Parce Mihi Domine Chapter 4
May. 18th, 2010 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nothing_rhymes_with_iantoSummary: Season 2, Episode 1, pretty much.
A knock sounded on his door. Brian groaned, he knew who it was. Sighing, he stubbed out his last joint- he was pretty much done with it anyway- and strolled over to the door. He opened it a bit, rolling his eyes, about to tell Michael to go away, but the damn persistent guy pushed his way in. He stepped back and let Michael close the door.
Michael turned and glared at him. "I left you four messages."
"I told you, busy, busy." Brian followed Michael's path with his eyes, trying desperately to keep a firm hold on the Brian-fucking-Kinney mask through his stoned haze. He sighed, scratching the back of his neck where his hair was making him itch, and decided on a peace offering. He grabbed a bag of chips of the counter and chucked it at Michael, who caught it in midair. "Want some dinner?"
"This is dinner?" Michael tossed the bag onto the table. Okay, so he had been eating almost nothing for the past month and a half. He was trying to stay thin and youthful, right? Who could blame him?
"Just, the essential elements of a healthy diet: salt, saturated fat, alcohol." In other words, what he had been barely living on.
"I'm never eating again. My mom practically force-fed me the entire Liberty Diner menu."
"Well, who told you to eat it?" Why did Michael always do what everyone else said?
"Well, what was I supposed to do?"
"Say no."
"You know it makes her happy." Therein lies the problem, Mikey.
"There you have it, ladies and gentlemen, proof positive that making other people happy can cause nausea, severe cramps, even diarrhea." Or pain, blood, even amnesia. Shit. Wasn't going to think about that. Goddamn it. Michael got up and moved to his side.
"Got any Tums?" He stared at Mikey for a second, then smirked, remembering an old joke they had in high school.
"Know what Tums is spelled backwards?"
"Smut!" They answered together, grinning at each other. Then Brian frowned. Michael should be in Oregon, and he should be at Woody's getting drunk.
"Why the fuck are you here?"
"I told you, I left you a buncha messages and you never called me back."
"I-I mean, out of all the holiday destinations you could've chosen, Ibiza, Puerto Viarta, Six Flags over fucking Tulsa, why the Pitts?"
"I missed it. It's my home."
"Not anymore, it's not. You're just a visitor here now." Brian scoffed. "Just a sightseer of your former life." He stared at the film cuts in his hands, not really seeing them. He knew where Michael was going to go now that he'd said hello to everyone else. And he didn't like it. But he knew. "So now that you've seen your mom, and the boys, and me, who's next on the tour?"
"I thought I'd go see Justin." Yup, he called it. He scoffed, looked back at his photos. Dammit, he should have brought his camera to that prom, given it to Daphne. Not. Going. To. Think. About. It. "How's he doing?'
Not good. It's my fault. "How should I know?" And now he really needed to go get drunk.
"Well, you would if you went to see him. How about you coming with me?"
"What for?"
"It might make him happy."
"I just told you, making other people happy can be hazardous to your health." And theirs. And I'm not gonna let him see me like this anyway, Michael. Fuck that.
"So can making yourself miserable." Shut. Up. Michael. He put his hand up to stop Michael's blabbing.
"Look, save the worried wife routine for the Doc…and, uh, come with me to Woody's."
"I don't wanna- I don't want to go to Woody's."
"Come on. It's part of the tour. On your left, a nostalgic recreation of your misspent youth. You'll love it." And he really, really needed to get drunk. So Mikey needed to come with him so he could get the fuck home and not end up at the goddamn hospital staring into that fucking window again.
"Uh… Yeah, sure." He grinned at Michael, then realized that he reeked of sweat and weed and god knows what else.
"I stink. I need a shower." He shuffled into the bedroom, undoing the buttons of his shirt as he went. Stopping at the doorway to bathroom, he peeled off the shirt, revealing the stained scarf beneath. He blinked slowly, trying to fight off the dark place in his brain, fighting to keep the fucking mask in place. But Mikey wasn't looking, so he let it slip just a little as he ran the scarf through his fingers, realizing that he was unable to remember it in its pure form. He folded it and placed it by his clothes, starting up the shower and stepping in.
