Be My Downfall

Be My Downfall

~Chapter 6~

Two Months Later

Nights merged into days, hours dwindled to minutes, and human
fraternization became his surreptitious enemy. It was an accurate
observation to say that he had cut himself off from all the
normalities of his life, including the more prominent people and
activities that were congruous with his person.

The only indication that he was even alive, given the promiscuity of
his seemingly former self, was the zealous integrity with which he
approached formulating his very own advertising agency. He was
consumed by it - possessed with the creative process and curiously
rejuvenated by the mental exhaustion and hours of tedious details.
It was the only human affiliation he derived pleasure from;
excluding his new acquaintance to one dark haired man.

He turned down the bountiful invitations to extravagant dinner
pas ans and lavish banquets, preferring to remain in the dark
corners of his self-constructed shadow. He knew the social mingling
would benefit his business efforts, yet he simply couldn't bring
himself to participate. His resumé and charm alone got him places
and landed negotiations that normally took others in his position
years to accomplish. The difference between himself and the other
schmucks in the ad world? He knew he was the best - and he used it
to his advantage with unrestrained hauteur.

It also helped that Brett Keller graciously circulated his name and
aptitude. A quaint little headquarters and catchy name later
(courtesy of Justin); and Kinnetic was on its way. Which meant the
workload was augmented and his budget constantly tested.

It was a good excuse to further disconnect hif. If. In a tone a bit
to sharp to be labeled 'teasing', Justin often told him he was
jealous of Brian's love affair with his desk. These comments always
seemed to follow on the heels of another rejection from Brian -
either to go out for the night, or to fuck, or to simply go to sleep
together. Problem was, Brian couldn't sleep at night. Especially not
when he looked over at Justin beside him in the bed, and was forced
to remember why he was here, in this ridiculously luxurious excusf anf an apartment; and when he feared his sleep would not be
dreamless.

The light of day was hardly a relief. Justin was gone for the
majority of the morning, noon, and evening; a relief within itself.
Solitude - and good ole dependable Beam - were the only balm for the
aches of the turbulence that had so violently uprooted his life.
Justin would plead and beg in his usual fashion for Brian to
accompany him to one of Brett's parties, but Brian invariably
refused following the events of the first time he'd accepted. He had
hated the experience, all of it - the people - so arrogant and
conceited, too much like himself - the bullshitting, the reverence
of wealth. But that was insignificant compared to his reaction to
overhearing a group of men discussing the creative genius of Michael
Novotny, and what a respectable man he must be. Brian had excused
himself, pale and suddenly loathing the martini in his hand, nausea
overtaking him as he brushed past a concerned Justin. His undoing
had been looking up, high on the vaulted ceiling of Brett's mansion,
to find himself stared down upon by a life-size poster of Rage and
Zephyr, in classic super hero pose, just the two of them.

He had proceeded to search blindly for Brett's bathroom before
emptying the contents of his stomach. Between heaves, he noted that
the bathroom was adorned in V-Men theme, and thought of how much
Michael would like it, only to be broad sided by another wave of
acrid queasiness.

After that, he had called a cab to take him the few miles back to
the opulent apartment he could never call hoand and sworn off all
and any parties of Brett's - however, he kept a characteristically
sharp eye on Rage, seeing to it, in his covert ways, that everything
was exactly as Justin told Michael. Justin had come back from the
party that night fuming, demanding to know why Brian left without so
much as a word. Brian had easily matched Justin's anger with his
own, enraged that the blonde even fostered the notion that he needed
to answer to him, or had reason to explain his actions. It was one
of the worst arguments they had ever engaged in; and it was the
starting point for many more.

Things between them grew cold after that; not that they were warm to
begin with. They co-existed much like two combative college
roommates; coming and going as they pleased without question of the
other's whereabouts, taking turns with bathrooms and household
appliances with annoyed patience, and occasionally sharing a casual
conversation or a spontaneous fuck.

Neither was blind to the action taking place behind the scenes.
Brian was no fool; he knew that Justin was beginning to realize that
LA had a substantial amount to offer when it came to the availablity
of hot, gay men eager to fuck. Compared to Liberty Avenue, it was
the cream of the crop. He soon found that Brwas was not the only
lucratively gorgeous gay man in the world; and in LA, a personality
to match was not uncommon. For Justin, Brian's novelty as a gay man
was beginning to wear off, the thrill rapidly decreasing as he was
introduced to a whole new realm of possibilities.

Analogously, Justin was regularly fed glimpses of what was actually
eating away at the indestructible Kinney. Although the person in
question would have him to believe that it was simply the strain of
starting all over as an ad man, Justin knew a line of bull when he
heard one. When Brian never called Michael, and vice versa; he grew
suspicious. When Brian left the apartment every time Justin talked
to Michael about the developments of Rage, his suspicions grew. When
he came in late one night to find Brian asleep in bed, fully
clothed, a picture of Michael clutched to his chest, partially
obscured by the desperate grip of one hand; his suspicions had been
confirmed. From then on, Justin had backed off from Brian, sexually
and emotionally, yet he never let on that he knew. Each secret side
of their relationship was silently acknowledged; the issues were
there, but not there. As they had always been. Brian didn't seem to
notice - or chose not to notice - Justin's careful distancing.
Justin often surmised that Brian was grateful for it.

Each became a superficial fixture in the life of the other, and the
last thread between them - money - was fraying rapidly. Justin no
longer had need to depend on Brian financially. Brian was well past
the point of regaining the financial footing he held at Vanguard.
They were becoming two separate men. Justin felt he was moving
forward in his life, and that Brian - hindered by what Justin
suspected was agonized love for his best friend of twenty years -
was moving in entirely the opposite direction.

