Prom
They danced their way to the jeep, laughing, spinning, holding on to one another. The dance they had just performed in front of everyone—the other students, the parents and teachers had been incredible.
Then Brian had leaned in and kissed him while they were still in their final spin and the kiss had gone on and on and they both knew that no one who was there—whether they were outraged or touched by what they had seen—would ever forget it.
It was the best night of his life and it would get better before it was over. Brian had pressed him against the jeep, kissed him and then kissed him again and whispered the single word with the promise, “Later”. Justin had smiled, laughed with the magic of the night and repeated an agreement. “Later.” After dropping Daphne he would go over to Brian’s and they would make love. He would spend the night and in the morning they would wake up together and shower and make love again like they had the first night they had been together. Maybe he would stay the whole weekend. Maybe he would just move back in.
They pulled apart, their hands still touching. He couldn’t just leave Daph. She was his friend and his date so that wouldn’t be right, but it wouldn’t take long. He started away, back to the elevator that would take him back upstairs. He’d only gotten a few steps, maybe ten or twelve, when he turned back to smile and look at Brian again, to watch Brian watch him walk away, to see the look on his face.
Brian was still standing by the car door, his hand on the handle, pausing before he got in to drive away so that he could follow Justin for just a few extra seconds, wanting to hold onto the spell a moment longer.
The figure he stepped around from the front of the jeep, behind Brian, the bat raised. Justin shouted his name, too late, in warning and heard the crack at it connected with Brian’s skull. He ran forward trying to stop what had already happened and saw Brian fall as dead weight.
As
“Nononononononnononono—Christ!”
Kneeling, afraid to touch or move him, Justin took the silk scarf from around his own neck and gently placed it on the bleeding gash—whether he was trying to stop the bleeding or simply hide the sight was something he would wonder about weeks later.
Moving in a haze, he finally thought to search Brian’s pockets for his cel. Dialing 911, he forced himself to speak coherently.
“I need an ambulance. I’m in the parking garage below the downtown Hilton. A man was hit in the head, he was attacked with a baseball bat, he ….yes, I’ll stay on the line…No, he’s unconscious…30 years old…yes, the attacker is still here, but he’s not a threat…no, I’m not injured…a couple of minutes ago…he’s bleeding from a head wound…Just a minute, I’ll check…yes, he has a pulse…no, he’s not responding to anything, I told you, he’s unconscious…His breathing is steady but shallow…There’s a lot of blood…I can put something on it but I’m afraid to press…Because his skull might be fractured…I think I can hear them now…the police are here…where’s an ambulance?…fucking when?…Yeah, OK, I think I hear them coming, too.”
Two squad cars pulled into the garage, closely followed by an ambulance. The paramedics split up, one going to Brian, the other to Hobbs still on the ground about thirty feet away.
Brian, obviously the more seriously injured of the two, had his vitals
checked, was fitted with a neck brace, given oxygen, carefully moved to a
stretcher and removed to the back of the ambulance, Justin following closely.
The ride to the hospital was only a couple of miles, but Justin had moved into shock and was unsure of much of anything other than the people working on Brian and the amount of blood staining the pillow. He saw that the scarf was back in his hands and didn’t know how it had gotten there. The blood—so much blood that it looked like a pattern on the white silk— was wet and left a smear on his hands as he held it.
The hospital—finally, they were at the entrance for the emergency room. The attendants moved quickly, efficiently. Brian was removed from the ambulance and wheeled inside. A nurse asked him for Brian’s name and his insurance ID. The wallet was retrieved from the examining room and Justin handed it over. He was kept outside in the waiting area.
Justin stood, staring through the small window, not really able to see anything other than the now bare feet on the end of the gurney, surrounded by the doctors and technicians who were trying to keep him alive. Justin was unable to leave or move away or even sit on one of the chairs placed in the waiting area. Putting his hand into his pocket he found Brian’s cel where he had stashed it in the garage. He dialed.
“Mom…can you come? Please?”
“Sweetie…what hap…?’
“It’s Brian. There was an accident. I’m at the hospital.
She said that she would leave now and be there soon. He turned his attention back to the small window.