He closed his eyes and turned his face towards the steady stream of water, permitting it to wash away the scents of his day, if only temporarily. He let his mind wander off to random places; Gus and advertising and finding Anita and new furniture he wanted to buy. He began to wash himself, closing his eyes and allowing himself to sway. Then he was losing his balance and catching himself with a palm against the glass. But the low-pitched squeak of skin on glass made him think of fucking Justin in the shower and he shut off the water and got out, drying off and changing, blanking out his brain even as he slid the soiled white scarf on underneath his clean blue shirt.
He stepped out into the room. Michael turned from where he was standing, flipping through some random magazine.
"So, Mikey, ready to go?"
"Uh, yeah. Except, I gotta go the diner and say hello to Ma. And tell her not to come to Woody's since I'll be there."
Brian laughed, scoffing. "Yeah. Wouldn't want that. Debbie's not good for one's sex life, you know."
Michael rolled his eyes. "Come on. Take your car. I'll meet you at Woody's."
By the time Michael got to Woody's, Brian was already on his third drink. Or maybe it was his fourth? He wasn't counting. Michael sat down next to him and ordered a beer. Brian took a drink.
"Brian, what-"
"How's Debbie?"
"Huh? Oh, she's good. She says to tell you that you're an asshole and that you need to eat."
"Uh huh." He knocked back another one. "So. How're the boys of Portland? I bet with all that rain, they all have perfect peaches 'n cream cheeks." He needed to keep Michael talked about stuff he didn't give a shit about, so he could wasted and his best friend wouldn't notice.
"I…haven't had a chance to do a butt check." Brian checked out a new Woody's patron, sizing him up, before deciding on his prey. "Besides, David and I have better ways of spending our evenings." Oh, Michael was still talking.
"Like what?"
"We cook and we read and we listen to music." Christ. If that wasn't boring and hetero as all hell.
"And…check each other's pulses to make sure you're still alive?" He thumped his glass. "You know, if it was me, I'd be out every night… topping the tall timbers."
"Yeah, that's why they have environmental protection laws."
Brian giggled drunkenly, mocking the bad joke. "But, Mikey, tell me. I need to know. Does a lumberjack off?" He barked a hooting laugh and looked down at his hands which were unconsciously preparing a bump. Michael put a hand on his shoulder.
"What the fuck is going on?"
"Nothing-the-fuck is going on." For some reason that joke was actually funny to him.
"You're a fucking fall down mess."
"I'm beautiful! I'll always be beautiful. You said that yourself." It was true he was, and he had. And if Michael didn't stop bugging him, he'd have to get even more hammered and then leave. "You want some?" He offered Michael a bump. Michael shook his head, so Brian took it upon himself to have both his and Michael's share.
"You cut yourself off from everyone, including me. You're drinking….Christ, like I've never seen you before."
"Oh, well." He nodded to Mikey, downed the freshly poured glass.
"Maybe you need to talk to someone." Christ, here we go with the babysitting again.
"What are you? My goddamn mother? You go back where you belong…and read and cook and listen to Muzak with David, and I'll be all right." He fixed Michael with a stare, hiccupped, then stood to go find that trick and lose his brain again. Michael grabbed his arm.
"Why haven't you gone to see Justin?"
Brian stared at the counter, cocking his head, trying to focus on the spot across by the wall. He didn't want anyone, especially Michael to know about the early morning visits he had made, and fuck Michael if he thought he was going to make him see Justin during the day.
He cleared his throat. "Because…" Because it's my fault. "There's nothing I can do for him." He clapped Michael on the hand and jerked his arm away, then left his seat to go find that guy. Brian could feel Michael's eyes on his back and he ignored them. He wandered to the other side of Woody's, looking around, but the guy was gone and the rest of the bar he'd already had, and what he hadn't were slim pickings anyway. He decided to wander back to Michael.
He watched a crowd disperse from the corner near the door and glanced over to see what had just happened. Then he stopped, feeling like the world had just punched him in the gut, and sobered up. Shit shit shit shit. Justin. Sunshine. No. Shit. He didn't want Justin to see what a mess this had made him. He didn't want Justin to see him like this. And what if the blond blamed him? He already knew it was his fault, he didn't need to be told again.
"Well, are you just gonna fuckin' stand there?" Michael demanded. He turned from the two standing in the corner, eyes wide, breathing hard. What could he do? He knew the stubborn kid wasn't going to leave without leaving with him, and he knew Michael wasn't going to let him leave without taking Justin with him. But fuck, he didn't want Justin to see him like this. He put on his Brian-fucking-Kinney mask on as quickly as possible, hoping they hadn't registered the vulnerability in his features a moment ago. Better to get this shit over with as quickly as possible.