They both knew that their days together were numbered. To Justin, it
was a healthy balance of wistful sadness and anticipated freedom. He
mourned for what could have been, but rejoiced over what had been.
Brian had helped him grow into his own man, but now, Brian could
only hold him back. Over the span of time they had been in LA, the
nagging feeling of being Brian's scapegoat, his second plan - the
substitute for Michael - became increasingly apparent day by day, as
Brian withdrawled into himself.

The evidence of their impending separation was met with indifference
from Brian. Justin could go, or he could stay, it was his call, like
it had been in times past, except this time, Brian knew which choice
Justin would make. He didn't like to think about it, however - cross
that bridge when you get to it.

Which they both knew would be very soon.

********************

*There isn't enough hot water to be in....There isn't enough salt
lake to to lie in....*

Brian huffed a frustrated sigh, leaning his forehead against the
palm of his hand and jabbing at the touchpad of his laptop in
agitation.

*There isn't enough sky to fly in, so softly...*

He had been exceedingly lucky to land this client, though at the
moment, he felt anything but. The song blaring on the stereo wasn't
helping much.

*There isn't enough breath to breathe...Not for me...oh God damn
me...*

He often wondered, in times like these, sitting in completely
foreign surroundings and musing over a catchy phrase for toilet
paper, just why exactly he had aspired to pursue advertising.

*There isn't enough snow to see through...Snows too deep... There
isn't enough fog to see through...Not through to me...*

Fuckin' toilet paper. This wasn't how he wanted to spend his
evening. He briefly envied Justin, who had left hours before,
announcing with unconcerned nonchalance that he was 'going out'.
Brian had merely grunted in response, their usual form of
communication these days - minimal and to the point.

*There isn't enough gain to get from...Not from me...Oh God damn
me...*

He reached for the remote, turning the stereo off with a scowl. The
lyrics were too close to home. He never did like Justin's choice of
music, but he didn't dare listen to his own. Brought up too many
things best left where they were.

He shifted his focus back on the project at hand. Why did toliet
paper companies have to compete, anyway? Not as if it was a unique
invention.

His mind inevitably strayed. Times like this were dangerous.
Usually, his job did a sufficient task of diverting his mind, but
late at night, when his muse abandoned him, his thoughts wandered
and he always ended up in the same place; in the same pitiful, self-
induced state. He could always feel it coming, but could do nothing
to stop it.

Brian stared off into the air, hazel eyes fragile and distant. He
leaned back in the plushness of his chair, attempting to slowly
exhale the pent up tension of his body. Before he could stop
himself, his hand was reaching for the middle drawer of his desk,
opening it slowly.

He sighed a sigh of defeat, contentment, and pain as he gently
lifted the object that held him captive from velvet interior of the
drawer, being careful to keep his fingers on the edge of the thin
paper as he cradled it lovingly between his fingers.

A hand reached up to cover his mouth, as if to stifle a whimper, as
he stared, elbow rested against the wood of the desk. He closed his
eyes tightly, reopening them slowly to continue gazing at his world.

It was a photo of Michael and Gus - Gus was atop Michael's
shoulders, smiling down upon the dark haired man with pure joy in
hazel eyes that were so much like his father's. His small hands were
entwined with Michael's larger ones, a grip of complete affection
and absolute trust. Michael's head was tilted to look up at the
beaming toddler, the expression of adoration reflected in the
beautiful abyss of his deep brown eyes. Coupled with the plain white
t-shirt, faded jeans, and entrancing smile; Michael looked exactly
like he had at eighteen, prompting a bittersweet smile to Brian's
lips.

It was Brian's favorite photo, and he kept it close to him at all
times. There was one in his wallet, one on his desk at Kinnetic;
sometimes, one in his pocket, close to his heart.

After his last phone conversation with Michael, he'd stared at the
same picture for hours, until he had fallen asleep, the image of his
best friend's smiling face his last coherent thought before the
dreams wrapped around him like a blanket, nought but a replay of the
sequence of events that had formed the bitter depth of the chasm
that separated him from Michael.

*I'll always love the false image I had of you.*

The words haunted him. The desolation he remembered hearing in
Michael's voice reverberated through his senses, inescapable both
night, day, and all spaces in between. He'd been a wreck for days
afterwards; a walking, sneering, enraged glob of gay man is how
Justin so benignly described his demeanor. Clueless, of course, to
its true origin.

Brian finally had an answer to appease his morbid curiosity. How far
could he push Michael? Their friendship? Their need for each other?
Could they stand as corollary downfalls, *and* saviors?

He knew one thing with deadly certainty: he needed Michael like he
needed water. He could go for days without it; only to slowly
weaken, slowly waste to nothing but a mere wraith of his former self
until finally, he dwindled to nothing at all. Just like the human
body is comprised of eighty percent water, Brian's existence, his
very soul, was eighty percent Michael. Apparently more. Probably
all.

He had constantly wondered what Michael had done that night,
following their heated conversation. He prayed someone had been
there to comfort him, that he hadn't secluded himself, as was his
tendency.

Brian would probably not be thrilled with the knowledge that Michael
went home that night, to Ben, who had quietly laid next to Michael's
trembling body, stroking his hair with tender fingers as Michael
shed silent tears. Ben had always been tolerant of the dynamic that
was Michael and Brian's relationship; too tolerant, in Brian's
private opinion. He wasn't supposed to be so composed and wordly-
wise all the time. He was supposed to view Brian as a threat - like
David had. He was supposed to demand that Michael choose. He was
supposed to get fed up and fade away, leaving Michael to him,
returning things back to the way they should be.

