Moth for The Star

607 - Breathing Low (Chapter 7)





*1 month later* October 2006



I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

- Shelley



Splash. Clang. Slosh. Clink. Scrub. Debbie hummed to herself as she did the dishes. Michael watched his mother's bangled hands dabbling about in the soapy water, sponging the cooking pots from dinner, as he sat absently at the table. After a jolly family meal at the Novotny-Bruckner house, Carl and Ben had taken Hunter outside to play basketball in the misty yellow streetlights, but Michael and Deb had lingered behind, Michael making up some excuse about the freezing cold and getting pneumonia. And so he sat, drawing patterns in spilt salt on the tablecloth with his finger, listening to the tuneless murmured rendition of 'Penny Lane', thinking.



Suddenly Debbie stopped humming and Michael could see her shoulders shift slightly as they did when she became serious. "How is he?" She asked, voice quiet and tentative.

Michael sighed, she did not need to elaborate. "He's tired. He's still recovering from the operation." He pushed the salt into an angry tight pile and then squashed it with his thumb. They had supposedly removed most of the osteosarcoma bone cancer from Brian's thigh, and were hoping to eradicate the rest with post-operative chemotherapy. Michael bit his lip. In truth Brian was a mess: although he tried to keep his biting humor and fierce independence, Mikey could see he was in a lot of pain, and was frequently too tired to argue. Since they had started intensifying the chemo treatments, Brian's already weakened body struggled to hold up and Mikey worried about him when Brian forced himself to turn up at Babylon, or go into work. What the fuck happened? Mikey thought. What had Brian ever done to deserve this? He felt sick to his stomach with fear.



Debbie interrupted his thoughts by speaking in a low, even voice. "We need to tell Justin, Michael." When her son said nothing, picked up his glass and took a preoccupied swig, she continued, looking down at the dishes she was still holding. "I know it seems unnecessary to give Sunshine a reason to worry, and I know he has important engagements right now in New York. But I think, deep down inside, you know as well as I do that those two loved each other too deeply to just forget everything and move on..." Her voice hitched and she put a hand to her chest as she concentrated on the dishwater, her back to Michael. "He's fading, sweetie."

Her son stood up abruptly and slammed his glass down on the table from where he had been holding it to his lips. "Don't you dare start with prophecies of doom, Mom. All that time Vic was sick, did you ever talk about him as if he were a lost cause?" His mind was whirring, screaming, but he stood still and glared at her leopard-print back.

But Deb just turned around slowly, facing him and keeping a level gaze. "Justin needs to know, Honey."



Later that evening when his Mom and Carl had driven home, Michael paced on the landing. Ben was asleep, and the wall clock ticked out methodical seconds as Michael fought off the feelings anger and dismay and trepidation which circled around his legs like devoted cats and crawled up to his chest in thin wisps of black. He knew he was going to tell Justin, he knew his Mom was right as usual, he knew Brian couldn't argue. He knew Justin would be angry, he knew he would feel betrayed, he knew it would confirm that Brian was indeed very sick. He thought back to when his friend had reassured him. If I get that sick I will tell him. Have no fear. Michael guessed that this now meant it was finally confirmed. Brian Kinney might die. He fought the urge to drive to Brian's loft and wake him up, shake him, scream at him for being so fucking obdurate, so unselfish, so autonomous. And then he slid down against the wall, feeling the cool plaster against his feverish hand and resting his brow against the comforting hardness, falling gradually into a fitful dream.