A few minutes or a few hours later Jennifer was standing beside him, her hand on his arm. Frightened, she saw the scarf, the blood on his hands and around his neck.
“Justin…? Are you hurt?” He moved his head slightly, indicating a ‘no’. She tried to lead him to a chair, he resisted, preferring to stand where he could see slightly.
“Was it a car crash?”
He shook his head, his eyes still fixed through the window.
“Justin—honey, can you tell me what happened?”
“Chris Hobbs hit him in the head with a bat.” He glanced at
her for just a second. “He came to the prom. Brian, I mean. We danced
then
Dear God, Brian had shown up after saying that he wouldn’t be caught dead there. Well, it looked like he might get his wish.
“They took him into surgery after I called you.”
“Does anyone else know?” There was the same barely perceptible movement of his head. “I should call them, sweetie.” Not looking at her, he handed her Brian’s cel. She saw the dried blood on the metal.
Assuming that the numbers would be there, she scrolled through the memory to find them, spreading the word to Debbie and Michael, knowing that they would make more calls.
Within half an hour the others started arriving. First Vic and Deb, then Ted and Em, Daphne still in her peach gown, Lindsay alone, finally Michael walked through the main doors. There was still no word from inside the treatment room.
The friends gathered didn’t talk much as there was little to say. Debbie prayed. Mostly they just sat, occasionally lending a shoulder or a hug to one another as needed. After about an hour and a half, Deb quietly asked if Brian’s mother or sister had been called.
Startled and embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of it, Jennifer started to apologize as Michael stopped her. “It’s alright. He never sees them. They don’t get along very well.”
Taking the phone, Deb dialed the number she had memorized fifteen years ago.
“Joan, it’s Debbie Novatny…I know it’s late, I’m sorry to wake you…Joan, there’s been an accident, Brian was hurt… it’s a head injury, he’s in surgery …we don’t know yet…University Hospital…I think he’d like to know that you’re here…yes…are you sure?…yes, I will.”
“She’s not coming, is she?” It was Lindsay. She knew Joan; she had known her for a dozen years, since she and Brian had been college friends.
“No, she said that she’d be here as soon as she can.”
“It’s probably better if she doesn’t, you know. If he knows she’s here it will just upset him.”
“He won’t know for a while.”
Vic came over. “I spoke to the nurse. She said that they had to perform some kind of brain surgery to try to let some of the trapped blood out. They should be finishing up now.”
The look on Justin’s face brought Jen over to wrap her arms around him for protection as she would when he was small, when she could still keep bad things away. His shoulders shaking, he was finally crying.
An hour later the surgeon walked through the doors wearing blood-spattered scrubs. Tired, he rubbed the small of his back with his hands.
“Brian Kinney’s family?”
“Yes,” It was Jen. He seemed to assume that she was Brian’s mother.
“He’s alive, he’s come through the surgery reasonably well. He’s suffering from a fairly severe compression fracture. We had to drill a hole in his skull to drain the blood that was causing pressure on his brain but we think that the bleeding has stopped and shouldn’t be a problem now.”
“So he’s going to be alright?” It was Michael.
“He’s listed in critical condition right now and hasn’t regained consciousness or shown a response to any stimulus. After he’s removed from recovery, he’ll be taken up to ICU.”
“No response, what does that mean? He’s unconscious?” Justin was pale, frightened.
“He’s in a coma.”
“For how long?”
“It’s too early to know that.”
“Can I see him?”
“Only one member of immediate family and only for five minutes.” The doctor looked at Jen. She turned to Justin.
Justin walked through the doors with the doctor into the coolness of the recovery room, purposely kept chilly.
Brian lay unmoving, his head bandaged, covered by several thin blankets, tubes running both into and out of him. A hose for oxygen was taped into his mouth. Machines made noises around him. A nurse made notes on a chart. “Talk to him. It helps if he hears your voice.”
Feeling self conscious, Justin brushed Brian’s hand, cringing slightly at the complete laxness of it, the lack of any reaction at his touch. Even when he touched Brian’s hand in bed, when he really was just sleeping, the fingers would curl around his own. There was nothing.