Brian put the photo back in its place, shutting down his laptop and
switching off the lamp. No way he could muster the concentration to
work now. He reached for his cell phone, dialing a familiar number,
exchanging a few familiar words, then grabbed his keys, disappearing
out the door.

*************

"You know why I hiredz' you?"

"I'd like to think it was because of my unerring secretarial
qualities, but I have a feeling your going to tell me." Dark eyes
regarded his companion skeptically before raising a warming, sweaty
beer bottle to his lips, downing a quick swig.

"'S smart man you are. Very's clever's." Brian leaned in towards the
smaller man conspiratorially, a drunken gleam in his eyes. He was
perhaps as drunk as he had ever been in his entire life.

"If I squintz 'm eyes...just..like...so..." he demonstrated, closing
one eye completely and narrowing the other to a mere slit, eliciting
an amused snort from his companion, "you almost look...'jus like
him."

The dark haired man shook his head softly, deciding to humor his
boss. They'd had this same conversation, under the same
circumstances, quite a few times.

"And if I squint my eyes, just...like...so," he said, mimicking
Brian's example, "you look just like Ashton Kutcher."

Brian hiccuped a laugh, resting his forehead on the lip of his empty
beer bottle.

"Your're 'good man, Russ. Too kind."

"Whatever you say, Boss. Just remember it when your sober."

It was true. Russel Abernethy bore uncanny resemblance to Michael
Novotny. A hair taller, eyes far less expressive, and cheeks a
little slimmer; there were differences, although subtle. Upon
interviewing secretary candidates, Brian had ceased looking upon
meeting Russel. He'd broken an internal business rule when he'd
fucked him not once, but twice. The ache in his heart was subsided
for few hours as he fucked Russel with an intensity he knew was
caused by an illusion the man created in his mind. Russel knew;
though he didn't care. He'd been instantly attracted to the elusive
Kinney, and didn't give much thought to the motivations of fucking -
to him, it was just fucking, which resulted in a stand-offish,
quirky friendship developing between them.

"Hey, Swartzly, 'nother beer." Russ motioned for the bartender, but
held up his hand when the stocky man placed one in front of his
punch-drunk friend.

"Gimme that. No more for Kinney. Can't you see the man is drunk as a
skunk already?"

'Swartzly' shrugged, busying himself elsewhere. Bartenders in
distinguished establishments such as the ones found in LA did not go
out of their way to socialize with customers, not like in the small
joints of the country. Sometimes, Russ missed the simple ways of the
south.

"So, Kinney, what happened tonight that made you think you needed my
company? Did you talk to him?"

Brian continued to lie motionless on the bar top. Russ waited,
sipping leisurely at the fresh, ice cold beer in his hand and idly
cruising the expanse of room for a potential trick as he waited for
Brian to assemble cognition.

He didn't mind lending an ear to the romantic woes of his boss. In
all honesty, he was rather intrigued by the whole story. It would
make a fabulous premise for a novel.

Brian peeked out from under his elbow with bloodshot eyes. "Talk to
him?"

"Yeah, you know, as in to converse by means of spoken language?
Pardon my saying so Boss, but your a fucked up mess. Don't you think
its time you quit pissing and moaning and told him how you feel?"
Brian laughed, but it came out series of interrupted hiccups.

"It's not that easy, Russ.'S married."

"And? From what you've told me, he'op top the Big Bad Buddhist in a
heartbeat if you would just tell him you love him."

"'M not so sure anymore, Russ."

Brian made a grab for Russel's beer, but Russ swatted the hand away.

"No. Mine. You're practically marinating in beer already."

Brian smiled, and Russel was once again dumbstruck with how
beautiful he was. He also knew that whenever he smiled like that, he
was thinking of *him*.

"You sound like Mikey."

"And you sound very drunk. I think its time you got back home to
Lover Boy."

"Your 'm secretary, not 'm chauffeur. And 's not home, and 'e's
not 'm 'lover boy' oatevatever shit it was you said."

"Uh, you fuck him, right?"

"Not for weeks. We're practically over. 'Jus can't stand it anymore.
Too different...too 'like. Not what I want...need."

"Give me a minute while I translate that. Meanwhile, go get your ass
in the car. I'm taking you back to your apartment."

Russ turned to to walk away, but was halted by a firm grasp on his
bicep.

"Why does it hurt, Russ? Why am I so afraid?"

Russ was rendered momentarily speechless by the raw pain he glimpsed
in the depths of Brian's eyes, a palpable emotional struggle and
love for a man that had to be extraordinary. From the very start,
Brian did not strike him as the type that pined and longed, yet here
he was, a veritable mess. Russ had never seen someone so
desolate...so lonely. It was as if Brian was walking around with
half a soul, half a heart. Walking wounded indeed.

Brian's gaze held him firmly in place, begging him for an answer
that would assuage him. Russ didn't have one - except that life was
a bitch, and then she has puppies. Many thought that Brian Kinney
was intimidating sober; a cynical, sarcastic man who never hesitates
to tell the truth, no matter how harsh. But Russel was beginning to
find that he was even more so drunk, with all barriers lowered and
his vulnerability shining through. He didn't know how to handle him,
and admired any person that did; that is, if they existed.

Russ sighed, sitting back down on his bar stool and facing Brian's
derelict face.

"You know that old aphorism, 'you can't always get what you want'?"

"'S a song."

"Whatever. So, maybe you should just forget him, if you don't think
he loves you."

Brian's eyes grew wide, and for one dreadful moment he thought the
man was going to initiate another plastered, yelling fit. He held
his breath.