He was standing, standing alone. On a deserted street glittering with caressing rain. Rain which cooled his cheeks as he gazed up towards the black black sky, pierced through with glimmering Pittsburgh streetlights. There were no stars in the sky, no stars at all, and Mikey felt momentarily sad that he could not see the stars. The stars which should twinkle down at him and watch over the town. But then he felt a rush and he saw a blaze and down from the sky, down and down and faster and faster came plummeting a spinning shape. Before he knew it he was staring at his old hero, Captain Astro, in all his spandex glory. Eyes flaring, nostrils flaring, cape flaring in the wind which had picked up out of nowhere. Mikey grinned and felt himself pulled up up up with the hero, up high above Pittsburgh. He could see his house, small and insignificant, a dark smudge in a blurred wash of nighttime contours. Then he could see his mother's house, unlit and silent. Everyone slept. But he knew he had to get back, had to phone Justin, had to call the love of Brian's life and tell him Brian was dying. Fight, Fight against crawling reality. Shout, shout in silent screams. Struggle, struggle in ethereal embrace.



Suddenly the night was gone, vanished like a changing slide. And he was home, in his garden and Brian sat opposite him. And Mikey was a boy, and Brian was laughing. Grass tickled Mikey's bare legs in his shorts, he stood up and looked down at his young friend. Don't ever grow up Brian. You mustn't. You don't know what awaits you. You must stay naive and healthy, you must. Because I love you. I adore you. I want you. Even now. Mikey turned to his house and saw his mother, a sliding shape, outlined in the bright doorway of his house. Sun smiled down as if nothing were wrong and Mikey gazed up, up, up into it. Daring it to stop shining. Daring it to end their childhoods with it's relentless cycle. Flowers misted in his boyish tears. Freeze the moment in the summer garden of youth. Brian looked up, all huge swirling eyes and mischievous grin, and Mikey remembered, grasped at the memory until it was clearer, clearer. Brian, Brian, Brian; laughing as he ran with Mikey, leading the way after playing a trick on a teacher. Reaching across and touching Mikey, blazing hot fingers almost unbearable. Taking Mikey on giddy delinquent adventures. Daredevil, smiling scoundrel, sad boy. Mikey wanted to rise, to block out the sun in it's merciless persistence, and he opened his mouth in horror as the scene changed again, but no sound came out.



Night again. Evening of the soul. Playground of the dauntless. Brian in Babylon, young, strong, reckless. Mikey was aware of the presence of another. Captain Astro again, tall, shadowed, silent. Brian's stomach muscles flexed under his sleeveless top as he leaned back into the music. Men swayed around him. Indubitable spirit of fags everywhere flooding the dance floor with sex and thick stalking glances. Tidal waves of unheard sound rolled over Mikey in a noiseless rush. Endless. Please let it be endless. Captain Astro stood behind Mikey and warm hand came down on Mikey's shoulder as he saw a young blonde boy fall into Brian's arms and kiss him before handing him a drink. His stomach tightened in the old sensation of jealousy; Justin, perfect, so right for Brian. But then Brian was suddenly alone. And the lights were vanishing, and Brian was falling, fading, and Mikey struggled to reach him. So important not to let him hit the floor. Wading thought the air as if it were tar. Grabbing at Brian, but his hands went straight through him. Oh God, his hands went straight through him. And Babylon had disappeared and he was in the street and it was raining again, and Brian was struggling with something dark. Something overpowering which struck an icy cold into Mikey's heart and reeked of death. He tried to grab it, but it was untouchable to him, slid like mist through his fingers, and Brian glared at him as Mikey gasped, gulped in air, panicked. Then Brian put out a hand, suddenly solid and hard, and shoved Mikey away. Firmly, angrily, defiantly. As he staggered back on the rough painful road, Mikey saw that Brian was gone and he was standing, standing alone. On a deserted street glittering with caressing rain.



Mikey's eyes opened with a start, and he was unsure whether he had cried out in his sleep. He waited, calming his breathing, listening to see if he had woken Hunter or Ben, then quietly got up, stiff from his awkward position, and looked at the wall clock. It was early in the morning, too late for him to go back to sleep, so he slid his slippers back on and padded downstairs. After getting himself a glass of water and shrugging on a dressing gown, he sat down at the table and gazed at the telephone on the sideboard.



