Days of Lightning (1/3)
Title: Days of Lightning (1/3)
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Author: waxrose
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for profanity and character death.
Length: 851 words
Author's Notes: Post-S1 AU with spoilers for 122. Long-promised and finally written for my dear snugglyboo, theleapingmuse. Sorry for the delay, Kate! The second part will be much longer, but think of this as an introduction - a teaser of things to come!
Summary: His eyes are so bright just before the end comes.
Close your eyes. Maybe you’ll remember something.
“Brian,” Michael’s voice crackles over the phone, anxious. Christ. “Are you still there?”
He’s in no mood for this.
“You’re going to be there.” It was a demand, not a question. “Tomorrow.”
Brian doesn’t answer. He’s stretched out on his bed, phone cradled between his shoulder and head. Michael’s tired breaths puff softly over the line, waiting impatiently.
“I’ll be there,” Michael says softly, as if it makes a difference. Which it does, really, but he can’t admit that. Brian Kinney is a cracked statue, knife-sharp marble shards holding together a smooth image of perfection that could give way at any moment.
“You should be in Lumberjack County.” Brian says finally, “Isn’t your Doctor worried?”
“Fuck Portland and fuck you,” Michael snaps. Lately, the subject of David has made him a little tense. “I’m trying to be a good friend. So you’re either going to stop being such an utter cunthead and talk to me or I’ll-“
“Mikey,” Brian interrupts, “Jesus. Sorry.” Talking to anyone these days gave him a headache. Talking to Michael made him feel guilty and out of control. “It hasn’t been...” Easy sticks in his throat, refuses to let him voice the just-such-there vulnerability, the gaping lack of a bright smile to wake him, a burning white hole in the ordinary.
Michael’s voice almost immediately softens. “You want me to come over? Bring dinner?”
“What are you, the suicide watch?”
“You have to eat, Brian. I’m picking up a pizza and I’ll be over soon, all right? I’ll stay with you.”
The loft is a mess. He hasn’t left in two days, not since he dragged himself back from the hospital. He and Mikey stayed there for three days, pacing hallways and staring at bleached white walls for hours from achingly uncomfortable chairs. After three days of fending off wet, screaming sympathy, nosy reporters and feeling Justin’s blood dry and crust on his clothes next to his skin, he nodded briefly at I’m sorry, he didn’t make it so very sorry, not daring to speak.
Jennifer’s grief was sharp and agonizing, cries tearing apart the air in the room as bystanders looked away nervously.
“Fine. Yes.” He’d have to take a shower first, toss the empty bottles. Michael would have a coronary, otherwise. “See you.”
The shower was blistering hot, scorching flaked and crusted blood from his hands and face. He leant his forehead against the glass door, breathing in steam and heat. The rushing water can’t rinse off the past week and shit, but this couldn’t have happened.
It couldn’t. Brian sucks in a breath, exhales and watches the steam form a new layer on the glass. It’s a pain beyond reckoning, something to hide from and avoid in the dark corners of his mind. If he thinks about it - the spinning reel of car, attack, blood, “JUSTIN!”...he will drown. Each breath is nothing but a reminder, every minute he sees red from the corners of his eyes.
Michael finds him an hour later, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes staring straight ahead, water scalding a wet path down his back. He drags him out, talking about meaningless things all the way and wraps him in a fluffy (expensive) towel. They sit on his bed and pick at cartons of Chinese takeout, not really speaking at all.
“I don’t want to go,” Brian says abruptly.
Michael raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t some four year-old I’m trying to drag shoe shopping, Brian. Christ - he was your lover. You were there when he di-”
“Don’t,” Brian began, paused and took a shaky breath, “He wasn’t my lover.”
“Like fuck he wasn’t! And you won’t go to his funeral because you’re too goddamn uncomfortable?”
“I never said,” Brian continued, “That I wasn’t going.”
“Of course you-“
“I said I didn’t want to go.” Brian looked down, poked his chopsticks into a carton of now-cold sesame noodles. “I-“ He swallowed. “I watched him die, Mikey. I held in and watched his eyes go blank - fuck, if that ambulance hadn’t been stuck in traffic...I can still smell the blood.”
“Brian..” Michael begins, moving across the bed on his knees to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Brian. Shit.” He knows him well enough to know that platitudes are out of the fucking question. They've known each other too long for words to make any difference now.
Brian places his hand over Michael’s and holds it there, blinking and staring at the wall ahead. They sleep curled together, clothed and silent. Waiting for morning and a farewell without closure.
It was forever away...and forever, forever...