"No. I can never forget him. You dontsz understands," Brian said
resolutely, staring at Russ with cold, calculating eyes as if he had
severely insulted him.

"You're right. I don't. And I don't think you do at the moment
either, because your veins are flooded with alcohol. But answer me
this, if possible. Why the fuck are you here, in LA, if he's
*there*, in PA?"

Brian turned away, staring at the polished wood of the bar and
picking at the soggy paper of his beer label. Russ realized he'd hit
a brick wall, and sighed. Even thoroughly intoxicated, Brian would
only open up so much, before he clamped back down again.

Several moments of silence followed, Brian's eyes faraway and
melancholy. Russ involuntarily flinched when he finally spoke; a
low, soft voice inflected with nostalgic retrospection.

"The moment I laid eyes on him...I knew. Just like that. It was
almost visceral. I wanted him...everything about him. His heart, his
soul, his body, his mind...everything. And I wanted him to have me.
All of me. But I realized I couldn't give it to him...I couldn't
give him everything. And everything is what he deserves."

"And you're afraid you're going to hurt him. You're afraid of losing him,
so better to just keep him at arm's length, under the guise of best
friend. Because if you lose him, you lose yourself. So you've
rejected him, made him believe that all you want is his friendship,
nothing more. You've rejected him so much, in fact, that he's given
up hope, and therefore you can't make him believe you, because he's
protecting himself. Correct?"

"Vanna, show 'em what he's won..."

"Fuck, Kinney, the solution is simple. Although I don't think you'd
realize it even if it came up and bit you on the ass."

Brian lifted a quizzical brow, ey Rus Russ dubiously.

"Go.Back.To.Pitssburgh. Sweep him of his feet."

Brian scrunched up his face at the phrase, turning his head away.

"And just exactly how am I supposed to do that?"

"You know, Kinney, you really can be a dumbass sometimes."

"What kind of way is that to talk to your boss? Your friend?"

"I can get away with it 'cause I'm your *only* friend here."

Brian shrugged somberly, returning to the task of de-labeling his
beer bottle.

"Firstly, you get back to the Pitts by this nifty little invention
called an airplane. It flies. Secondly, you sweep him off his feet
by telling him what you just told me...the little 'moment I laid
eyes on him' bit. For a prickly fuckin' cactus like you, it was
rather sweet. And I hate sweet, but anyways. And I guarantee you,
that the moment you get to the 'I can't give him everything' part,
you'll be fucking like rabbits and declaring your undying love. And
if I'm wrong, you are cordially invited to me. me."

"Like I need to be invited."

"Like your business can function without me."

"Cheeky bastard, aren't you?"

"Comes with the job. So, what about it? Or are you going to continue
wallowing in the dregs of your own misery?"

Brian glared at him through murky eyes.

Although they held a mutual respect for one another, Russ realized
that he could never get away with talking to a sober Brian so
bluntly. At work, Brian carried on as if everything was roses and
peaches, and did an admirable job of convincing everyone, including
Russ - that is, until Brian had called him up one night, shortly
after he'd been hired, asking Russ to accompany him for a night on
the town. Russ had been suspicious, to say the least; but had agreed
from an entirely professional aspect. At Russ's suggestion, they'd
found themselves at Firefly, a bar renowned for their Mediterranean
style dishes and al fresco setting. Then it began.

Aloof, ceremonious, and haughty Brian Kinney began telling him about
Pittsburgh, Babylon, and Woodies as if he was an old aquaintance
from years past. He sat for what felt hours and listened as he
described Michael Novotny, their friendship, their childhood, and
every thing in between - and Russ was mesmerized.

With each sentence, Brian had taken a slow sip of beer, gradually
inebriating himself as his story progressed to the more painful
parts. Russ had simply listened with attentive ears, realizing that
underneath the callousness, lied a man who was desperately miserable
and terribly lonely, and only wanted someone who would listen to
him. However, only one man could ease his pain; anyone else was
merely a temporary fix for a voracious addiction. He had been
clueless as to why him, until he remembered that he supposedly
looked alot like this Michael Novotny. At first, he had been more
than a little freaked by the fact when Brian began to ask for his
company, even after they had fucked, but as time wore on, he
realized that Brian was always fully aware that Russ was
*not* 'Mikey'.

Sometimes he felt he knew so much about Mikey that he could write
his biography.

"Hey, look, is that Tom Cruise over there, sipping a martini?"

"Don't change the subject."

"Well, you wouldn't answer me."

"What did you say?"

"Nevermind. Look, Brian...this can't go on. You're a fucking fall down
mess."

"Somebody once said that to me."

"No shit. What exactly are you waiting for? With Mic, I , I mean."

"I'm not gonna fuck with his happiness, Russ."

"I don't see how telling him you've been in love with him for twenty
years qualifies as such."

"I don't deserve him. Everybody shares my sentiments. His mom, his
friends..."

"Oh, get off it already. Who gives a flying fuck what they think.
What does *he* think? What would *he* more than likely say if he
heard you spewing such pathetic horse shit?"

Brian smiled, swaying slightly as he turned away from Russ. He was
loathe to admit that he actually liked this guy.

"He'd tell me to shut up and then he'd kiss me."

"My point exactly," Russ said, raising his hands in a display of
exasperation.

"I'm just...Jesus." At a loss for words, Brian let his forehead fall
to the bar, eyes shut tightly against the world.

"So now your Jesus?" Russ said lightly, nudging Brian's arm a
little. Brian had a good heart, he'd come to realize, but it had
serious baggage. Even though his perpetual stubbornness irritated
him to no end, he didn't want to see Brian in such pain.