***



New York

JUSTIN:



I was interrupted in my painting by the shrill call of a telephone. I considered not answering it, glancing at my unfinished brush strokes on the rough white canvass, but then I sighed. It was probably Mr Olsen; he had said he would call to confirm whether I had a booking for a spring show at the Tamarind Art Gallery. So I got up, wiping my hands on my slacks, and walked over to the ringing phone, picking it up and holding it to my ear with my shoulder while I picked up a cloth to better clean my hands.



"Hello?"



"Justin?"



My stomach did a happy flip at the familiar voice and I felt a spreading warmth in my chest. "Michael, is that you?"

"Yes." He did not sound as cheerful as he normally did.



"How are you? When Emmet was here last month he told me about Mel and Linds moving back. You must be really happy to have JR back..."



"Justin!" The sharp edge in his voice pulled me up short and the warmth left me. Fear crept up my back and I took the phone from where it was jammed against my shoulder and held it against my other ear, walking slowly to the centre of the apartment.



"What is it, Michael? What's wrong?" Images of tragedies flashed across my mind: My sister run over, Debbie collapsed in her kitchen, my mother in tears... there was a silence on the other end of the line and I could hear my heart thumping in my chest. And then he took a deep breath.



"It's Brian." I felt my lungs clench in an icy grip. Oh God. The one person I had deliberately not thought of because I knew the anger, the love, the loss, the guilt would overpower me.



I swallowed. "Michael, what's happened? Tell me, quick."



Michael took a deep breath. "He's ... sick again Justin. His ... cancer has come back." And then the words came in a rush, tumbling over each other, chocked, trembling. "He asked me not to tell you because you had important shows in New York, he said he wasn't sick enough to merit worrying anyone, but oh God, Justin, he has got so ill, I hardly recognize him, and I knew you should know, I was just too much of a Goddamn coward to tell you before. And now I'm so scared..." Michael trailed off, obviously fighting back tears.



I stood stock-still in my apartment, paintings suddenly hazy and forgotten. I felt strangely ethereal, as if I were floating, and all parts of me were numb except the thud, thud, thud of my heart. I couldn't feel my fingers holding the phone and couldn't move my eyes, fixed on the misty floor. Oh God. A ringing started in my ears as I fought for breath. Oh God oh God oh God.

"Justin?" His voice cut through to me, an anxious ringing in my ear. "Justin, are you there?"



"Yeah. I'm here." My voice wasn't my own. "How long have you known?"



"Several months." He filled me in briefly with the details in a quavering voice while I stood silently, numb, listening.



"Justin? Are you there?"



"I'm coming to Pittsburgh."



"Justin..."



But I put the phone down on him. The numbness was fading and the onslaught of pain, anger, worry and fear rendered me unable to speak. I placed the phone back on it's cradle and walked over to my still-wet painting, gazing at it before suddenly grabbing it and hurling it at the floor with a strangled cry. That opened something inside me and I sank down to the floor and covered my face with my palms and sobbed. Sobbed for having left Brian, sobbed for having let him think that I no longer cared and had moved on, sobbed for his self-sacrifice, and his suffering. Sobbed for the memory of the man I remembered, healthy, beautiful, defiant. Sobbed for the wretched reality of my life, for the fact I knew I was incomplete without Brian and yet had still battled on, convinced that I would eventually become the person they expected me to be. Sobbed for the times I had forced myself to forget him, to ignore the familiar longing for his arms around me.



Soon I got up and picked up the phone, calling Mr. Olsen and telling him to cancel all appointments and meetings indefinitely, I was going to Pittsburgh. Something had come up. No I would not tell him what was wrong, just close my studio, lock it up and make sure the easels were safe. I was going to the airport tomorrow. Yes tomorrow. I have to go. No, I don't know when I will be back. Then I called around, closing up my affairs in a hurried rush of energy, able to momentarily lose myself in the arrangements, but still noticing a quiet thrill at the prospect of going home.



