All That There Is
 

Author's Notes: Written for Small Things Made Large Amnesty at qaf_challenges. Thank you to pendulumchanges for writing such a drabble so beautiful and powerful that I could not stop thinking about it. Special thanks to my amazing and supportive beta noteverything  for not only making this story better, but for giving me the courage to submit it! The title is from the beautiful Erasure song “Tenderest Moments.”

*****

He sleeps, warm and soft in my arms… until his screams split the night.

We walk down Liberty Avenue, laughing hand-in-hand… until someone's bag bumps him as they pass. Suddenly he's pressed against my side, I'm tripping over his feet, and my fingers are crushed in his.

He paints, with complete focus and determination… until his hand spasms, and the piece is ruined. He hurls his brush across the room so hard he almost loses his balance. Paint splatters everywhere when it hits the wall. His entire body shakes while he cries.

I forget, sometimes. Until I remember.

I should have anticipated this, but after Justin tosses the ruined canvas onto the floor, we both stand there, paralyzed and silent, until he sinks to his knees and covers his face. Something has been bothering Justin for the past week, but I didn’t think it was serious. I knew it wasn’t me so I was giving him time. He’d tell me when he was ready, or he wouldn’t; some things he works out on his own. I don’t push. Now I wish I had.

He’s still on the floor, his shoulders shaking silently. If there are tears, I know they are from anger and frustration. We’ve been through this before, but every time I let myself think it’s the last time. I let myself believe that between Rage and his stint as a vigilante, Justin’s put this behind him. He hasn’t. Neither of us has.

I realize I’ve been standing there watching him for far too long, but I have no fucking clue what to do. I never do. If this were a movie I’d say the perfect thing and hold his hand steady while he repaired the painting, or I’d help him destroy the studio while he cried. Either way, we’d end up fucking while rolling around in paint. But this isn’t a movie, and we’ve fucked in paint before, an experience neither of us plans to repeat.

Instead, I kneel beside him on the floor and press my forehead against the back of his head. “I never liked that one anyway.”

I think I hear him laugh a little. “Fuck you. It would have been exquisite.”

I sigh into his neck, and I’m sure he can hear the “I know” I can’t bring myself to voice. Even knowing how hard Justin works, I can still be surprised by how powerful his pieces are. His talent amazes me. And while I try not to think about it, I remember the way he used to draw for hours, the painstaking detail he put into each sketch. If he could still draw like that, what would he be doing now? Justin was interested in computers and graphics when I met him, so maybe this is the direction his art was always supposed to take. But I’ll never know what he’d be creating if the choice was his alone, if his only limitation was talent.

We do clean up the studio because I don’t want him to come back here tomorrow and think about what just happened. He accepts my help silently, not even bothering to ask why I’m there. I’d planned to ask him if he wanted to go out, but I don’t mention that now. Instead we pick up Greek on the way home. Dinner is quiet; I tell him about the meetings I had, and he reminds me that he’s having lunch with his agent on Friday. As we talk, Justin fishes the olives out of his pasta and piles them neatly off to the side of his plate, making it easy for me to steal them throughout the meal. It almost feels like a normal night at home.

But he hasn’t touched his wine, and I can’t help asking, “Headache?” He never drinks if he’s using the good painkillers.

He tenses up again, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “Not bad,” he shrugs.

I let it go, but after dinner I turn off most of the lights and keep the volume on the television low. We watch a documentary about some long-extinct civilization and then the news. By the time the news is almost over, his head is heavy in my lap, and I’m sure he’s asleep.

But as I turn off the television, he says, “He’s getting married. Chris Hobbs,” he continues as if I don’t know exactly who he’s talking about. “He’s getting married.”

“Fucker send you an invitation?” I keep my tone light, but my fingers tighten in his hair.

“September told me. She gets some St. James alumni newsletter.”

“September’s a thoughtless bitch.” God, she pisses me off. I doubt she thought for one second about the kind of memories just hearing his name stirs up for Justin.

“I feel like I should call her. Warn her, you know, that she’s marrying a guy who tried to kill someone.”

Someone, he says, not me. “Justin,” I warn. “Stay out of it. You can’t protect someone stupid enough to want to marry that useless waste of life. For all you know they met at some anti-fag rally, and he used what he did as a pick-up line.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” He laughs bitterly and pushes himself off my lap. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I take out a joint, but don’t bother lighting it. Instead I pour myself a drink and pace around the apartment, trying to think about anything but how he looked crumpled on that cement floor, motionless and bleeding. I fucking hate this. We do such a good job of pretending it never happened that when we are forced to remember, the wound still feels fresh. No amount of time will ever make me stop wishing I’d kept him with me a minute longer or called his name a second sooner. I still remember exactly how it felt to hold him, counting the seconds and begging him to live even though I knew he would die before the ambulance got there.

The water shuts off, and I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax, before stripping and going into the bedroom. He slides under the blanket without a word and curls up next to me, his head on my chest. I fill the silence by telling him about the hotel account I’m hoping to land. Just as I’m describing the magazine ad I’ll be pitching, he interrupts me.

“Brian, do you ever wonder. . .”

“No.” It comes out sharper than I intended, and he yanks his hand away from mine. I hadn’t even realized I’d been massaging it.

“Christ, Brian, you could at least let me ask the question.” He turns onto his back and glares at the ceiling.

“No,” I say again. “I don’t wonder.” I prop myself up on my elbow so I’m facing him, and take his hand back, deliberately beginning the massage again, one bit of comfort I’ve always allowed myself to give. He doesn’t say anything so I lean over him, forcing him to look at me. Suddenly it’s vitally important that he understand what I’m saying. “I don’t wonder, Justin, ever.”

His face softens, but he still looks unsure so I drop his hand and move to straddle his hips. “I don’t wonder,” I repeat before framing his face and kissing him softly. I pull back just far enough to whisper against his lips, “This, this is everything.” I feel him nod slightly before kissing me back, and I know he understands.

Later, buried inside him with his legs wrapped tightly around my hips, I touch his face, and as our eyes meet, everything else falls away. We let ourselves forget again.
 

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