He tried to think of something to say that wasn’t stupid, but nothing came that wasn’t too lameass. Lightly stroking the smooth skin on Brian’s forearm a few times he whispered the single word “Later” and left the room only to be met by the rest of the waiting friends wanting to know how he was. He wanted to shout at them that Brian looked like he was fucking dead except someone didn’t get the word and so the machines were still on, but he didn’t. He said something about how his color was good and he was sleeping now, but they’d see how he was in the morning.
Fuck.
Fucking sleeping.
If he hadn’t asked Brian to go to the stupid prom this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t danced with Brian this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t kissed Brian at the end of the dance, this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t jerked Hobbs off that day, this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t fallen in love with Brian and followed him until he paid attention, this wouldn’t have happened. If…
It was his fault that Brian had almost been killed. It was his fault that he might still die.
A woman approached the small group.
“Joan, it’s good of you to come.”
“He’s still my son.” She had Brian’s eyes. Rather, he had hers. “Is there news?”
They told her what they knew. A nurse asked if she would like to see him for a minute. When she came out of the recovery room she was dry eyed and detached.
“How did this happen?”
They told her about the prom and the dance, how he had been attacked.
“I don’t understand. Why would Brian be at a high school dance?”
“He was with me.”
“And who are you?”
“Justin. Brian and I are—“ He stopped. Brian’s mother didn’t know Brian was gay. Shit. She was looking at him with those eyes that looked inside of him.
“You and Brian are what?”
“Friends.”
She said nothing, but he knew she understood.
“Would any of you know if there is a chapel here?”
“It’s on the third floor. I’ll show you.” Debbie took her arm, leading her away.
Justin came everyday after that. He would finish his last class or his diner shift and he would board the two buses that would take him to within three blocks of the hospital. He would sit by Brian’s bed, holding his hand, reading whatever book he was assigned homework from aloud because he didn’t know what else to say.
If he saw Brian’s mother, he would leave or wait until she was gone. It never took very long.
The first week passed and the second like this. There was little change until the start of the third week when he arrived to the news that Brian had woken during the morning, he seemed to be doing well other than some trauma related amnesia.
It was one of the nurses who told him, adding that Brian was asking for him. Would he come, please? Oh, no, Mrs. Kinney wasn’t there, she was up in the chapel.
Starting for the door, he couldn’t. Brian would accuse him, tell him what he already knew, that because of him and the dance, he had almost died. And if he didn’t accuse?
That wouldn’t change the fact.
He couldn’t.
Brian would look at him and, either way, he couldn’t bear it.
Brian had almost died.
Turning, he left.
A new pattern was established. Justin would go to class, go to the diner where he requested the closing shift then he would go to the hospital. It was always about one in the morning when he would arrive. None of the regular visitors were ever there. The night nurse got to know him.
He would stand, quietly, in the hallway outside Brian’s room, looking through the window, watching him sleep. Watching him have nightmares, hearing him cry out and then, usually, settle back down only to repeat the process within the hour. He rarely woke.
Staying til about four, Justin would finally go back to his mother’s to fall into bed then wake to repeat the ritual, day after day.
Weeks and finally a month, went by and Brian was moved to the rehab section, doing what he could to regain the use of his right arm. The neurological damage had been sever, but localized to muscle control. With any luck and hard work, he would regain most of the use.
The progress was slow, he heard from the nurse that Brian would become frustrated by the inability to control the muscles that had always obeyed him, that he would curse and throw things and that he still had no memory of what had happened. The doctors were becoming concerned about his rages, but believed that the solution lay in his remembering the accident, as they termed it.
The nurse told him that she thought the best thing for him would be if Justin would visit him while he was awake. He refused.
His friends—no, Brian’s friends, when you came down to it—asked him to go with him to the hospital. He wouldn’t. Lindsay confronted him at the diner, telling him that Gus cried without Brian around, that she loved him, missed him and couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t help. Brian asked for him daily and the friends had run out of answers. Michael went to Jennifer’s house to beg him to drive over with him. Debbie would ask him at the diner everyday. He refused them all.
The day they told Brian, in answer to his asking yet again where Justin was, that Justin refused to come was the day Brian stopped trying.