***



Pittsburgh



Lindsey stared out of the window as Mel bustled about in the other room with the kids. They were still mostly living out of boxes in their new home in Pittsburgh, having moved back after admitting that Canada was not right for them. Lindsey pressed the fingers of one hand against her lips as she thought, watching the last Autumn leaves blown from withered trees in the chill October wind. A tear leaked out from beneath her eyelid. Brian had told her. And now she felt a storm of emotions coursing through her: relief that she had returned to Pittsburgh and could be close to Brian; anger that he was so fucking self-depricating that he had not even considered that they would want to know, to care; fear, that she would loose her one true friend, her love, the father of her child. Lindsey sighed and rested her forehead against the cool glass. She had not yet told Mel, and felt strangely alienated from her, given Mel's unconcealed distain and dislike for Brian. Lindsey blanched and her brow furrowed as she remembered all the terrible things her wife had hurled at Brian in the past. You're a selfish, narcissistic little fucking faggot! The only dick you care about is your own. You are a little fucking coward. Brian had sometimes acted like an asshole, been standoffish enough to merit Mel's anger, but Lindsey knew that the real reason for her partner's old fury was jealousy. Mel had felt threatened by seeing how much Lindsey cared for Bran, perhaps doubly so when she had found out Lindsey was a bisexual.



"Linds?... Hun?"



Mel's loving voice made Lindsey turn around quickly, feeling the still-cold spot on her forehead where the glass had pressed. Her wife was standing, smiling, in the middle of the room, a pacifier in one hand and a toy in the other.



"I finally got them off to sleep!" She said, putting the toys away and bending down to fold up the toddler carpet. "You know, we really should start thinking about finding a new school for Gus. I mean, it's been a month now." She stopped, looked at the other woman. "Linds, what is wrong with you? Ever since we've come back you have been so pre-occupied..."



"It's nothing." Lindsey's answer came as more of a reflex, protection.



"The fuck it is! You don't take much interest in the kids, you push me away in bed, you have fucking removed yourself from our life, Lindsey! Now I could just go on playing this stupid fucking guessing game or you can tell me why you are not standing up to the bar. Why you are so fucking disinterested."



Lindsey looked into her wife's indignant face. "It's Brian."



Mel gave a short angry laugh. "I should have guessed! The moment we move back to Pittsburgh! All you can fucking do is think about him." She put on a sarcastic sweet voice "Shall we just use the dildo more often sweetie, until your lust for cock is satisfied? Or are you going to pluck up the courage to ask for the real thing? You won't fucking find it with HIM, that's for Goddamn sure..."



Linsey cut her off with a strangled shout. "He's got cancer! He might be fucking dying Mel! And all you can do is think about your own selfish needs..." Her voice trailed off and she watched Mel's face shift from furious, to surprised, to ashamed, to apologetic. Shit, she hadn't meant to tell her yet, and certainly not like this; words spat out in frustration in a row. But they were out, and their reality hung over the room like a heavy crushing fog. Lindsey blinked back yet more tears, and raised her eyes to meet her wife's.



Mel swallowed, and Lindsey was shocked to see that her eyes were filling with tears too. "Oh Linds." Mel said in a quiet voice. "Oh Linds. I'm so sorry." And Lindsey did not have the strength to stay angry with her wife, and let Mel put her arms around her and hold her as the tears finally came.



"Is there anything we can do?" Melanie was concerned, her respect for Brian having grown in the last few years she had known him.



"I don't thinks so. Oh God, Mel, what if...?"



"Shhh honey, don't think about that. We gotta focus on the positive."



"I hate him for being such a long-suffering asshole. God its so unfair, so fucking unfair!"



"I know Linds. I know."



***



New York

JUSTIN:



My hand shook as I packed my things, shoving clothes haphazardly into my duffel-bag. When my wash-kit fell with a crash onto the floor I forced myself to stop, breathing deep and low, holding my twitching palm with my other hand as I willed myself to relax. Memories, like invading phantoms crashed into my brain at every small undertaking.



