White Silk Symphony

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Cowlip and Showtime. I'm just playing.

A/N: This story contains spoilers for seasons one and two. Special thanks to my support system: Alisanne, knightmare, Eeyore & Melisande, all whom helped on this venture. Couldn't do it without you guys!

I wondered if he ever thought, even for a moment, that I was the author of all of his misery.

Everyone else does, but fuck what they think, they just want to be me for a day. Or twenty minutes. Something like that.

I saw that white silk scarf and I just had to have it.

Just like I saw him, standing under the streetlight, looking like a lost, fallen angel, and had to have that. Have him.

I don’t think that I treated either him or the scarf very well. The scarf is ruined, and he….

No. No.

Fuck.

See, this is why I don’t believe in love. Or commitments. Or any of that straight yuppie bullshit that’s on every fucking channel, every page of every magazine…on the ad copy that I write…it’s all bullshit, all one big, sparkling, elaborate lie designed to part you from your wallet, your brain, your life. And when I think for one second, one second, that maybe, just maybe, I could possibly have a piece of this for myself-

WHAM.

I don’t think that I’ve been able to close my eyes without hearing that sound since it happened. It sounded like when McGuire hit his 62nd home run. I haven’t watched a baseball game since that night. I hear that sound and I want to scream.

I wonder if he hears it still.

Wait, he doesn’t remember.

Funny, when we thought we’d given everyone something that they’d never forget.

But back to the scarf. I think that it was the scarf that started the whole fucking mess.

White silk. Soft as his skin, his hair. Brilliant as his smile.

Sunshine. That’s what Debbie named him. It fits. When he smiles, it’s like the sun coming out. Beautiful. With his cute little overbite.

The scarf, right.

So, I was shopping with Lindsay, who was telling me how cute it was that Justin asked me to his prom. Fuck, I didn’t even go to my own. And why would I want to be in a room full of fucking teenagers? Why couldn’t he just want to go to Babylon instead? I could have arranged one hell of a party for him, if he’d wanted.

I wish that I had. I wish that I’d never shown up.

The scarf. It was lying there, in a box on the shelf. I thought that I deserved something pretty for my 30th birthday. So I bought it. And I took it home.

And I wrapped it around my neck and threw one end over the rafters of my loft and hung from it, jacking off, high on coke. Dreading being 30. Afraid of it. Of growing old. Of not being beautiful.

Until Michael showed up. He came in, screeching like he always does, and yanked me down. And we landed on my beautiful, highly polished hardwood floor.

That fucking hurt.

He thinks that I was trying to kill myself. I so wasn’t. I just wanted…

I don’t know what the fuck I wanted. I still don’t.

I can’t even tell the story in a straight line. Maybe because all lines converge at one point.

Justin. Lying face down on the hard cold cement, his lifeblood poring out of the hole in his skull.

With my scarf around his neck, soaking it up like a sponge.

What happened was, I decided to show up anyway. At the prom. He looked…innocent. Happy, fresh-faced, scrubbed and polished. Until you looked into his eyes. There’s wisdom in those baby blues. A knowing, like no one his age should ever have.

It’s a knowledge that speaks of coming out, of parental control and parental scorn; of knowing that your own father would rather have you live on the streets than to admit to who and what you are, that teachers and students and so-called friends think that you have some fucking disease, or hope that you catch one. It’s a knowledge of back rooms and bath houses, of things that go on in dark secret places.

He’s so brave. He’s braver than anyone I know, except maybe for Emmett. They both knew who and what they were, admitted it and accepted it, and never looked back. My parents still don’t know.

I took his hand and the dance floor cleared. Some corny old song was playing, but it didn’t matter. There was him and me, and the music and the lights and I didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything because there was only him and me in the world at that moment. Pure, shining.

Like white silk.

I called Michael, prayed to a God that I don’t believe in that he hadn’t gotten on the plane yet, hadn’t left with David yet, please, God, Mikey be there…I need you this time, not for me, not this time…just…Just…Justin…

I sat in the hallway still, frozen, numb. The white silk scarf, no longer pure and brilliant, but tainted, poisoned, ruined, around my neck, because it’s mine, isn’t it? I own this, don’t I? And what you own comes back to you in the end. That was how Michael found me. He sat down, not saying a word, just…he put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me slightly towards him. I couldn’t speak. There were no words.