He picked at his food until thy doctors threatened him with IV’s, he gave minimal effort in PT, he stopped caring.
The hospital brought in psychologists and psychiatrists. They tried medications and whatever they could think of, told him that he would never regain the use of his arm if he didn’t make an effort. His response was to walk out of the room.
It no longer mattered to him.
He was released, over his mother’s objections, two days later. He left on his own, alone, taking a cab to his loft and without bothering to tell any of his friends.
Justin still refused any contact, insisting that it was for the best this way.
Chris Hobbs had been given a suspended sentence and left the courtroom laughing. Debbie had shouted her outrage to the news cameras. When he saw the clip that evening, Brian turned off the set.
Brian still had no memory of the attack.
Not able to stand it any longer, he drove himself over to Jennifer’s, knowing that Justin would be home that particular afternoon.
He wasn’t supposed to drive since his arm could go into spasms without warning, but, typically, his response was to just say ‘fuck it.’
Jennifer opened to his knocking.
“Is he here?”
Startled, “Yes, but he’s busy.”
“I need to speak with him. Please.”
“Brian, he’s still having trouble dealing with the attack—I’m sorry, I know that sounds selfish, but it will only upset him.”
He was subdued, beaten down, quiet. “…I just want to speak with him.”
“It’s not a good idea.” She was closing the door when he saw Justin come out of a doorway, curious as to who was there.
“Brian, what are you doing…?”
“He’s just leaving, honey.”
“Justin?”
Pulling the door open again, Justin stepped aside so that Brian could get past both him and his mother. The two men went into the living room, Jen following.
“Mom, we’ll talk alone. OK?”
Not liking it, she nodded her agreement.
They stood, not touching, in the center of the room.
“Why didn’t you come to visit me?”
“There was nothing I could have done to help you.”
“You still could have come.”
“Why?”
“I was in a coma for two weeks, you could have come to see if I was still alive.”
“I’m sure I would have heard if you’d died.”
He nodded in some kind of sadness. “Daphne came over, she told me everything. She said that we danced and that it was amazing. She told me that we went down to the garage and that’s where Hobbs hit me. She said that you were the one who called the ambulance.”
“I was there. Anyone would have.”
“You saved my life.” Justin made a small bitter sound.
“I still don’t remember any of it, only what the others have told me.”
He recited the events like a child’s story, read so often as to be memorized and in the same soft voice one would use to a child. “I do. I remember all of it. I saw Hobbs running toward you and I called your name to warn you and you turned, but it was too late. He was too close to you and I was too far away. He hit you and you fell and there was nothing I could do. I ran over and found your cel and called. I tried to stop him but I was too far away.” He looked up at Brian. “There was so much blood. I moved your head because I was afraid that it would choke you and then I was afraid that I hurt you by moving you.”
He raised his hand to Brian’s forehead, moving the hair that covered the scar. At the first light brush of fingers, Brian flinched, sharply drawing breath in fear of the touch.
“Brian?”
The older man was shaking and Justin was astounded and terrified to see unshed tears in his eyes.
“Brian?”
Gently, he put his arms around the larger man, trying to be gentle. He could feel the tremors, the fear.
Jesus. Brian had never been afraid.
They stood embracing. After several minutes Brian pulled away with an obvious effort of will. “Your mother was right. I shouldn’t have come here.” He seemed embarrassed by his show of weakness. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
He was Brian Kinney, for fucks sake. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Never had been, never would be.
Fragile? Shit, The Incredible Hulk was more fragile than Brian. That was how he survived, at least to the outside.
Brain had said that it would be better of he just went home. Hoping that was really where he was headed Justin took Jen’s keys and followed, stopping to get them both dinner as a possible icebreaker when he arrived.
Half an hour later he was parked in front of the loft building. He had looked up and seen the lights on in the windows on the top floor, so with any luck Brian had actually driven straight back. Getting out of the car, he was juggling a key to the front door with the food he’d stopped to get. Stumbling slightly, he could feel some of the dinner soaking his shirt.
Shit.
Fuck it, it was just a shirt.
Up on four he knocked.