"I'm just afraid of failing. Of not being what he needs, of hurting
him. I'd kill myself before I'd hurt him like that, Russ. That's why
I started what I did with Justin. I had to see if I could do it. If
I could make it work."

Russ sighed for at least the thousandth time that night, rubbing
wearily at his forehead.

"You haven't failed with blondie. I don't see how you survived as
long as you did. The kid's a selfish little prick, if you ask me. He
wouldn't piss on me if I was burning."

Justin had immediately picked up on the connection the moment he saw
Russ, and generally ignored the man; and when he didn't, he always
had a caustic retort to aim in his direction. Russ had returned the
vindictiveness in kind.

Brian snorted, his tone mock surprised. "Really? I kinda thought you
had a widdle crush on him."

"Shut up. That isn't even funny. It's demeaning."

"Don't get all pissy. It was a j - o - k - e."

"Look, Patrick Swayze," Russ said nonchalantly, motioning with his
head towards the left corner of Firefly.

"Did I ever tell ya 'bout the time me and Mik-"

"Yes, Brian, you have. Numerous times. Listen, why don't you go find
yourself a nice hot twink and put a great big cherry atop the
evening, with a few nuts on the side, eh?"

"Not interested. And didn't your mother ever tell you to avoid nuts
and fruits? You are what you eat."

"Damn. So *that's* where I went wrong."

Silence followed, excluding the horribleness of the current song and
the inane cackling of tipsy patrons.

"Did you know that Mikey was the first person who ever told me he
loved me?"

Russ was taken aback by the raw emotion which pervaded that single
statement. "Oh, c'mon, surely your parents said it to you."

"Nope. Not that I care to remember. If they did say it, it was
worthless."

The one thing Brian never shared with him was the details of his
life prior to meeting Michael. All he knew was that his father was
dead, his sister was a cunt, and his mother a hypocritical devil
dodger.

"But when Mikey said it..."

"Made ya feel all fuzzy inside?"

A belch, and a hiccup. "Yeah. Except I could never say it back. I
don't talk to him like he does me. He's a bleeding heart...always
giving me everything, whether I deserve it or not, whether I give
back or not." He sniffed lightly, digging around in his pockets. "He
never expects anything from me. Never asks me to change. Only
once...for Gus."

"Your son."

Brioddeodded. "You know, when I talked to him that night, told him
we needed to go our separate ways...I was waiting. I waited, and I
waited. I wanted him to tell me to come back to him, that he didn't
care about Ben. But he wouldn't and I didn't...I didn't..." he
grappled with words, biting at his lower lip furiously. "Fuck it
all."

He tried to flick open his lighter, but his fingers refused to
sustain a grip.

"Here, let me help."

Brian shoved Russ away gruffly, and threw the uncooperative lighter
into a nearby ashtray; which, somehow, tumbled into it miraculously.
Brian attempted to stand, reaching out to the bar for support as he
swayed violently.

He threw a wad of cash on the cherry wood surface, mock saluting the
bartender with a wobbly hand before turning and stumbling towards
the stucco door, holding up an index finger as if to make a valid
point as he looked back towards Russ deliberately.

"I don't need any fucking help," he grumbled, right as he walked
into the wall.

*******

"Can you make it in alright?"

"I always make it in, but better than alright," Brian slurred,
stumbling away from Russ's red camaro.

"Right. See you tomorrow."

"Your ass better not be late again."

"Jesus Kinney, it was two minutes past the hour."

"'S still late," Brian mumbled over his shoulder.

Russ peered out the passenger side window of his idling car,
watching to make sure Brian staggered successfully inside the
building. The right building. He wasn't going to be responsible for
*that* again.

He shook his head softly as he pealed away from the curb. This could
not go on. Didn't that blonde airhead realize what was happening to
his lover? What *would* happen? Brian was practically falling apart
in front of his eyes, yet the twink did nothing, acting as if it
were of no concern to him.

Jealously, Russ thought. If the kid subtly disfavored him, he must
loathe Novotny.

Obviously, Justin was turning a blind eye to Brian's emotional
state, feigning ignorance but in truth possessing complete knowledge
of the real deal. Selfish prick indeed, Russ thought with a scowl.

Brian was not his responsibility, barely a friend; yet he knew that
his tenuous friendship was keeping Brian's head above water -
barely. But for how long? He shuddered at the thought of the
predicaments his boss would be in, if not for him. Things were even
beginning to show at the agency, and somehow, Russ knew that was a
very bad sign.

He was tempted to set a trap, sedate him, and ship him first class
back to Pittsburgh on a UPS jet with Michael Novotny's address
scrawled atop the box in big bold letters.

He doubted that Brian would protest much.

************

"Brian. Wake up, Brian."

The bed was warm and very soft - softer than he ever remembered it
being. He didn't really want to find out what was going on outside
the soft, liquid warmth in which he was floating. It was too
sinfully delicious. He could feel tingling warmth radiating from
someone, or something, hovering above him; a warmth that was
reflected in the voice, though faraway.

It was wonderful.

It was home.

"Brian."

Closer now. A puff of hot breath against his ear. He shifted in his
sleep, still not persuaded to abandon the pleasant cocoon of warmth
that enveloped him. His eyelids quivered, hazel tipped lashes
stirring. The voice was magnetic, the dulcet tone seductive in its
intimateness. He was drawn to it's familiarity, even deep within the
cusp of long needed, euphoric slumber.

"Wake up."

Playful blows of breath across the whirl of his ear.

"Mmpfh tickles." He laughed sleepily, head lolling to the opposite
side as he continued to bask in warmth and peacefulness that had
evaded him for two months. He wasn't ready to shatter the illusion,
to open his eyes and face bitter emptiness.