There were tears, though. I had those. I couldn’t help it. I’d never felt so utterly hopeless in my life. I’d never felt to blame for anything. But I was for this. This was my fault, because I just had to shove it in the faces of all those straight people, “Hey look at us! Look at the fags! Watch this, you fuckers!” And I kissed him, right there in front of God and everybody, and it felt so fucking good. He felt so fucking good.

And then, he walked with me down to my Jeep, we goofed around for a bit, then I kissed him. It was so good, I did it again, slower. There. For a moment, everything was right. I felt right for the first time since I woke up and realized that I was 30. He made me feel that way. I put my scarf around his neck, and he grasped the ends and turned to me and smiled. That smile that could light up the night. I got into my Jeep and watched him walk away in the side view mirror.

And then he showed up. Hobbs. With-

Fuck!!

“Justin!” I screamed, jumping out of the Jeep and running, running to him, running to stop it-

-and he turned to look at me, oh God, no-

-and the bat came up, and swung-

WHAM.

-and Justin dropped like a stone. I grabbed the bat and swung at Hobbs’ knees…no more football for you, motherfucker. I dropped to my knees, cradling Justin to me, begging pleading no no no...God!

Three days. That’s how long I sat there in that corridor, the same one that Justin, Michael and I had run down just months before, the night that Gus was born. I didn’t even know him then, but he was there on the biggest night of my life, the night that I became a father. They’d operated, and said that they’d done all that they could do. The rest was up to Justin.

But they don’t know what I know, what his mother knew. Justin was strong. He was resilient. Like silk. Fragile to the eye, but tough, made of strong woven fiber.

Two weeks. That’s how long he was in the coma for. And then another month in rehab. I watched him, every night. No one knew, except the night nurse. They all thought that I didn’t care, that I never saw him. But I did. I watched as he tossed and turned, stuck in his nightmares of an event that he couldn’t even remember. And then, finally, they sent him home.

Where he slowly but surely began to fall apart.

They said that it was my fault, that he pushed too hard, that he was only doing it so that he could be well enough to come find me. But I couldn’t see him. Not yet. It hurt too much. But I didn’t know how afraid he was. How terrified he’d become of the things that were once so familiar to him. The lights and sights and sounds of Liberty Avenue were enough to send him reeling into the night, bouncing from stem to stern, like a pinball on its way to tilt. He came into Woody’s, where the regulars were happy to see him, asking about the trial, wanting to know how he was. And he freaked. I’d never seen him look that way before, like a deer caught in the headlights. I stood there, not sure if I should approach him. But Michael had no such reservations. He walked over to him, spoke softly. Justin turned to look at him, relief flooding his features at a familiar face. And then, he saw me.

What could I do? I took him in. Like I had since the night that I met him. I took him home, calmed him, let him prattle on about what had happened in the hospital, how one centimeter to the left or right would have killed him or made him a vegetable. He had no idea how his words, so casually spoken, cut into me, wound around me and tightened, like a noose.

A white silk noose.

Finally, he looked up at me, and I guess what he saw was enough to make him realize that there were two of us there that night. He came to me, held his hand up tentatively to my shoulder and told me that it wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t my fault.

So easy for him to say. Yet so hard for me to believe.

I took him back to his mother’s house, where she fawned all over him, wondering where he’d been. Then she saw me. She looked at me as if I were the devil himself, and closed the door.

A few days later, I sat on the front steps with Daphne as Justin tossed a tennis ball to me, trying to recover the fine motor skills in his right hand. His drawing hand. The one that they told him might never work properly again. They told him, they fucking told him that he may never draw again.

He’s an artist, for fuck’s sake!! You don’t tell an artist something like that. But again, they don’t know him like I do. They don’t know what he’s capable of.

And then his mother showed up. She sent him in to ‘rest’, and told him that she wanted to talk to me.

Well, parents wanting to talk to me can’t be good. The last time I talked to her, I took her son out of her house and into mine. She probably hates me for that, still.

She told me that she tried to accept my world and me, and that her son was a part of it. But that it was my world that almost cost her her son. I couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t my world, that it was hers that did that. The uptight homophobic straight assholes that almost cost her her son. What I did tell her was something that I’d never told anyone, much less Justin. I told her that I cared about him. She said that she believed that I did. And then she asked me to leave and never see him again.

