” said Brian.
Michael drew back to look him in the face. “I know. But it’s what I’m saying. You’re acting freaky.”
Brian smiled rather condescendingly. “And how’s that, exactly?”
Michael stared at him. “Like - Now that Justin’s been gone for a few months, it’s like you think you should be over it. You’re acting like you’re over it. You don’t have to. I know if I lost Ben...”
“So, what? You think because my life is getting back to normal, that I’m not ‘grieving appropriately’? Tell me what you expect, Mikey, cause I don’t understand what you want from me here.” Brian yanked himself out of Michael’s arms and took a couple of paces backwards, fighting the urge to lash out. “Should I rend my sheets? My Prada? Tear my hair out, smear my face in ashes? It would be very Greek tragedy of me.”
“But your life isn’t normal, Brian!” Michael shouted. He immediately seemed to regret the volume of his outburst, and gave a half-laugh, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I mean, god, Brian. Everybody’s wondering what you’re going to do now. You might think you can just go back -“
“Why can’t I?” Brian interrupted. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because,” said Michael, “When you met Justin, everything changed for you.”
Brian turned away and stared into the street, the blacktop still slightly shiny from the rain earlier that evening. He didn’t even realize there was someone standing under the streetlamp in front of them until a car went by, throwing their shadow onto the sidewalk.
“And it’s not just going to change back,” said Michael. “I saw you in Babylon, and no matter what you say, I could tell you didn’t want to be there. And what, are you going to go back to ‘fuck ‘em once and leave them’? Have you fucked anyone since he died?”
The guy under the streetlamp was way too tall, and way too skinny. The posture was all wrong. His hair wasn’t even blond.
Brian turned back to Michael, suddenly tired. “Why are you so angry with me?” he asked.
Michael deflated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just want to see you happy again.”
“Michael.” Brian bit his lip, trying to get his words straightened out in his mind. He wanted Michael to understand.
“I feel a lot better. I do,” said Brian. “Especially compared to how I was right after it happened. But if you want to see me happy like when - I don’t know if that’s going to be possible. This...” he shrugged. “This is all I’ve got.”
Michael squeezed Brian’s shoulder. “I know. I know. But you know what I keep thinking?”
“What?” said Brian.
“That you never even went to the funeral. No - wait, I don’t mean it like that. But Ben says that for him, seeing someone’s body can help... set you at rest, I guess. It helps you. And you never got that closure.”
Brian shook his head. “There was no way I was going to see him like that, Mikey.”
Michael just looked at him, brows furrowed, pain and worry in his eyes. Brian hated that Michael cared that much. It wasn’t worth it. And it made Brian feel itchy and restless.
Brian swung an arm over Michael’s shoulder. “C’mon,” he said, “I’m freezing my ass off. Let’s go get utterly trashed at Woody’s. Isn’t it karaoke night?”
*
Brian knocked at the hotel door, and it opened.
Ethan looked out at him, face all red and puffy from tears. He was in the process of pulling his coat on. He stopped, stared at Brian. “I thought maybe the cab driver was here,” he said.
“No,” said Brian. “Not yet.”
He handed Ethan two sketchbooks. “He would have wanted you to have them,” he said.
Ethan looked at him, a look of amazement starting to come across his face. “They’re Justin’s?”
“Yes,” said Brian. “Take them. I still have all the others. These are the ones from - these are of you.”
“Thank you,” said Ethan. He slowly brought the sketchbooks to his chest, and nodded once. His jaw worked for a moment, but he didn’t say anything else.
Brian walked away down the hall. Ethan’s cab would be here soon. He’d be gone. Brian would never have to see him again.
Ethan would have to see him, though, nestled amongst some of those pages. Brian Kinney, still leering out from Justin’s drawings, all caricature and angry pencil scratches and - loved.
*
Four months ago, the phone rang.
Brian gave a start, and almost knocked a stack of papers onto the floor. The light from his desk illuminated only a patch of the pitch-dark loft. He’d fallen asleep in his chair while working. Justin must not have come back yet.
“Shit,” said Brian, and rubbed at the grit in his eyes. “Fuck.” How long had it been?
He was about to glance at the clock and see what time it was, but the phone rang again, and this time Brian answered.
*
Now.
“I don’t know why they didn’t just cremate you,” said Brian.
Justin’s headstone didn’t answer him. Neither did Justin’s grave - six feet deep, buried, expensive casket embedded in concrete. And within that, Justin’s perfectly posed body decaying, hair and fingernails and blistering skin, and -
Brian stepped off of the raised patch of ground, suddenly, irrationally convinced that Justin would somehow feel him standing there. Stupid. There was nothing there, not really.
“You stupid fuck,” Brian whispered. “You would have hated this. You would have wanted them to scatter you to the wind, or flush you. Not put you on display. Not pump you full of shit just to try and keep you from rotting.”
Justin had been like Brian in that respect. Justin wouldn’t have seen the fucking point of a coffin. But there was nothing Brian could do about it, was there? Especially not now.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” said Brian. “It’s not like you’ll hear me. But... oh god. I want you to hear me.” He sank to his knees, and placed his hand on the raised turf.
“I miss you so fucking much, Justin,” he said, but he wasn’t sure if it came out as sound, wasn’t sure if it made its way past his dry mouth. “Fuck,” and his eyes were burning, and tears were already running down his face and dripping into his collar. Brian squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward until his forehead touched his knees.
He tried to stop crying, but that didn’t work, and he tried to stop thinking, but that didn’t work either, so instead he tried to keep breathing in and out. And that seemed to work better.
Eventually, Brian managed to raise his head. “That’s all,” he said quietly, strained. “I think that’s all I really wanted to say.”
He stared at the words on the white granite marker. Justin Taylor. Beloved son and brother. A few decorative fleur-de-lys around the corners, and of course, two dates.
There was so much that the headstone couldn’t convey. Brian wondered how many little old ladies would walk past this grave, read the sparse words, and think, sadly, That poor boy. He was never even married.
And they would never, ever realize that it didn’t even matter that he never married. That he’d been gay, and proud. That Justin had something worth more than all of that, something you couldn’t just pin a happy little label on.
He’d had a life, a happy one, and people that he loved.
Brian got up slowly, brushed off his knees, and paused. He picked the limp, shriveled rose off the top of the headstone, and tossed it to the side.
“They never do learn, do they?” said Brian softly. “None of them. They’re always trying to give you flowers.”
Brian brushed his hand across the top of the polished stone, fingers momentarily tracing the edge, then he turned and walked away.