But the lovely voice, undertoned with amusement, was gently
insistent that he awaken.

"It's me."

Incredibly soft lips pressed against his own in a delicate kiss,
slow and expressive. He couldn't help but whimper when they pulled
away much to soon. He knew those lips. He knew that taste. He knew
the voice.

He knew the sensation.

"Mikey?"

"Silly rabbit. Who'd ya think?"

Abruptly, he opened his eyes, and was met with a smile so bright and
eyes so deep and brown, he felt sure his heart would burst. Michael
crouched above him, palms and knees on either side of his body.

He could only stare in wonderment as Michael continued to gaze at
him adoringly, a translucent luminous of unidentified origin casting
an ethereal glow upon pale skin.

"Mikey." Very soft. Barely a whisper. Somehow, Brian knew the moment
was fragile. "Oh, God." It was a quiet utterance of overwhelmed
gratefulness as he leaned up to encircle his arms around a trim
waist, leaving them in a sitting position on the bed as Michael
gently returned the desperate embrace.

"How...why...?" He murmured against Michael's t-shirt, letting the
familiar scent coalesce with every breath.

Michael drew back, placing a single finger across Brian's parted
lips as he lowered them back onto the pillows.

"Ssshhh. Just let me look at you."

Michael moved to straddle Brian's bare chest, sweeping his form with
affectionate eyes. Brian suddenly felt suffused with warmth, and
never wanted to move again.

Once Michael had looked his fill, he giggled faintly, the corner of
his lip caught between white teeth. Brian didn't know what was
funny, but found himself encapsulated by the infectious laugh. He
reached up a hand, and starting at the top of Michael's ear, ran his
fingertips through jet hair, grasping the silken spikes between his
fingers as he reached the back of Michael's head, pulling him in for
a kiss; but cool fingers clasped his wrist, guiding his hand
downward to rest upon his heart. Michael looked at him meaningfully
as Brian reveled in the feel of Michael's hebeatbeating beneath his
palm.

"What do you see when you close your eyes?"

Brian lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement, opening his mouth to speak,
but Michael halted his response.

"A horizon. At sunset. Or maybe dawn. I can't really tell. But the
clouds are always an array of pastels; warm yellows, soft
pinks...oranges that glow like the embers of a dying fire. You can
just barely see the sun. But you know it's there, because it touches
everything with gold, warms your skin."

Michael's smile was suddenly eclipsed by a sad frown, and Brian
wanted to kiss it away, return the smile he loved and longed for.

"That is what I see," Michael continued softly, a wistful quality to
his voice as his eyes unfocused.

Confused, Brian tried to sit up, but Michael placed both hands
lightly on his chest, returning his focus to Brian's face. He wanted
control, and Brian gladly relinquished it.

"What do you see?" Michael's hands slid up Brian's smooth skin,
until they cupped over his eyes, causing his world to go dark.

"Tell me what you see." Brian felt a moist kiss along his stubbly
jaw. He relaxed, closing his eyes and descending into the pacifying
quiet of Michael's presence.

"I see...a horizon. With mountains."

"What color is it?"

"I can't tell. Too much fog."

"Can you see through it?"

"Barely. I see *something*. Someone. A person, at least." The
fingers covering his eyes twitched imperceptibly.

"Who?"

"I don't know. The fog is too dense. I can only see abstract forms.
But the horizon, it's...half of the clouds are deep blue. Like storm
clouds. The other half is...empty. "

A sigh, and the blockading hands where gone, the pleasant pressure
on his chest relieved as Michael straightened his spine.

"Empty skies but a butterflies wings beat silent like air."*

Michael scooted backwards so that he could rest his head upon the
center of Brian's chest, kissing the taunt skin softly as he did so.
More than a little bemused, Brian stared at the dark head with a
furrowed brow. Michael was acting a little...odd. The light in the
room was odd. But everything else was perfect, and he once again
decided that he could lay like this forever and be a very happy man.

Michael's words of seconds prior were vaguely reminiscent. A song?
An apothegm? He couldn't remember, but knew Michael was not yet
finished with his recitation.

"Call us free by a promise torn, you said I'll meet you there." The
breath of each word teased his left nipple, muddling his attempts to
decipher the cryptic remark.

"Meet you there." Michael lifted his head to look into Brian's eyes,
the smile reappearing. "You know I'm there." A peck on the lips;
ended before Brian could turn it into more.

"Mikey? What the fuck - "

"The person...was it me...or..." Michael drew back again, tangible
fear wrinkling his forehead and dissipating his smile. Brian wanted
to kiss him so badly it hurt, but the right time had yet to present
itself. He was notorious for bad timing; this time, he vowed, he was
going to get it right.

".r whr what, Mikey?"

Michael regarded him nervously, and did something Brian had never
seen him do in all the long, wonderful years of knowing him. He
chewed his fingernails. To say it mildly disturbed him was an
understatement.

"Stop that."

Michael blinked, in that confused way of his; like he had on the
rooftop the night Gus was born. He continued bitit hit his nails.

"Stop what?" In answer, Brian pulled his hand away from his mouth.

"This." He kissed the offended fingertips lightly. "You never bite
your nails."

"Was it me or Justin? The person you saw? That you see?"

"God, Mikey. You. Always you. Don't you know that? Always you." He
stroked a pale cheek softly before clasping his hand securely behind
Michael's neck. This time, he didn't let Michael pull away. He
pulled him down on top of him in one smooth motion, taking his lips
within his own and moaning softly at the fire that coursed through
his body, down his spine, taking some erotic detours on the way.
Michael allowed Brian to dominate the kiss, to devour his pliant
lips as they melted into the heat of each other's bodies - and
souls. Time seemed to slow.