I wonder if she had any idea how much that hurt. Not her words, but the idea that I couldn’t see him again. I needed him in a way that I couldn’t explain to anyone, not even myself. But I did what she asked. Because unlike my own mother, she actually cared about her son, and was doing what she thought was best. I didn’t like it, but I did have some morals. I understood.

And so I left. Again. Like I always do.

And when he next showed up at my door, I turned him away. Again. Like I do.

~@~

A few weeks later, she showed up at my door.

I was in the process of kicking out a trick who was less than impressed with my performance. Well, pardon me all over the fucking place if my head wasn’t in the game. Not like he helped, anyway. Besides, there were hundreds of others that could attest to my prowess. And did. Besides, what he didn’t know was that he was one of hundreds that I fucked once. Justin was the only person I’d ever fucked more than once. The only one. He was the only one I ever wanted to fuck more than once.

I opened the door and there she was, staring at me. Well, I did have a rather endearing habit of answering my door stark naked. Fuck, I wasn’t expecting anyone, why should I care? I did wonder, for a brief second, if seeing what her son saw on a regular basis bothered her at all. Probably did. She did have the common decency to look away. She said she’d come at a bad time. Eyeing the trick leaving the loft, I commented that they both had that in common.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and asked her what she wanted.

She wanted me to take Justin back. To bring him here. With me. To stay.

I asked her what the fuck she was talking about.

She said that he wouldn’t let anyone touch him or come near him. And that I was the only person that he trusted. I asked her if she wanted me to fuck him. She asked me to touch him, to let him be touched. She was afraid that she would lose him. Safe to say that Justin found out what mommy did. He threw a fit, but not like a hissy fit. He flew into rages these days. The pain of not remembering, for not having control of his hand, his memories, his life, causing his outbreaks to become violent.

So I took him back. Like I do.

And I tried to fix him like I try to fix everything. With sex.

I told him to come closer, take off some of his clothes. I kissed him, and rolled him over. I thought that this would be easy, that we’d fall into our familiar patterns, familiar rhythms.

We didn’t. What did happen was the first of several small shocks for me.

When I moved to enter him, he nearly jumped out of his skin. It startled me so much that I actually jumped back myself. He began to shake, and I could hear him saying stop…don’t…and I watched helplessly as he moved to the other side of the bed. Away from me. Away from us.

~@~

I ran into a psychiatrist that I knew from the baths at Woody’s, and bought him a drink. I asked for help, something that Brian Kinney does not do. He told me that Justin’s memories were in essence killing him. That Justin had locked them away, that they needed to be triggered where he could face them. Until that happened, he’d never recover. He said that I needed to trigger those memories in him. For that, I needed more help. I needed Daphne.

Daphne is to Justin what Mikey is to me. Best friend, confidante, the one person guaranteed to see through the bullshit. There to lend a hand and to hold a hand. I liked her. She wasn’t afraid to tell me where to go, didn’t fall for my bullshit. You have to admire a woman like that. And I did, even if she was young. Daphne made the short list of women in my life that I respected.

She helped me to recreate the prom for Justin. She walked him through the beginning, him picking her up, them dancing at the prom, the music that was playing. And then she told him about my arrival. That I was wearing a black tux, with a burgundy bowtie and a white silk scarf. I saw a flash of recognition flit across his features, only to have it leave just as quickly. She told him what I said to her, laughing about it, “You look hot, Daphne…I’d fuck you.” Daphne queued the song that had been playing, “Save The Last Dance”, and I led him into the dance. He asked if we’d really danced to that corny old song. I told him that I preferred to think of is as ridiculously romantic, another trigger for him. I told him to close his eyes, and Daphne and I explained what had taken place. What had led up to the night’s last act.

And then you kissed, Daphne said. So hot. And he asked, amazed, if I’d actually kissed him in front of everybody. Yeah, I said. You should have been there. He should remember this. He said it was the best night of his life, and he can’t remember and dammit, it was one of the best of mine as well. I hope that he remembers that part, because I don’t know if I can ever tell him.

It would expose too much. Things that I can’t consider, don’t want to consider…not yet. I’m not as strong as he is, as he thinks I am.