A minute passed before the door slid open, Brian took a look at him, pulled the door open wider and walked back inside—the invitation clear.
“I brought some dinner. Where should I put it?”
“By the couch. I was watching a movie.” He started to move to the kitchen but turned back. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“We still have some things to talk about.”
Setting the bags down, Justin straightened to help Brian get the silverware and plates, the beers and the napkins. Holding his hands out so he could take some of the things he saw Brian go white, pulling away and covering his face with his hand.
“Shit.”
“Brian?” Looking down he saw the wet, red stain on the front of his white tee. “It’s just sauce from the ziti.” Brian taking deep breaths, was trying to recoup. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, and I’ll borrow a clean shirt, OK?”
Breathing as though he’d just run a mile, Brian nodded, relieved to move away.
Justin waited until he had gone into the bathroom before following him up to the bedroom area to find something clean to wear. Two minutes and a black tee shirt later he was down by the couch as Brian rejoined him, noticeably calmer.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I didn’t mean to sound the way I did when you walked in.”
“…It’s alright. You were right. I hadn’t meant to just show up like that, but I—guess I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m alright. You’re the one everyone is worried about.”
“They shouldn’t. I’m getting better. The headaches are almost gone and my arm is getting stronger.”
“Are you back to work yet?”
“I—no.”
“I thought I heard you were going back last week.”
“I did, but it didn’t work out so I’m taking another month.”
Another month. Shit. Brian had to be at death’s door before he’d take a sick day. He’d built up so many that he’d finally been told that he had to take them or he’d be penalized. To take ‘another’ month meant that he was a basket case.
“Are you still talking to Dr. Mueser?” The shrink.
“Yeah.”
Justin noticed that Brian ate less than Gus did before pushing his plate away. “Not hungry?”
“I had a big lunch.”
“Brian, you’ve lost like twenty five pounds.” The doctor’s had told him that Brian was a borderline anorexic at this point. They explained that it was tied to his feeling out of control of his own life, even out of control of parts of his own body. The one thing he still held sway over was what he put in his mouth—or didn’t.
“Well, I’ve been sick.”
Justin had enough of this dance they were playing. “You’ve stopped going to physical therapy. Why?”
“Because it wasn’t helping. My arm is fucked and that’s the way it is. I got tired of wasting my time with it.”
“Did your mother say anything about you going to the prom to be with me?”
He actually smiled. “She said that you seemed very young and awfully male for me to have gone to a dance with.”
“She fucking said that?” They were both laughing at the image.
“And then she told me that I’m going to Hell for sodomy and pedophilia. She said that she’d pray for both of us.” He wasn’t laughing now. “She refuses to be in the same room with me until I renounce my sins and return to the church for confession and Holy Communion.” His face was unreadable.
Moving closer, Justin gathered the larger man into his arms, feeling him melt into his side, the long arms coming around him, his breathing labored again.
“I wish I could remember.”
“You will, when you’re ready.”
“That’s crap. It’s fucking gone and the bitch is that I can’t remember what we had together there. I think it was something important and it’s fucking gone.”
“You finally told me that you love me.”
“…I said that?”
“You didn’t say the words, but you showed up and we danced—we cleared the floor, mouths were dropping—and then you kissed me in front of everyone. You told me in your own way.” Justin’s arms were still around him, he was still curled into the smaller man.
“Were we happy?”
“…Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy.” He turned his face so that their lips were almost touching. Leaning slightly, he gently kissed Brian’s mouth, feeling the hesitation, the reluctance. “Alright?”
The doubt was obvious but Brian nodded and continued the kiss.
Carefully Justin ran his tongue across Brian’s lips, asking for entrance but Brian moved his head enough so that his mouth was kissing Justin’s cheek and jaw. Seemingly coming to a decision and removing his arms from around Justin, he pushed himself to his feet, extending his hand to help Justin up and then leading him to the bedroom, clicking off lights as they went.
Each removing the clothes of the other with just the blue lights for illumination, they stretched out on the large bed, arms again embracing, legs entangled. Pulling Brian over on top of him, Justin’s hand found the bowl of condoms, smiling at Brian, opening the foil and rolling the latex over the larger man’s cock. Next he flicked open the cap of the lube and prepared himself, adding a layer of the gel to Brian’s latexed shaft, stroking it a few times for good measure.