Brian would rub this hand for me, just another of the thousand things he did which showed his tenderness, showed me without words that he cared for me. Actions which I was too stubborn and blind and demanding to see... but after the bashing I was in such a terrible place. The slightest things made me jump, and although I tried to act normally and shrug it off, I was changed somehow, altered. My enthusiasm thwarted, my confidence ripped to shreds. And Brian had seen and had come into his own as a carer, despite the fact that he would never acknowledge it. He was patient when I flew into rages, and concerned when I had crippling panic attacks; all that time he comforted me without words or explanations, the only way he knew how. His presence, his lips, his warm skin were my anchor during that hellish period. After regaining my memories and finally accepting him in me I thought the pain would fade, but although I grew stronger and felt more confident during the day, at night the demons would come back. Only now I had nightmares. Nightmare of that night, of blood and searing pain, and of being chased by hostility. I felt so stupid and angry at myself for being affected by these dreams, after all it was only Chris Hobbes with a fucking baseball bat... Nothing scary about that, boys and girls. So why did I wake up screaming, in cold sweats and shaking like a leaf, night after night? Why did I toss and turn in our bed, afraid to fall asleep for the knowledge of what was to come?



One night, I had a particularly terrible dream. The fear, the indescribable terror was chocking me, and I flailed my arms, waking Brian up by smacking him across the face. In that instant my own screams woke me up and I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping and trembling. I felt him groggily raise himself to sit up next to me, and forced myself to speak in an even voice.



"I'm sorry I woke you."



His eyes were black in the dark bedroom as he peered into mine. "Are you okay?"



"Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing." I shuddered, wanting with all my soul to scream no, no I am not okay, please do not let me fall asleep again, I beg you.



Brian said nothing but I suddenly felt his hand between my quivering shoulder-blades, comforting, rubbing in small circles. The warmth of his skin on mine calmed me and I let out my breath in a whoosh. However, my arm was sill convulsing with the tremors that ran through the muscles, a visual indicator of my precarious emotions, threatening to break me down into a thousand fragments. Brian felt the twitching through his hand on my back and looked down to where I had been unsuccessfully trying to hide my claw under the covers. Still without saying a word, he gently slid his arm down from my shoulders and onto the wrist. I looked away, ashamed and angry at my childlike neediness, and almost certain that he would not want me anymore now that I was 'damaged goods'. Furious tears sprang into my eyes but then I felt him shift, moving further up the bed behind me. He was going through some serious shit of his own about what happened that night, yet he was there for me. I felt his strong arms gently pulling me and I tried to still my shivering as I shifted over. I saw what he was doing when his legs bent either side of me and I felt his chest press against my back, pulling me back, willing me to lean on him. I felt his stomach tense as he reached over to the side of the bed for the bottle of massage oil. Then he softly took my hand and began to knead the rigid muscles, soothing the spasming. I kept my mouth tight shut, afraid that if I spoke I would ruin the moment. We sat like that, me nestled between his endless legs, curled up like a child, with his large strong hands enclosing mine, his silky chest warming my back, feeling his breath ruffle over the hairs on the top of my head.



***



Pitsburgh



Brian muttered all the swear words he knew in a long stream as he doubled over clutching his hip. Since the operation, the dull aches had turned into shooting pains which frequently caught him unawares and rendered him helpless until they passed. His doctors had said the procedure was successful. As successful as surgery to remove an evil disease which is eating your body can be. They knew they hadn't got all of it. Had to pump more toxins into him to shrink the rest. It would be his 3rd round of chemotherapy. Hopefully third fucking time lucky. Brian gasped and bit his lip as he limped to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Who gave a fuck anymore? He just wanted to sleep. No, that wasn't all he wanted. Ignoring the familiar ache in his heart, Brian let eyes wander over the ceiling, grey and smooth, as his thoughts drifted. Gradually, the dark expanse above him dissolved into swirling images...