That last stop was the parking garage. The one place that I never wanted to see again. I got out and watched as Justin wandered over towards the spot where he landed. I wonder if he knew, or just intuited that. I told him that he walked me down here, that we were goofing around, and that I’d kissed him…God, that kiss was actually better than the one we shared on the dance floor. It was…everything that I couldn’t tell him, that he was getting to me, had gotten to me. I wrapped the white silk scarf around his neck. We said Later, and he turned to leave. And then he turned back to me, and smiled. That Sunshine smile, the one that makes everything okay. He grabbed the ends of the scarf and headed back to Daphne and the dance, and I watched him go in my side view mirror. And that’s when I saw Hobbs come up behind him. I jumped out of the Jeep but they were too far away and

WHAM!!

I didn’t tell him about me running over, cradling his still body, rocking back and forth trying to will it away, please no, no nonononononono….

I shook with the telling, shouting Christ! in my frustration. I asked him don’t you remember anything? He walked over to me, and very gently put his arms around me. I wish that I could remember, he said to me.

I wish that I could forget I whispered back.

The breakthrough came shortly thereafter.

On Gus’ first birthday. Which, ironically, was the first anniversary for Justin and I, as well. The first time I saw him standing under the street light, the first time I rimmed him, the first time I fucked him.

His first time.

We were at the munchers’ house, where the backyard had been decorated for the festivities. That fucking swing set that drove me crazy trying to assemble, and what the fuck is a gratchet, anyway?, over on the other side, mocking me. I just know it was. Lindsay had Gus on her lap, and they opened presents. One was a small, yellow plastic baseball bat. Gus picked it up, waved it, and dropped it, like babies do. Lindsay gave it back to him and turned to me, telling me that my son would be a famous baseball player. As long as that would make a man out of him, fine by me. What I didn’t know was that, at seeing the small bat waving around, Justin was having a flashback. A real one. I heard a small noise, and turned to see Justin, white as a sheet, white as the scarf that I’d placed around his neck, swaying dangerously. I called his name and-

-Justin remembered Brian screaming his name

JUSTIN!!!

And he turned and met the swing of the bat-

WHAM!!

-slowly gathered him to me, holding his shaking body as close as I could. I hadn’t been that scared since that night. He looked as if he were about to die, and I couldn’t handle that, not again. I took him home.

He awoke later that evening, as I went through the routine of shutting down the loft for the night. I set the alarm, turned off the track lighting above the kitchen counter and headed up to the raised bedroom area, where I saw him sit up. I sat close to him after asking if he felt better. I told him that he really freaked me out, that it was like watching him get bashed all over again. He told me that he remembered hearing me call his name, and he turned around, just as the bat connected. That I’d tried to save him. He said that I hadn’t told him about that.

I hadn’t.

Because I felt as if I hadn’t saved him at all. That I failed.

I told him that I must have forgotten. He smiled and said good thing one of us remembered.

And then he leaned in close and kissed me. Softly. And said

I want you inside me

I looked at him, almost afraid that he’d change his mind if I moved too quickly.

Are you sure? I asked.

Yeah…just…take it easy…

I nodded. Like the first time? I asked, letting him know that, for once, I recalled the significance of the day.

And he smiled. He unbuttoned my shirt, and carefully slid it from my shoulders, where he encountered-

-the white silk scarf. The one I’d been holding onto since they gave it to me before loading him into the ambulance.

The same one I wore around my neck for three days straight while waiting to see if he would live or die.

The same one that I’d worn under my shirts everyday since, removing it only to shower.

The same one, no longer pure and pristine, but covered in his blood, and my guilt.

He took it off slowly, looked at it, at me, and slowly dropped it to the floor.

I laid him down on his side, and placed my body behind his. I slid my hands over his smooth skin, as if reassuring us both that he was still here, that we were both still here. I kissed him slowly, not like we usually did, all fire and lust, but softly, as a lover. As someone who cared, who needed.

Who could possibly love.

I made love to him. I entered him like a whisper, watched as his head fell back onto my shoulder, back arching into me, sighing deeply. I moved gently, in and out of him, loving him, if only for this one moment in time. We moved together, kissed often, came moaning, holding on to one another like the last safe haven in the world.

The white silk scarf of our shared burden lay on the floor, finally forgotten.

Fin