Moving his legs up and around Brian’s waist, he reached down, placing the head at his own entrance and trying to pull Brian inside of him.
Just as he felt the pressure starting, just as they were about to be joined, Brian pulled back, moving off to the side, his back to Justin, with “No.” Jesus. “I can’t”
Just hesitantly put his hand on Brian’s back.
“It’s alright.”
“No, it isn’t.” Justin heard the deep breaths then finally, “It’s that—I’m afraid that I’ll hurt you. I’m afraid that if I—enter you I’ll tear you or harm you and there’ll be blood and you’ll be in pain.”
Appalled at the nightmare imagery in Brian’s mind, Justin tried to sooth, reassure him. “You won’t. I’ll be fine. It will feel good for both of us.” He tried what to say that might help. “We’ve been together dozens of times. It’s always been good.”
“Justin—I can’t.”
Spooning them together, Justin put his arms around Brian, trying to make him feel safe, accepted and loved. He gently kissed the back of Brian’s neck, lightly stroked his chest and murmured things to him about how it was fine, it would just take some time, they would make love soon, Brian would be himself soon.
Rolling onto his back, Brian put his hand on Justin’s cheek.
“The dance—our dance—were we telling each other that we loved one another? That’s what it was, wasn’t it?”
“Yes…I’d already told you, but that was when you told me, without the words. You showed me in front of the whole school.”
“I wish I could remember.” Tightening his arms around Brian, it was the saddest thing Justin had ever heard.
“You will, when you’re ready. You will.”
He heard Brian snuffle slightly, the sound itself telling him as much as the quiet words. “I feel like some part of me, a really important is just gone, like it’s been amputated and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back.”
“It will come back, the memory, it will. You know what the doctors said.”
“I’m not talking about the fucking memories. I’m talking about …” He stopped, either unable to continue or unsure of what to say.
“...About what?”
“Confidence. I’m not sure if I can do this anymore.”
This was only slightly less frightening than the attack itself. Justin raised himself up slightly to see Brian’s face as it was turned towards him.
“It’s that—if I remember, when I remember I know that I won’t be the same as I was. We won’t be the same. We’re changed now, already. It’s not possible after what’s happened and I don’t know if I can—if I want that. And it’s not just us, it’s all if it. Us and work and the ‘family’. My mother knows now I’m gay, so that’s even more fucked than it was before. Everything’s falling to shit, Justin.” He hesitated then continued in the same quiet voice. “I’ve thought that it might have been better if Hobbs had simply killed me. At least then everyone could just grieve or rejoice and fucking move on.”
Fuck.
“That’s bullshit. Everyone would move on except for you and you’re the Goddamned center of all of this, you asshole. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Everyone revolves around you, you’re the one who holds the whole family together—Michael and the girls, even Ted uses you as a touchstone. You’re the one they all come to with their problems, you’re the one who solves things, you’re the one who helps everyone without saying a fucking word—you give everyone whatever the shit it is they need—money or time or your Goddamned sperm or whatever it is they want from you.” Brian was starting to shake his head. “Fuck you, Brian. You know I’m right.”
Not wanting to engage any longer, Brian asked, “Will you sleep here tonight?”
He hadn’t really counted on this. “For a while, but I have an eight o’clock class and I have to get my portfolio over at my Mom’s before then.”
“Another time, then.”
“Brian, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you later.” Justin was dismissed. Rejected, Brian was getting up, putting on his robe, snapping on lights, handing Justin his clothes. It was the most decisive Justin had seen him since the bashing—he was being thrown out. Period.
“I’ll come back after class, OK?”
“Sure, whatever.”
Reluctantly, Justin left.
Between classes Justin made a phone call to a man he’d met at Woody’s a few months before. A handsome man, prematurely gray with dark intelligent eyes. He was an old trick of Brian’s who had become sort of a friend. He agreed to meet Justin afterwards.
About five they were sitting in a booth at the diner with a couple of burgers in front of them.