Blood. On the concrete. Fuck, what happened? It was too fast for me to see! And now you are lying here and oh God I can't breathe. I'm terrified and in this moment I don't care about denying my feelings and I know that I love you. Your face and your smile...bright, so bright... But you are here, on the floor, and you are so still. So eerily still. And I want to shake you, rock you back into consciousness just so I can quench the bubbling emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. And this is all my fault. This, the pooling blood, dark in a steadily growing puddle on the hard rough concrete. And I hate myself so much. I caused you to be bashed, I provoked the ugly intentions, I indulged myself in a display of affection. And now you are limp in my arms as I hold you, oblivious to my yell, and oh fuck, the blood. It comes flooding out of a visible crack above your ear, and the skin around is slightly sunken as I see your bone dented in. Sitting there, rocking you, willing you to live, please live, as people arrive and take out cell phones, calling the ambulance. Shouts and slapping footsteps are drowned out by the desperate pounding of my heart in my ears as the picture dissolves and I am pulled out of it.



Pacing in the quiet unlit loft, waiting for you. Knowing what you are doing. Knowing you are leaving me for someone else. Feeling the pain burn through my chest, making me angry at my own weakness, my own selfishness. When you finally arrive, sliding the door shut behind you, I want to grab you, shout at you, fall on my knees, beg you. Want to hurt you, shock you. Want to fuck you, want you to know all that I cannot say with words. And you are moving away from me, slipping through my fingers like you have been so often lately, avoiding my embrace with ineffective excuses. Anger, searing through me. Love, tightening my throat. Fear, niggling at my stomach. Sadness, clenching my heart. Betrayal, stinging my eyes. How can you have made me feel all these things? I was Brian Kinney, untouchable and prolific, before you came and opened the floodgates. I pull you towards me, looking at you as if I could somehow convey with my eyes alone how I know and I am hurt, and I don't want you to leave, but I know you will and I won't stop you. And then I kiss you, trying to show you what you are giving up. This, this, the undeniable passion between us, the way your body responds to mine as you melt in my arms then push back, straining to close the distance between us, bring our bodies closer, ever closer. But its over before it's begun and I am walking away, pressing my eyes shut against the rage and hurt. Walking into another sparkling picture.



Fire spits in the fireplace as I break all my own rules, tear my heart out and offer it to you, expose myself, ask you to marry me. Try to convince you that I mean this, that it is not an impulse decision. That I have thought long and hard about it, and however long I ponder, the choice is still clear. Because I would give you anything...I would do anything...I'd be anything...to make you happy. The thought of loosing you again is unbearable and I have finally admitted to myself that I am incomplete without you. That every moment I spend away from you is empty. And you stand there looking at me in the silence, disbelieving, as well you should be, your white-gold hair glittering in the muted daylight and your blue eyes dark and so full of wisdom, of maturity. Nothing like the nervous eager young boy I let blow me in Mikey's old bedroom. I don't know when the change came. It was so gradual I must have missed it, but suddenly you were a man and my equal, my lover, my partner. And when you say 'yes' and press your lips to mine I can't believe that you have accepted me. After all the pain I have induced, after all the times I have pushed you away. After causing you to be bashed, and being so fucking stubborn I wasn't even able to tell you how much I cared. Seeing my pre-occupation, you ask me whether I am having second thoughts. If you only knew. I have never been more sure of anything in my life. The trauma of the bomb made me realize that you ARE my life, that I love you more than words can express.



Brian woke, Justin's name on his lips. It was early evening and the loft was shadowed in the fading light. The streetlights had not yet come on and all was dark and quiet and still. Brian got up to close the blinds, feeling the predictable waves of nausea amassing in his stomach. He kept his hand on his still-aching hip as he moved slowly through the empty apartment, memories of his dream fading like the Autumn mists. But there lingered a nameless emotion, and the pain in his bones was nothing in comparison.



***
End of Chapter 7



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