Reverberations

Chapter 17

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Justin

Fuck! As I step out onto the pavement I can feel the shakes starting up again and right on schedule here he comes in that green fucking phallic symbol of his.

Damn!

I fight to regain my calm, taking deep breaths and concentrating on steadying my breathing and my heart rate. When he pulls up, I jump straight in the car.

He gives me a look but if he was about to ask me how the interview went, he changes his mind when he sees my expression. So much for achieving a poker face. He's silent at first, just sucking his lips between his teeth, which means he's working out exactly what he's going to say.

My insides are still churning and for a moment I feel like maybe I might actually start throwing up. Fuck! This is so not good on a whole bunch of levels.

Not least of which is that I'm damned if I'm going to let what we've achieved between us in the last few days get swept away by either the past, and Brian's guilt over the bashing (which was no fucking way his fault) or by some dumb idea he might get of what my future could be without him to hold me back. He doesn't fucking hold me back - he never has. He's the one who pushes me forwards, the one who has always encouraged - demanded even, that I be everything I can be. "The best homosexual" as he said once.

Damn Emmett! Now I can hear the words of `Wind Beneath my Wings' in my head, so before I burst into song, or into tears, which is also a possibility and that is totally dumb, I say, "Brian … about the other day …"

Just as I do, he says, "We could go straight to the airport if you want."

What the fuck?

"No fucking way!" I snap.

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Brian

He snaps out a "no" and his hand, which had been resting on my thigh like it usually does when we're in the car, suddenly turns into a claw, digging into my leg.

"Ow!" I say carefully. Strongly enough for him to get the message, not so sharply that he'll freak out and dig in harder.

"Sorry," he says, rubbing his hand soothingly over the spot.

I find myself explaining, which I never fucking do. "I just thought we could get the Hell out of here, leave the house till another day."

He gives me a look at that: one of his patented `I'm onto you' looks.

"You mean, forget about the house," he challenges.

"I mean," I say carefully, suddenly conscious that this is a fucking minefield I've strayed into, "leave it till we get back from Chicago."

"Brian," he starts, then he breaks off with a sigh. For a moment I think he's going to just let it drop. Which would leave me trying to work out what was going on in his head with that `Brian'. And responsible for which road we take. Fuck!

But then he saves me.

"Brian, don't pull this fucking shit," he says. "If you're sorry you ever mentioned the house to me, just tell me. I'll deal. We'll fucking deal."

I sneak a look at him and he gives me this sad little grin. "We always do," he says.

I don't know what to say in response to that. Am I sorry I mentioned it? Am I sorry I let him know that I want to plan a fucking future with him in it? That I want us to plan a future together?

I should be.

I fucking should be.

And if I wasn't the totally selfish prick everyone says I am, I'd tell him so. Linds and the uber bitch she's gone back to living with have just spent the last two hours letting me know, in their very different ways, that little Sunshine has had a huge opportunity drop on his doorstep, and that if I care about him at all, I'll show it by giving him the chance to fly.

Lindsay in particular made a big deal of how much the publicity Justin is getting from this show could help his career - if he gets the chance to take advantage of it.

Looks like I am the completely self-centered shit they all think I am though, because suddenly I hear myself saying.

"Don't be fucking stupid. No fucking regrets, remember?"

He sighs, but before he can say anything else, I take advantage of a halt in the traffic to put my own hand on the back of his neck.

"I want us to look at houses - this house, other houses, if we don't like this one. Till we find what we want - what we need. But it doesn't have to be today. We've both got a fucking lot on at the moment. Maybe this isn't the time to take on any more shit. That's all."

He bites his lip for a moment.

"Is it the money?" he asks hesitantly. "I hadn't thought about it … but the …the bombing," his voice wobbles then, just a little, and I want to fucking pull the car over and wrap him up in my arms and never let him think about any of that shit again. Not for one fucking instant.

Instead, I squeeze his neck harder, and then have to let go when the traffic starts to move again.

"No," I tell him. "It's not the money. Kinnetik's been doing fine, and the insurance will cover lost earnings from the club as well as the damage. Eventually."