“So, he’s frightened, insecure, conflicted about the changes in his life that he’s having to deal with and unable to engage in sex. That must be a first for him. That about it?”
“Pretty much. He’s also a lot more emotional that he used to be.”
“He’s suffering from Post Traumatic Shock Disorder. It’s not that uncommon after something like what happened to him.”
“So what do I do?”
“You have to try to unlock the memories that he’s repressing. You see, what happened to him was so unnerving, so frightening to him that he’s had to shove it under the bed, in a way. You have to get him to confront what it is that was so terrible so that he can face and begin to heal.”
“You mean I have to make him remember? Are you shitting me?”
“Brian is as type A and about as Alpha as you can get. What happened showed him that he’s not always in charge, that there are things that he can’t control and that sometimes he can get hurt because of it—not just physically, but also emotionally. That’s the anorexia. It’s another symptom of what he’s feeling. You said that the attack happened just minutes after he made a public declaration of his feelings for you. He’s responding not just to his own pain, but to yours.”
“You mean what happened proved to him that love causes pain?”
“Right.”
“So what can I do?”
“Sometimes having a patient relive the events can unlock the memories. You might want to try that.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“He’ll probably close down emotionally. Possibly permanently.”
The next day, with Daphne’s help, they replayed the prom up in Brian’s loft. They pushed back the furniture, rolled up the rug, put on the same music, replayed the same dialogue, danced.
It didn’t work.
Then they drove Brian’s jeep over to the parking garage, pulling into the same spot he’d used the last time he’d been there.
Justin walked and talked him through the events, the dance to the car, the kiss, “Later” and then seeing Hobbs behind Brian when he turned to smile his promise for the rest of the night. He told Brian about the shouted warning, the raised bat, the sound of it hitting his skull and then the sight of him lying on the concrete in his own blood.
None of it rekindled a memory for Brian.
It simply didn’t work.
Fuck.
Frustrated, life went back to what had become normal for both the two of them and the people who surrounded them. They would go through the day to day of their lives and everything would be fine unless someone was thoughtless or careless enough to mention the situation, This would either trigger one of Brian’s rages or, more rarely, cause him to retreat. More than once Justin found him either on his bed or the couch, curled into a fetal position, unresponsive and silently crying.
Justin had discovered the rages the day he had walked into the loft to find that a chair had been hurled through the flat screen TV, the couch overturned and the computer smashed against a wall. Brian, exhausted, was in a dead sleep on the bed, unable to remember causing the destruction, but embarrassed with the knowledge that it had to have been him.
There was nothing to do other than to wait for the moods to pass. He refused the drugs, claiming they left him lethargic and insisted that the therapy was useless.
This was the statis quo they lived with for another month. Brian had started going back to work on a part time basis; several days a week and Cynthia would often bring work to the loft for him to supervise and review. It was a stopgap arrangement that satisfied no one and his frustration grew.
On a Saturday he agreed to take Gus from the girls, knowing that the child was frightened and confused by the changes in his father with Brian equally wanting to reconnect with his son. Justin came along both as company and to keep a tactful eye on things.
They took the child to McDonald’s, letting him have the forbidden fruit of a Happy Meal, Justin happy with a burger and Brian choking down half a salad. They let Gus play in the ballroom and the climbing tubes then headed out to the child’s playground at Schenley Park. Gus running to the slides and swings, his father and Justin following, laughing at his happiness and high spirits.
The afternoon went well and as they strolled to the car Brian easily gave in to the child’s pleas for ice cream from a vendor. They dawdled on a bench while they ate, Brian’s attention idly going to a softball game on the field behind them.
The ball was pitched, the batter swung and the crack sounded when connection was made for a triple.
Justin watched Brian go pale, begin to tremble, saw his hands clench and his breathing become labored. Putting his arms around Brian he held on, Gus clutching Brian’s leg and asking “Daddy?”
They stayed in this tableau for long minutes until Gus’ crying pulled Brian back. Picking the child up, holding him close, he murmured comforting sounds, telling him that everything was alright while over the small shoulder he told Justin that he wanted to leave. Now.