He walked over to Michael and Justin. Michael stepped a little ways away. Justin glanced at the floor, then up at Brian.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"Um…"
"I'm gonna, uh, leave. You coming?" Justin looked frightened and uncertain for a moment, then nodded.
"Y-yeah."
"You cant drive, Brian! You're fucking drunk!" Michael cut in.
"Fuck off, Michael. I'll drive if I want to. It's my fucking car and I'm going to my fucking apartment. Leave me alone." He trudged his way out, Justin on his heels. Getting in his Jeep, he reached across and opened the passenger door for Justin without a word. Justin pulled himself in and shut the door with his left hand. Justin sat there, watching Brian. Brian couldn't decide if he never wanted to let Justin out of his sight, or if he couldn't bear to look at the blonde. Neither spoke until they got into the loft.
"When did you get out of the hospital?"
"This morning. There were all these reporters outside. Hobbes' trial is tomorrow. I had to sneak out the window."
"Do you…want something to drink?"
"Sure."
Justin started talking as Brian rooted through the refrigerator for bottled water.
"The doctor said that if Hobbes had hit me a fraction of an inch this way…or, that way…" he pointed with his fingers. Brian handed him a glass. "Or at a different angle, or even a little bit harder, I'd be a complete vegetable." Brian leaned against the counter, eyes half focused on Justin, half far away in a place that was whispering 'my fault'.
"Or dead." The word 'dead' snapped his attention back to Justin. Inside, he shuddered, shying away from the thought. What if that had happened? How could he have survived himself? "As it is, he only damaged the cerebral motorstrip."
"Is that where they drag-race through your brain?"
Justin laughed a bit, scoffing at him. "No, it's a part of the cerebral cortex that controls motor skills."
"I know what it is, I attended the eighth grade." Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead was still echoing in his own brain. And he was even more strongly aware of the silk hidden beneath his shirt, brushing against his skin.
"They had to drill through my skull to release all the blood."
"Cool." Not cool. You could've died. He ran a hand over his face.
"They say I may never draw again." Justin looked at him, confusion and a faded look of hope in his eyes.
"Yeah, well, they're always telling people they'll never walk again or draw again or…piss again, so that when you do, you'll think they're geniuses and charge you whatever the fuck they want." His voice sounded too loud even to his own ears. Justin was peering at him. He huffed out a sigh and faced him.
"Why didn't you come see me?" I did. Every night. He drew his lips into his mouth. Justin couldn't know.
"…What for?"
"Considering I was in a coma for two weeks, in rehab for a month. Trying to relearn how to throw a fucking wiffle ball."
"You know, if you want to regain the agility and strength in your hand, I'd suggest jacking off several times a day. It works like magic."
Justin nodded. "You should've at least called to see if I was still alive."
I sat in a fucking hospital for three goddamn days waiting to see if you were still alive. He looked quickly away, nearly interrupting Justin with his rushed response.
"I'm sure I would have heard if you weren't." He got up, turning. "Besides, I'm not your occupational therapist. I'm not your trauma specialist, I'm not even your goddamn mother, sitting there holding your hand. I mean, there's nothing I could have done for you." It was my fault anyway.
Justin took a breath. "I still don't remember anything." He said in a sigh. Brian nodded absently and moved to get a drink of his own. "Last thing I do remember is you telling me you wouldn't come to my prom." Brian frowned. How much time was that? Jesus. "But they said that you showed up, after all. And that we danced together. And that it was amazing. Daphne said that we were amazing."
Brian turned his half-focused gaze to Justin. "We were alright."
He saw a quick, dim version of that Sunshine smile. "Shit! I wish I could remember that." Brian rubbed the back of his neck and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam. "And then, I walked with you, back out to your Jeep." Brian stopped moving, turning halfway towards Justin, his eyes fixed on a point far away, his mind's eye replaying the scene Justin was talking about. "And that's when Chris Hobbes came out with a baseball bat and-"
"I thought you said you couldn't remember anything." He'd had to interrupt Justin. He didn't want to hear it.
"I cant. This is just stuff that other people have told me." Brian stared at the bottle cap in his fingers. Justin shrugged. "It's like, pff, a story that happened to somebody else."