Brian reached a hand underneath their crushed bodies to lift the
corner of Michael's white t-shirt, yearning to feel soft skin
against soft skin. Just as he was aboutrestrest his hand along one
of his many favorite places of Michael's body - the gentle curve of
the small area between stomach and hip - Michael stilled his
questing hand with a sharp hiss of breath, brown eyes pleading and
tinted with barely perceptible pain.

Brian was momentarily frozen by the trickle of alarm that seeped
through his consciousness. Staring into Michael's eyes, he pushed
gently on his chest, putting just enough space between their bodies
to allow him to pull the t-shirt all the way up to Michael's chest
in one swift jerk.

Another sharp gasp pierced the silence, and he realized it was his
own.

"Fuck."

The lower portion of Michael's stomach was a distorted myriad of
unsightly bruises; black, purple, blue and yellow surging together
in an angry cloud that marred perfect, pale flesh. The discolored
contusions began to fade, though not much, to a dusty yellow at
hipbones that were visible due to the low-rise of his jeans.

It was painful to even look at.

"What happened? Who the fuck did this to you? God dammit!" Brian
felt pure rage flood his veins, his voice rising, prompting Michael
to flinch unconsciously.

" to to me. Tell me who did this."

Something dark and amorphous flared in Michael's eyes. He looked
away.

"Fuck! I want to know what bastard did this to you. Was it Ben? Is
that fucker using steroids again?" He grabbed Michael's biceps,
forcing him to meet his gaze. "Who did this to you?!?!"

"Why do you want to know?"

"What the hell - "

"How do you know this isn't what I look like...on the inside. That
is, if you could see me from the inside out."

Brian glanced down at the horrifying bruises, tearing his eyes away
as he felt another swell of anger hit him as forcefully as an ocean
wave. His heart lurched and nausea surged when he saw that the
massive bruise extended to cover Michael's lower back.

"But if you could, would you understand me? You told me we didn't
understand each other anymore. So how can you understand this? If
you think these bruises are painful - which they are - your words
are even more so. This is what it does to eve everytime...on the
inside."

Nausea overtook his anger. He went numb, held in place by Michael's
eyes. So innocent, so full of love. He wanted to drown there.

With infinite gentleness, he turned Michael over onto his back, and
laid to the side of him, mindful of his bruises. Michael watched
with rapt eyes as he lowered his head to the abused skin, nevereakreaking their gaze as he placed tender butterfly kisses all along
the expanse of his undoubtedly sore stomach, seeking to soothe aches
both external and internal.

"If I could take away everything," he murmured between wet kisses,
occasionally blowing on one and absorbing Michael's appreciative
shiver, "I would. Every word that ever hurt you. Every move that
ever made you doubt me, doubt yourself. But I can't. It's who I am,
and sometimes...I hate myself for it." fin finger smoothed over one hazel eyebrow to slowly trace the curve
of his cheek. "I love you for it."

At the words, Brian held one soothing kiss longer than he had all
the rest. Hearing those words fulfilled and brought to him more than
any orgasm with a nameless trick ever had, ever would. He could
almost feel Michael's smile, an acknowledgment of their unspoken
language.

"Did you ever read the book "A Toad for Tuesday" when you were a
kid?"

"Mmm nnnn," he hummed, lips still busy tenderly caressing black and
purple flesh.

"I was reading it to Gus the other night. Before bed. You shoulda
been there. He smelled so good, like the coconut baby shampoo
Lindsay washes his hair with. His room is alot like mine was at his
age...Spiderman on the bedspread, Captain Astro on the curtains.
Anyway, he brought a book to me, and said, "Uncle Michowl, wead this
to me?" And it was that book."

Brian stopped, looking up into Michael's distant eyes. With one last
lingering kiss just below Michael's bellybutton, where the bruise
was a particularly sickening shade of purple, he crawled up the bed
and buried his face in the hollow between neck and collar bone,
reaching blindly for Michael's hand and twining their cool fingers.
He sighed contentedly, waiting for Michael to continue his story.

"The toad, Warton, decides to take beetle brittle to his Aunt, even
though it is cold and the ground is covered with snow."

"'Beetle brittle'? Isn't that something your mom makes?" he teased,
tightening his arms around Michael and nuzzling the softness of his
neck with the tip of his nose. He loved Michael's neck. He loved
Michael's scent. He always berated him on the rare occasions that he
used cologne, dishing a s a snide remark to cover up his true
distaste for the manufactured fragrance.

Michael giggled, both from Brian's tease and from the ticklish
sensation he was creating at his throat. "I think your confusing
that with her meat loaf."

"Ohhh," he purred playfully, craning his neck to briefly bury his
face in the silk of Michael's hair.

"You smell so good," he whispered, no longer afraid to speak his
heart.

"So do you."

He trailed his lips along a feather light path of dewy kisses,
starting at Michael's ear, gliding back down to the niche of his
throat to rest there with a satisfied exhalation. "Go on. Tell me
the story, Mikey."

"Warton decides to brave the cold anyway, being the brave and kind-
hearted toad that he is. So he bundles himself up with many layers
of warm sweaters, and dons a pair of skis, setting out on a three-
day journey. But an owl swoops down and carries the toad to his
lair, telling him he plans to eat him on Tuesday, five days away, as
a birthday treat. Toads and owls are natural enemies, of course. But
the toad and owl start to learn about each other, and the toad
begins to see through the cold exterior of the owl, to the goodness
of his heart. He sees that the owl is lonely, wanting only to be
l. Th. They become close friends, so close that they realize their
friendship is more important than being part of the food chain."