He nods. I realize that we never talk about this stuff, and we should. He should know how things stand. He's taking a fucking big chance trying to make a life with me. If nothing else he should know that financially things will be okay.

"Well, then … if you …"

He breaks off. Then he starts again.

"Brian … I'd really like to go look at the house today. It will make me feel like …"

He stops, and sighs, and I think he's going to let it go, but brave little fucker that he is, he keeps going, even though he knows what he's going to say will likely bring out the very worst side of me, the nasty streak that I let loose with him all too often. I'm not physically abusive like my old man, but every time one of those vicious comments comes out of my mouth I know whose son I am.

"I just want to think about something good, okay? Not all the shit for a change. Not all the things that …" his voice wobbles to a halt.

"Okay," I say quickly, before anything else can escape. It's so fast that he does a sort of double take.

Then he lights up.

"Really?"

I nod.

This time when his fingers grip my thigh, it's not pain that I feel.

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Justin

I'm not stupid. I know that the battle to get Brian to believe that being with him is the thing that I want most, the thing that will make me feel happiest, the best thing for me, is a long way from over. He's been too fucked up by his parents. And by years of his "friends" telling him what a total loss he is as a human being to believe that easily. If at all.

But for now at least he's keeping the side of him that's always looking for some damned cliff to throw me off in check and hanging in there with me. With us. For us.

Which is such a fucking relief that I feel my whole body relax.

Of course, that's pretty much over when he says, oh so fucking casually, "So how did the interview with the Post go?"

A quick look at him is enough to tell me that he's not talking about the Post Gazette. He knows. Fuck! I am so not ready for this.

But I can tell by the tone of his voice that this is a trigger for him, and he's on the edge of saying or doing something really … stupid. And destructive. So I have to deal.

"It was okay," I say.

Then I go on; trying to pick my words at first, but then I get on a roll and they just tumble out.

"They're doing a series of articles on the need for Federal Hate Crimes legislation. They … they were looking at doing one on the bombing and … and then they found my name on a data file and read up about the … the bashing."

I feel him go rigid beside me, and I'm trying to stop the word flow, or to at least find the right ones, the ones that won't completely shred him, but it seems like some torrent inside me just got let loose and I can't find the way to shut the fuck up. My voice seems to go on forever.

"They wanted to know what it was like to have people hate me so much because of who I fuck that two of them have tried to kill me."

He doesn't say anything, but his hands are white-knuckling the steering wheel and his face is rigid. But I still can't stop. In fact, the pain I know is in his eyes, even though they're fixed on the road and I can't see them, seems to push the words out even faster and harder.

"So I told them it was just peachy. I told them that as an artist it was a lot of fun to have to relearn how to use my own fucking hand. I told them how amusing it was that when I'd finally gotten back to the point where I could create again, some homophobic prick of a politician came along and torpedoed my college career. And that I found it a complete blast how when I find someone who is interested in my work, and wants to make a film about this character I created, the money men get scared by all the homophobic bullshit pouring out of the White House and pull the plug. And how absolutely fucking hilarious it is that, after all that, after I pick myself up, and pull myself together after that, and manage to move into a new field, and paint something that someone actually thinks is worth hanging in a gallery, another asshole comes along and tries to kill me before I even get to see it on the wall."

To my relief I finally stop then.

I can feel his anguish, his pain at my pain, squeezing all the air out of the car.

I know he wants to stop the car and wrap me up in his arms so nothing can ever hurt me again. But he can't. I don't want him to.

I tried to lay that on him once. "As long as I have you to protect me," I told him. I was sort of joking, sort of just pushing his buttons, like I always did back then to see how he'd react, see how far he'd let me go. But I will never do that to him again. Once was more than enough.

I wish to fuck I'd never said those words because they fucking came back and savaged us both.

Despite all the times that he's looked after me, protected me, even from my own father, that one time someone got past him still haunts him.

So … right now it's up to me to protect him for a change. To rescue him from what is going on in his head.

And amazingly, once I think that, the band that was squeezing my chest so tightly I couldn't breathe, loosens.

Because despite it all - hell, probably even because of some of it, all of those totally shitty things have somehow led me here. Here beside him - on our way to a future together.

And where the fuck else would I want to be?