They drove Gus home, Brian maintaining a rigid calmness which he obviously didn’t feel, but which the boy took at face value. They took him up the front steps, Brian was kissed goodbye and thanked and Lindsay saw the look on Justin’s face when he whispered that he’d tell her later.
By the time they got back to the loft it was dark and had begun to grow cold with the setting sun.
Brian lay down on the bed without saying anything other than he wanted to rest and asking Justin to please just let him alone for a while. Nude, covered with the velvet duvet, within minutes he was asleep.
Afraid to leave him, Justin went down to the newly replaced TV, settling in to watch a DVD. He found some food for himself and kept the volume low so Brian wouldn’t de disturbed. By the end of the second movie he was ready to find a blanket for himself to use on the couch. Quietly going up to the bedroom closet to get one he was surprised to see Brian sitting up, watching him.
“Feel any better?”
“Yes.”
He sat on the bed next to Brian. “You really freaked me out today.”
“What about Gus? Is he alright?”
“He’s fine, you were good with him.”
“I remembered everything. Sitting there, when I heard the bat, it all came back. It was like I was watching a movie.”
“I thought that was what was going on.”
“You shouted my name in the garage. You didn’t tell me that.”
Justin shrugged.
“You tried to save me.”
“I guess I forgot.”
Brian moved closer. “Good thing one of us remembered.” He leaned in, kissed Justin gently. “I want to be in you.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Let’s just take it easy, OK?”
“Like the first time?”
“Like the first time.” He slid Justin’s sweater off, the blood stained scarf hidden under the folds of the wool and coming off unnoticed with the outer garment, unbuttoned his jeans while kissing the pale shoulder.
Justin let him set the pace, slow, gentle, careful of causing the slightest pain or discomfort, trying to anticipate what Brian wanted, turning for him, or stroking the long planes and contours of his body where Justin knew he was the most responsive.
When Brian entered him it was slow but not tentative with only a small hesitation, a moment of fear overcome with the feel of Justin’s hands on his back. It was the timeless dance of asking the ancient question but knowing what the answer would be.
They moved together, in no hurry and knowing there was no rush, that they had all the time they needed. They paused often to kiss gently, to watch each other react to the feelings they hadn’t shared in almost two months and had missed desperately. Justin came first with Brian seeing every feeling flicker across Justin’s face, followed by Brian a few minutes later. They lay, still connected, quietly talking, arms around one another.
“You’ll stay the night?”
“Of course.”
“…How long did you wear that scarf?”
“From the day after it happened.” He was embarrassed to have been discovered.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Justin didn’t say anything.
“It wasn’t. It happened because Hobbs is homophobic, no other reason. Neither of us did anything to deserve what happened to us.”
“How did you know about the scarf?”
“One night at the hospital I saw you watching me through the window. You were turned partly away, talking to someone, but I saw it, then I think I fell back asleep. At first I thought that I’d dreamed it, but I caught glimpses a couple of times.”
“Does it bother you?”
“That you blame yourself, yes. That you kept that as a reminder, yes that bothers me.”
“That wasn’t the reason I wore it.”
“Then…?”
“It was the best way I had of feeling you next to me.”
Brian looked him, considering. “You know, you could have just worn that underwear you stole the first night you were here.”
“You knew about that?”
“Yeah. I knew.”
“I think my mother threw it out when she found it, probably using tweezers to pick them up.”
“I don’t think I’ll ask her about it.”
They were still lying together, arms and legs around one another. Justin was falling asleep.
“You spoke to the silver fox.” It wasn’t a question.
“How did you know?”
“He called me. Something about the legalities of breaching patient/doctor confidentiality.”
“Are you pissed?”
“Yes.”
Justin turned from the spoon they were in. “Brian?”
“But I know you did it because you were trying to help.”
“So it’s OK?”
“Don’t do it again.” He was serious.
“I only did it because I love you.”
“I know that. That’s why you got away with it this time.” There was a pause. “And because it worked.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Justin held his breath waiting for the answer. He would get up and go if that was what Brian wanted.
“…I was hoping that you’d get your shit and move back in.”
“Brian?”
“It’s still going to be a while before I’m really better, you think you can deal with that?”
“If it was reversed, if I was the one who got hit, you’d do it for me. You love me.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
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