Brian heard Michael's breath grow faint, and panic shook him to the
core.

"Mikey?"

"Yes?"

"Oh." Something weird was going on. He heard a rumbling in the
distance, unable to pin point exactly what it was, so he dismissed
i
He
He leaned up to whisper in shell of Michael's ear.

"I wanna break the food chain, Mikey. I want more than friendship.
Always have..."

"...Always will." Michael finished, leaning into the warmth of the
lips that grazed his ear.

"I missed you."

"I know. But not enough."

"What?"

"Not enough to stop it. Not enough for *us*."

Brian realized with a jolt that the rumbling was thunder.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know the time and place between dreams and reality, between
sleep and waking?"

"....Yeah..."

"I'll meet you there. But the sky won't be empty." He kissed Brian's
forehead softly, framing his cheek with one hand.

Lightening briefly illuminated Michael's face, which was odd because
the room had been suffused with light, a glow even, since he had
awoken. Uneasiness caused him to tighten his hold on Michael,
cleaving to the feel and touch of him, the soothing pressure of the
warm lips grazing his forehead. The last thing he saw and heard was
another blinding flash of lightening and a hair raising crack of
thunder.

"No!"

He jerked forward violently, heavy breathing filling the cumbersome
silence. Sweat soaked the sheets, chilling his body. Bright light
shone through the octagon window which faced his side of the bed.
The other side of the bed was empty and untouched. Justin hadn't
come back last night. Just as well.

Fuck. A dream. It was all a dream. The thought almost pricked his
eyes with tears; but then he remembered the less than favorable
things that he had witnessed and tried to be thankful. To no avail.

That dream...to say it disturbed him more than anything had in a
very long time was a tremendous understatement. It scared him
fucking shitless. The fact that he couldn't drive to Michael's
apartment and see him with his own two eyes (like he had a few times
years ago when the occasional nightmare plagued his sleep) scared
him even more. He had always covered it up with a sly "Can't a guy
visit his best friend on a whim?" goosing Michael playfully while he
brushed his teeth or holding him tight as he mumbled irritably in
his rudely interrupted sleep. Brian Kinney wasn't supposed to
believe in superstitions or premonitions. But Michael was his
responsibility - fuck the Professor.

He took a shaky breath and raised an equally shaky hand to glance at
the watch he had never removed in his drunken stupor the night
before. 10:43 am.

"Shit!!! Sonoffa bitch, god damn fucking..." Spouting an incessant
string of markedly vile profanities, he leapt from the cold bed,
puzzled as to why his alarm had failed to go off. He was three hours
and forty-three minutes late. And he'd scolded Russ for two minutes.

Stark naked, he stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the
kitchen area, greeted by the tableau of Justin, paper in hand,
sipping his morning coffee leisurely, like a scene straight from
*Gay as Blazes*.

"You little shit! Why the FUCK did you turn my alarm off!"

"Um, so you could sleep?" Justin drawled sarcastically. Brian,
however, was in no mood to mince words. He stepped forward, glaring
daggers as his fist connected solidly with the table, rattling its
contents and causing Justin's steaming coffee to leap from the mug
and into his lap. He yelped, jumping up and swatting at his crotch.

"What the fuck did you do that for?!"

"Don't fuck with my stuff *ever again*."

"Would you calm down! I called Russ. He's taking care of the agency
today."

Brian steepled his fingers together, his voice laced with feigned
patience. "And why, pray tell, did you do that, darling? So we
could have tea and crumpets together? So you could get a good
morning fuck?" His voice went from mock sweet to enraged in one
second flat. "Because you think you can do whatever the fuck you
deem necessary?!"

"Because you came inkingking of alcohol last night. Because I heard
you talking in your sleep. Because I heard you asking for Michael,"
Justin said, never backing down, arms crossed defiantly.

Brian scowled, and turned to leave. Justin grabbed his arm.

"Did you know that other nights, when you came in drunk, you called
me Mikey? You say his name in your sleep practically every night.
You're constantly looking at pictures of him. I don't understand.
Look around you, look at yourself. What are you doing here?"
Justin's voice was unequivocal.

Brian jerked his arm from Justin's grasp.

"Mind your own fucking business."

"I plan to. From now on," he said to Brian's retreating back. Brian
stopped, and turned slowly, facing the young man with what could
only be described as an unmitigated weariness in the depths of his
eyes and in the lines of his gouslously nude form.

"Justin...I want you to know that I care for you. I loved you, even.
But I can't give you what you want, and I think you know that. So
maybe...wherever you were last night, you should stay there this
time."

Justin, to his credit and to Brian's surprise, smiled. "You know I
loved you, so I don't need to st. Mt. My bags are already packed. I
always knew you could never give me everything. That belongs to
someone else. Always has, and always will."

He walked up to Brian and kissed him softly on the cheek. "But I
want to say thank you." With one last look, he walked to the door, a
confidence and maturity in his steps that made Brian proud.

"Justin? Thank you, too."

Two men exchanged smiles, each headed for his own, separate destiny.

**********

TBC...

* Author Note : The first set of lyrics are from "God Damn Me" by
Filter. The second, quoted by Michael, are from Kosheen's "Empty
Skies." Also, I adore the character of Cynthia, but she just
couldn't suit my purposes for this story and I couldn't see her
following Brian all the way out to California. So, I created Russ,
who can see Brian's love for Michael, (from a unique perspective)
similar to how I always imagined Cynthia does. (after all, she
immediately knew the cause of Brian's grumpiness in 112)