Brian dropped the cap on the counter. "Yeah, well, I can remember. I can remember everything." Shit. He wasn't going to do this. He wasn't going to get vulnerable. Fuck. My fault. My fault. He walked across the room and stood with his back to Justin. The words tumbled out of him against his will as he watched the scene play out in his head. He ran a hand across his face again.
"I saw him. His was coming after you with a bat." His voice cracked, but he didn't notice or care. He looked down, trying to clear away the images. It didn't work. He looked up again. "But he was moving too fast and you were too far away." He closed his eyes, frowning at the memory, the unbidden images that had been fogging his brain for too long. "And I ran. But there was no time to stop him." My fault. He closed his eyes, dropping his head. "And then he swung." He mimicked the motion with his head. "And it was too late. There was nothing I could do." He fought back the tears stinging at his eyes. My fault my fault. "And then you just laid there on the cold cement." And it was my fault. And I couldn't do anything. He breathed hard; he could still feel the hard cement on his knees, the warm blood rushing over his fingers, the fear in the pit of his stomach. He blinked, suddenly aware that Justin was behind him.
"It wasn't your fault." Yes, it was. He answered in his head. How the hell did Sunshine know what he was thinking? Justin walked around to stand in front of him. Brian stared at him, through him, uncertain whether or not to believe that this was real. Tentatively, Justin reached out his left hand and placed it on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "It wasn't your fault."
Brian stared at Justin, watching as his eyes searched Brian's face.
If I hadn't come, you wouldn't have almost died. If I hadn't been there, he wouldn't have hit you. You would be okay. If I wasn't there, you wouldn't have lost weeks. If I wasn't there, you would actually remember that night.
One-handed, Justin slowly drew him into a hug, gently stroking the back of Brian's neck, somehow instinctively knowing the gesturing was soothing to him. Brian reached up and held Justin to him, concentrating on the solid alive-ness of his body, the gentle touch of his hand. He closed his eyes.
They stood that way for a long time.
Then Brian was pulling back, pushing himself back into the mask, as best he could. But the damn thing was practically see-through around Justin.
"Does your mom know you're here?"
"Um, I left a note."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah, she'll probably kill me." Brian looked away, quickly reminding himself He's alive, he's alive and he's all right. Justin seemed to noticed his change. He touched Brian's arm gently and shrugged in apology.
"We should…probably get you back before your mom sends out the entire police force to look for you."
"She would, you know." Justin chuckled a little. Brian gave him a reluctant half smile.
They headed out to the car, Justin leading the way. He jabbered on about physical therapy and Daphne and his parents and Debbie's pasta as they drove. Brian kept silent, just listening to the voice of the boy beside him. Living, breathing, all right.
They stopped outside Justin's house. Justin had stopped talking. He sat there, looking at his hands as Brian stared out into the darkness, his brain still replaying the scene in the parking garage, start-stopping like a bad, grainy old film.
"Thanks." Justin looked up at him. Brian shook himself, glancing over.
"For what?"
"The ride, saving me."
"I didn't save you." It was my fault that you almost died went unsaid, but they both knew it was there.
"I meant tonight." Oh. Brian blinked slowly, uncertain of what to say to that. "So…will I see you again?"
At that moment he decided that he didn't want to let Justin out of his sight. "Yeah. You'll see me."
"Well, don't wait too long. At this rate, who knows how long I'll be around." He grinned. Brian stared at him. It was a bad joke, and a pretty fucking low dig. He watched Justin open the car, struggling with his hand. The porch light flicked on and Jennifer wrenched the door open.
"Justin! Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I was?" It's always my fault. Why do I always get him hurt? Brian stared at nothing again. His eyes flicked toward the two on the porch. "How could you just leave like that?"
Jennifer's exclamation was like a jab in the heart and the throat at the same time. How could you just leave like that? How could you just leave like that? It was something like that that had echoed and bounced in his brain those three days in the hospital. How could you just leave like that, leave me to see you bleeding, dying, leave me to fall to pieces when I don't know how. How could you just leave like that?
"I left you a note." Justin's (Justin's) indignant voice.
"Come inside." Brian looked over to see Jennifer ushering her son into the house. She glanced back at Brian, her expression one of dislike and blame. He looked away, staring down at his hands. He drove home in silence.