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Brian

I'm trying to stave off my own meltdown at least long enough to deal with his, when suddenly, for no reason that I can see, all the tension just seems to flow out of him.

A moment ago he was wound so fucking tight I was sure the spring was going to snap; now he's mellow as a pot head on some damned good stuff, for no reason that I can see except that maybe letting all that shit pour out helped somehow.

"Brian," he says, "can we stop somewhere?"

I'm wondering what he's got in mind. I doubt it's something as desirable as a quick fuck, so either he needs me to find some fucking way to kiss him and somehow make it all better, or he … he thinks that I …

Fuck him!

If he thinks I'm so damned pathetic that I need … I need … I don't fucking need anything. Just because I fucking want to hold him for a moment; to look into his eyes and see how much fucking damage that damned reporter did. Just for a moment, or an hour, I don't fucking know. A chance to remind myself that despite all that shit he's alive; and he's here. With me. That doesn't fucking mean that I need anything. I sure as fuck don't need him to …

"I'm hungry," the little shit says.

I'm about to make some smart assed comment about how the fuck could he be hungry when he's just come from breakfast at a hotel that let's you gorge yourself direct to a heart attack when he says, "I couldn't eat much before."

So I start looking for somewhere we can get some food. I don't know this area, but before he can expire of starvation a strip mall appears on the horizon, and there's a Dunkin Donuts and a Starbucks, so I pull up the car. Before he can move, I reach out and let my hand rest for a moment on the back of his neck and he turns his head to give me a lopsided grin. It's enough. For now.

We don't say anything, just get out of the car. He heads off to find some suitably toxic high fat, high carb fuel and I get us both some coffee.

We meet up back at the car. I'm not thrilled about having this shit in the corvette, but at least it's not fucking burgers and fries, stinking the place out, the smell burrowing into the upholstery like a damned swarm of olfactory termites. It took months before it stopped reeking after Mikey's little jaunt with the hustler, even when I bitched the damned morons at the detailers out every week till they got rid of it. And sitting in here, we've at least got some fucking privacy and aren't surrounded by breeders and their screaming brats.

He inhales a couple of the donuts like he hasn't eaten in a week, and then takes a breath and says, "I'm okay, you know?"

I stick my tongue in my cheek and give him a look. He puts his cup into the rest and reaches for mine. I let him take it, and put it safely down and then he's in my arms and it's a while before I even wonder where the rest of the fucking donuts are and how much mess they're making.

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Justin

Eventually, the desire to stay in Brian's arms, hold him in mine forever is defeated by the sheer awkwardness of trying to do anything in this stupid assed car. Various implements are poking into me, and not in a good way, and as we sink back into our seats, he somehow cracks his hip on the steering wheel. So it's a couple of minutes before I can say anything while he curses and swears he's going to get rid of "this stupid fucking heap of shit mobile". Like that's going to happen.

But at least it gives him a chance to spit out some of the pent up anger and frustration that I know he's been feeling, know he's been bottling up rather than letting it spill out over me.

So that's a good thing, and it means I can start this conversation reasonably sure that he won't spontaneously combust, at least.

I'm not too sure how to say exactly what I want to say, but I promised myself after the whole cancer fiasco that I wasn't going to hold back anymore; that when there was something I needed to talk about with Brian I was just going to go for it. I mean, my motives about the cancer thing were sort of good, I guess, at least that's what I told myself. But the truth is, I didn't know how to bring up the subject with him without him going into a hissy fit, so I didn't say anything. And then he found out that I knew - thanks to dear Mikey - and took the chance to take all of his fear and anger out on me. Which was worse than if I'd tackled him about it head on. I'm not doing that anymore. I'm not going to suffer in silence like some scared little queen. How can I blame Brian for not communicating if I'm too chickenshit to even try to talk about important things with him?

And I can't think of anything more important than this.

"Brian," I say … and if I have to stop for just a second and take a deep breath to make sure my voice is steady, well, at least I keep going after that. "About what you said the other day. What you asked me."

He sticks his tongue into his cheek and raises an eyebrow at me. Like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. Fucker! I take another breath.

"The marriage thing," I clarify.

