Pointless
The Rage party had been a week ago and since then Brian had spent a lot
of his time thinking. All right, obviously he had been thinking about the
fact that Justin had walked out with the Chinrat. He was lonely and going
home to the empty loft sucked, but he had also been thinking about how he
had come to be sitting here on his couch, bottle of Beam on the table in
front of him, alone at
This time a couple of weeks ago he had been reasonably content, even for him. OK, sure, he knew that Justin was becoming increasingly unhappy. He knew the kid was frustrated by his inability to commit or say the sweet nothings he seemed to crave but—fuck—he had done everything that he’d been able to think of to make the kid happy. For almost a year he had done whatever the kid seemed to need or want to see that his little Justin world turned smoothly.
After the bashing he had gone to the hospital every night. When Justin was released he had talked to him, tossed a ball with him, been there when he was scared. When Jennifer had asked him to leave, he had. When she had reversed herself he had let the twink move in with him, had waited for sex until he was ready, he had recreated the night of the prom in an effort to help him regain his memory. Shit, he’d even talked to the Silver Fox Shrinkman in an effort to better understand how to help.
He’d let Justin stay in the loft with him, he had paid for his schooling, gotten the computer, invited him to the White Party, taken him to dinners and dancing. They had shared Justin’s first Pride Day. He had held him when the nightmares had gotten bad and they had made love in the shower, on the bed and almost every piece of furniture in the place.
He had cared enough to be jealous when Justin and Mikey had worked on the comic. He had spent hours repairing the damage he’d caused and apologized to them both.
He poured another glass full of the liquor, drained it in gulps, and then refilled it.
They had started out in the beginning having sex and it had, somehow, become making love—every night and most mornings.
He would bring home the foods he knew Justin loved; buy him a new sketch pad when he was near the art supply store because he knew how fast they were filled up. Later he would bring home reams of high quality paper for the printer and ink cartridges, the stuff he knew Justin couldn’t afford. He bought new graphics programs that were beyond the budget of Justin’s tips, saying that they were from work and that he’d gotten them free, knew that they wouldn’t be accepted otherwise.
He let Justin top him.
He had held him as they slept and kissed him awake.
All the time had known that Justin loved him and he had known that he loved Justin.
Justin said it all the time; he never said it at all. Not in words.
He wanted to. He wanted to say it because it was true and he knew that Justin wanted to hear the words. He knew that the words were important to Justin, but he just couldn’t.
He didn’t say shit like that.
It was pointless.
With everything that he had done, how could Justin not know? He said that he did know, in fact. He did know but he wanted to hear the words and he couldn’t say them, never could.
If he loved Justin he would say the words. If Justin loved him, he wouldn’t ask him to.
Fucking Catch-22.
He knew that it would fail, his being with Justin. He had known it from the start, when he had ceased to be just another trick and become something more.
It wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t last and God he had wanted it to. He had wanted that more than he ever wanted anything. More than he had wanted to get away from his parents or to get that scholarship or his first real job or to make partner or to hold Gus. He had wanted being with Justin to last.
He loved Justin but he had known it would fail.
He had known that he would fail.
All his life he had known that those were the words that no one ever wanted to hear from him. He had known it with every thought and cell and conviction in him and he had known it all his life.
No one wanted him.
No one wanted to hear him say that he loved them. No one.
His mother hadn’t wanted him, his father hadn’t. His sister hated him as much as he hated her.
Mikey thought that he loved him, but it was just some fucked up obsession thrown on top of an old infatuation. Forbidden fruit (he smiled at that), nothing more.
Deb said that she loved him, but he knew that she put up with him, that she thought him a selfish asshole. She certainly had told him often enough. She put up with him because of Mikey, no other reason.
Linds thought she loved him. Maybe she did. OK. Perhaps a bit. But she had Mel and Gus and he was a distant third to them, and that was right.
Gus. God, he loved Gus. Loved him so much that it hurt and ached and he’d do any fucking thing in the world for him and then do it again I he had to. But Gus was still a baby and you didn’t dump your shit on a kid unless you were an asshole. Jack and Joanie had taught him that one a long time ago.
He finished the glass and filled it again.
Vic? Vic remembered the pretty boy he had taken by the hand fifteen years ago. That boy was long gone and Vic had his own problems. That wasn’t it, never had been.
There were others—lots of others, old lovers, school and college friends, teachers, co-workers. Not a single one of them would want to hear him say that he loved them, and in most cases he didn’t anyway.
There was no one who wanted him to love them. There was no one who wanted to hear that from him except Justin and he had told him in every way he knew how, in every way he could.
Fuck.
He knew that it wouldn’t work. He knew that Justin would want someone—anyone else. It had to happen. It always happened. It always would.
That was why he kept people away. He knew there was no point.
He wasn’t worth it, never had been, never would be.
Too much trouble, too much baggage. No one in their right mind would want him or stay when they knew what was involved.
Fuck.
He refilled the glass again. This time he spilled some as he poured.
His father was the one who had first pointed out that he was worthless and then his mother confirmed it.
Fuck. Lame ass—everyone with a problem found a way to blame mom and dad. Bullshit. It was all bullshit.
You were responsible for yourself, for your own life.
If he was crap it was his own fault, his own fuck up. He’d had over thirty years to get his shit together.
Loser.
He wasn’t a fucking five year old. He was an adult and his problems were his own problems.
The bashing. Shit—the bashing. That was another one of his fuck ups.
The damn prom.
He had just wanted to make Justin happy. That was all he was trying to do. Honest to God it was.
He should have known. He should have had a fucking clue but he was stupid and didn’t think anything beyond what Goddamned shirt he should wear.
Asshole. Fucking asshole.
It was his fault. He had been stupid. His stupidity, his blindness had allowed it to happen. He should have known, he should have fucking known that something would happen.
He drained the glass again and it hit him: being loved by someone was a burden.
You had to worry about their feelings, their needs and their wants. You had to think about whether they were happy or if their steak was the way they liked it. You couldn’t forget a birthday or an anniversary or a hair appointment, you had to stop and consider before you made dinner plans or decided to take a vacation. You were part of a group all the time and you were always waiting for someone to call to wake up or get home.
It was work and he wasn’t worth it.
He never had been worth it and finally Justin realized what he had known all along.
He wasn’t worth it.
Sure, he hid it behind a wall of arrogance and indifference, but it was because he knew no one would bother to breech the walls.
It made him safe and then the one fucking time he lets the Goddamned barriers down enough to let someone—Justin—in, the twink sees through him just like he had been afraid of all his life. Just like he was glass.
He knew it would happen. He fucking knew it would.
The pisser? He had wanted it to work. With his whole heart he had wanted that.
He liked—OK, he loved coming home and knowing that Justin would be
there. He loved walking in the door and smelling the dinner that Justin had
been cooking for them. He loved talking about his day and having the boy
pressed against him as they watched a movie. He loved knowing that he would
be in his bed and that they would make love and then fall asleep together
and wake up together and shower together and start it all over again day
after day. He loved knowing that he had someone watching him at Woody’s
or
God, he loved that.
He smiled to himself. God, he had loved that—reaching his hand out across the sheets and feeling Justin there.
He poured the last of the bottle into the glass and chugged it in a single swallow.
Maybe he’d be happy with the fiddler. Maybe he would find what he wanted there and be happy.
Maybe.
If not, perhaps Justin would find what he was looking for in the next one. Or the one after that.
And him? He’d get up in the morning and he’d go to work and they would all think that he was Brian Kinney, cold, heartless bastard.
He would give his pitches and impress the clients and he would scare the elves who worked in the agency and he would spar with Vance and none of them would know that when he went home at night he cried.