Continue to Part 2
Cross-posted to bjfic
Fandom: Queer as Folk
Author: waxrose
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for profanity and character death.
Length: 851 words
Author's Notes: Post-S1 AU with spoilers for 122. Long-promised and finally written for my dear snugglyboo, theleapingmuse. Sorry for the delay, Kate! The second part will be much longer, but think of this as an introduction - a teaser of things to come!
Summary: His eyes are so bright just before the end comes.
Close your eyes. Maybe you’ll remember something.
“Brian,” Michael’s voice crackles over the phone, anxious. Christ. “Are you still there?”
He’s in no mood for this.
“You’re going to be there.” It was a demand, not a question. “Tomorrow.”
Brian doesn’t answer. He’s stretched out on his bed, phone cradled between his shoulder and head. Michael’s tired breaths puff softly over the line, waiting impatiently.
“I’ll be there,” Michael says softly, as if it makes a difference. Which it does, really, but he can’t admit that. Brian Kinney is a cracked statue, knife-sharp marble shards holding together a smooth image of perfection that could give way at any moment.
“You should be in Lumberjack County.” Brian says finally, “Isn’t your Doctor worried?”
“Fuck Portland and fuck you,” Michael snaps. Lately, the subject of David has made him a little tense. “I’m trying to be a good friend. So you’re either going to stop being such an utter cunthead and talk to me or I’ll-“
“Mikey,” Brian interrupts, “Jesus. Sorry.” Talking to anyone these days gave him a headache. Talking to Michael made him feel guilty and out of control. “It hasn’t been...” Easy sticks in his throat, refuses to let him voice the just-such-there vulnerability, the gaping lack of a bright smile to wake him, a burning white hole in the ordinary.
Michael’s voice almost immediately softens. “You want me to come over? Bring dinner?”
“What are you, the suicide watch?”
“You have to eat, Brian. I’m picking up a pizza and I’ll be over soon, all right? I’ll stay with you.”
The loft is a mess. He hasn’t left in two days, not since he dragged himself back from the hospital. He and Mikey stayed there for three days, pacing hallways and staring at bleached white walls for hours from achingly uncomfortable chairs. After three days of fending off wet, screaming sympathy, nosy reporters and feeling Justin’s blood dry and crust on his clothes next to his skin, he nodded briefly at I’m sorry, he didn’t make it so very sorry, not daring to speak.
Jennifer’s grief was sharp and agonizing, cries tearing apart the air in the room as bystanders looked away nervously.
“Fine. Yes.” He’d have to take a shower first, toss the empty bottles. Michael would have a coronary, otherwise. “See you.”
The shower was blistering hot, scorching flaked and crusted blood from his hands and face. He leant his forehead against the glass door, breathing in steam and heat. The rushing water can’t rinse off the past week and shit, but this couldn’t have happened.
It couldn’t. Brian sucks in a breath, exhales and watches the steam form a new layer on the glass. It’s a pain beyond reckoning, something to hide from and avoid in the dark corners of his mind. If he thinks about it - the spinning reel of car, attack, blood, “JUSTIN!”...he will drown. Each breath is nothing but a reminder, every minute he sees red from the corners of his eyes.
Michael finds him an hour later, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes staring straight ahead, water scalding a wet path down his back. He drags him out, talking about meaningless things all the way and wraps him in a fluffy (expensive) towel. They sit on his bed and pick at cartons of Chinese takeout, not really speaking at all.
“I don’t want to go,” Brian says abruptly.
Michael raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t some four year-old I’m trying to drag shoe shopping, Brian. Christ - he was your lover. You were there when he di-”
“Don’t,” Brian began, paused and took a shaky breath, “He wasn’t my lover.”
“Like fuck he wasn’t! And you won’t go to his funeral because you’re too goddamn uncomfortable?”
“I never said,” Brian continued, “That I wasn’t going.”
“Of course you-“
“I said I didn’t want to go.” Brian looked down, poked his chopsticks into a carton of now-cold sesame noodles. “I-“ He swallowed. “I watched him die, Mikey. I held in and watched his eyes go blank - fuck, if that ambulance hadn’t been stuck in traffic...I can still smell the blood.”
“Brian..” Michael begins, moving across the bed on his knees to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Brian. Shit.” He knows him well enough to know that platitudes are out of the fucking question. They've known each other too long for words to make any difference now.
Brian places his hand over Michael’s and holds it there, blinking and staring at the wall ahead. They sleep curled together, clothed and silent. Waiting for morning and a farewell without closure.
It was forever away...and forever, forever...
Continue to Part 2
Cross-posted to bjfic