He doesn't say anything, but his tongue leaves his cheek and now he's sucking his lips in. The `I'm not reacting at all here till I've carefully worked out exactly what you're getting at and even more carefully worked out exactly how I'm going to respond' look. I am so onto him.

But he hasn't shrugged it off, or made any snarky comments, so I know he's still with me, and I know he's listening to me, and really trying to hear me. That means a hell of a lot right now.

"Brian … I know for a while it … I guess it seemed like … like I thought I needed marriage or some big commitment thing. You know?"

It sounds like a question, but I don't give him a chance to respond.

"But … I don't. I mean … I … if I needed anything, it was just to know …"

I hear my voice waver, and I stop for a moment. I can't trust my voice, but I can't stop communicating now either, I just can't. So I put my hand on his leg and squeeze because at least that's something; and to my relief he doesn't do any one of the things he'd probably normally do.

Option One from the Kinney manual - take Justin's hand and put it on your crotch and see if you can seduce him into stopping this conversation.

Option Two - reach over and shove your tongue down Justin's throat and see if you can seduce him into stopping this conversation.

Option Three - get totally snarky and say you don't have time for Justin to list out all the things he thinks he needs, thus achieving the objective of ending the conversation by a) getting Justin to give up, or b) get into an argument with you about you cutting him off, or c) sulk in silence. Doesn't matter, you've shut him up.

Option Four - repeat the `You're All You Need' mantra and start the car, thus achieving the objective of ending the conversation by a) getting Justin to give up, or b) get into an argument with you about you cutting him off, or c) sulk in silence. Doesn't matter, you've shut him up.

They're the usual Brian Kinney defense ploys, but he doesn't, thank God, use any of them. Instead, he gives a little sigh, and then sort of strokes my hand with the back of his.

I turn my hand over and grasp his fingers. It means so fucking much to me when he doesn't pull his hand away, but instead turns his to curl his fingers tighter around mine. I want to throw my arms around him and forget all this fucking talking and just show him how I feel about him right now. How I feel about us. But I can't. I take another deep breath and force myself to go on.

"Brian … the thing this morning … telling me about the house … Telling me right then. Right at that moment …"

I look straight into his eyes and try to let him see how incredibly much that meant to me, as I go on, "The thing is … before … whenever any sort of `opportunity' has come up … you've always pushed me to take it. And that's good. Sort of. But you've always done it by pulling back from me."

He makes a movement then, shrugging, and turning his face away, and I tighten my grip on his hand, tugging a little until he looks back at me. I force myself to say the next part.

"It always made me feel like I could have a career, or I could have you. But not both."

He frowns at that. He wasn't expecting it, and it's probably not fair, but dammit, it's how I felt.

"I've always felt like you don't think I can have both."

Maybe that's closer, and will make what I'm saying clearer to him.

It does, because it makes him give an even stronger shrug.

"It feels like you don't think … if I have a career, you don't think … you don't think I'd want you anymore."

As that bit, the hardest part to say, finally spills out, his lips tighten. He's not looking at me anymore, but he's not saying anything, not trying to stop me, so I can go on now with what I really want to say.

"That's why … this morning … with that thing in the paper, and knowing the Post thing was going to happen … part of me was just scared. I just wanted to get back into bed and stay there because … I couldn't face being pushed off another fucking cliff. I don't … what good is all this going to do me if I … if you …"

I break off then, my voice so unsteady that I can't trust it.

He sneaks a sideways look, then wraps a hand around my neck and squeezes. "I told you … I said `okay'," he offers.

And for some reason that's enough. I lean into his shoulder and his hand moves up over my hair, stroking it until I can go on.

"When you saw the paper, I thought you'd go off on that `Justin deserves to be free to take his chance' bullshit again. But you didn't. You … you told me about the house instead."

There aren't words to tell him how that really felt. How it made it seem like everything we'd been through, all the fucking angst and pain meant something. Like I wasn't a total loser for hanging on all those years, just hoping; because suddenly I found myself where I'd always hoped, always believed, we could get to. I can't say those things to him, because he had to go through just as much pain and angst - maybe even more. And I don't want him to think I feel like some sort of martyr, that I had to sacrifice shit just to be with him.

That's not what I mean.

So I just say, "That meant as much to me as any wedding ceremony."

He huffs a soft laugh, and I expect him to lighten things up by making some snide comment about it not counting if he didn't say `I do' or whatever, but he doesn't. Instead he gives a small sideways grin at me and sort of nods a little, looking … If I didn't know better I'd say he looked sort of … shy! Fuck! If I wasn't already totally hooked on the asshole, that look would have done it.

I find myself pulling his hand to my mouth and kissing his fingers. He turns to me, his tongue going into his cheek again, but his eyes are smiling. He looks fucking happy. Shit!

I feel myself beaming at him as I say, "So … I just want you to know that I don't need a marriage proposal to like prove anything to me. Okay?"

He sucks his lips in for a moment and then gets this funny look in his eyes that I can't quite work out. But there's something else that I want to say, right now, before I lose my nerve.

"But if I thought … if you really …" I take a deep breath and blurt out, "If I thought you might actually want to get married … I might even ask you."

There. I said it. The wrath of Kinney might descend on me, but at least I had the fucking nerve to say it.

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Brian

I can't believe he had the balls to say that to me.

I'm torn between wanting to slap him and being so fucking proud of him that I have trouble not fucking hugging him to death. Twat!

But he's put himself right out there and I can't leave him hanging in the wind like this. I give him a look and say, "You sure as fuck know how to ruin a moment."

His face falls a little, but the little shit tilts his chin up and looks me right in the eye, ready to take me on.

I have to touch him. I hook my hand round the back of his neck again and drag him to me. When my lips brush his, they're tight for a moment, then they soften and open so my tongue can slide inside. The zing goes straight to my cock, but I only let myself wallow in the taste for a few seconds, then I push the hair out of his face and lock eyes with him. I make sure that he sees that I'm not queening out on him, and then I let him sit back in his seat before either of us damage something important. This fucking car!

He looks like he's about to start up again, but he's had his say for this morning - hell! For the next fucking month. I can't remember ever hearing him talk so fucking much - well, not for a long while anyway. But I guess there were things that he `needed' to say. And maybe some that I might have needed to hear. Maybe. Or some shit like that.

But before he can start off again, I say, "You have absolutely no sense of fucking timing."

He scrunches up his nose that way he does when he can't get a handle on what's going on; the way that makes him look fucking twelve.

I pause for a moment, prolonging the anticipation. Then I tell him, "I was going to wait until we got out to the house and do the whole fucking down on one knee thing."

His eyes nearly pop out of his fucking head for a moment and I want to laugh my ass off. Or maybe that's just because I feel so fucking … I don't know. Happy, or some shit.

"No way!" he protests.

I shrug. "I was going to do the whole bit, Sunshine. I figured last time I took you by surprise and didn't do it right. So this time, it was going to be the full production."

He laughs, the little shit.

"What were you going to say?" he demands, a big grin on his face.

I shrug again, just enjoying the … joy … in his eyes.

"Oh, I had it all worked out. You know … something about buying a palace for my prince. All that romantic bullshit …"

"You were not!" he says, all breathy and excited - like a little kid.

I grin at him.

"Well, maybe not exactly that," I say. "But … you would have got the message."

I look into his eyes, and make sure that he's getting the message right now. For a moment I can't place the look on his face. Then it hits me. It's the fucking look he had that night of his birthday … when I told him I'd got him a present … the way he lit up like a fucking Christmas tree … before he saw … before he realized what a fuck up I was.

This time, I swear to myself, this time that isn't going to happen. This time he gets to keep that look in his eyes for longer than a fucking millisecond. This time he's going to get the whole fucking package - romance, marriage, whatever the fuck he wants. He's been through all the fucking shit, it's time he got the payoff, and I'm fucked if anyone else is going to give it to him. That's my privilege. Mine.

I wrap my arm around his neck again and kiss him. His arms come round me and he's breathing, "Brian. Oh, Brian!" over and over again between the kisses.

I cup his face in my hand. "So … we going to do this?"

He laughs, his eyes absolutely blazing with light. Fuck! He is so fucking beautiful.

"Yes," he says.

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