Chapter Text
The glass of the shower door is cool against my back. My eyes are heavy, and I let them close. Sweat drips from my brow, and I think about peeling off my track pants and getting into the shower.
But that would require moving.
The doctor said that the treatment would make me nauseous; would make me sick. As if I wasn’t already sick enough having fucking cancer. I didn’t think it could get worse, didn’t think that was possible.
I want one of the bottles of water from the fridge, but it’s too far. So close, yet so, so far away. If only…no, not going there. He’s…no. Will not think about it.
I remember telling the doc that I’d be fine, that the radiation or whatever the fuck it was wouldn’t affect me like other people.
Brian Kinney does not vomit.
Vomiting is just about the most undignified act a human being can perform, and there’s plenty of competition for that title. I can drink most people under the table, and never end up hugging porcelain. Mikey’s the one who always wound up with his head out the car window like a dog.
A smile ghosts my lips at the memory of poor Michael upchucking all over the side of my father’s brand new Oldsmobile. I wasn’t going to clean it up afterwards, but he insisted, of course. I thought old Jack deserved the new look for his precious car.
Bastard.
I wonder if he felt like this when he was dying.
I wonder if he was scared.
I shiver and pull my knees to my chest, but my arms don’t want to move around them. I should really be a man and open my eyes and get the hell off the bathroom floor, but it feels like an insurmountable task.
Then suddenly there’s something wet and cool on my forehead. I realize belatedly that I had heard the sound of the tap turning on a few moments before.
“Brian, drink some water.”
My heart skips a beat and I feel a thrill of adrenalin course through me at the sound of his voice. I open my eyes, and Justin is kneeling before me. Wiping my face with the wet cloth, and holding an open bottle of water.
I don’t deserve this.
“Here. I’ll hold it, just drink.” He lifts the bottle up and I do as I’m told. The water feels like the finest whiskey as it slides down my throat.
“Not too much at once, it’ll make you sick again.” He puts the bottle down beside me. “Just rest for a minute.” He gets up, and all I want to do is pull him close, but I don’t have the energy.
***
Brian Kinney does not do love.
That’s for starry-eyed straights and dykes and silly faggots. Not for me. What has love ever gotten anyone? That’s what I’ve been telling myself for years. It’s all bullshit.
Right?
Justin is on his hands and knees, cleaning up my puke. I had missed the toilet pretty spectacularly. It’s disgusting. There are chunks of the roast beef sandwich and fries that I’d defiantly had for lunch, despite the doctor’s warning to only have soup.
He didn't even blink.
He’s just mopping it up methodically with paper towels. He isn’t cringing, or grimacing or even wrinkling his nose in distaste. He just wipes it up, matter of factly. This repulsive mess that I’ve made.
He turns to look at me. “Do you want more water now?” I just stare at him. “Hold on a sec,” he says, and turns back to my puke.
Like it’s nothing.
How can he be here? How can he have come back after what I said? How is it possible for him to still care?
He’s gotten the spray cleaner out from where the maid keeps it under the sink. He finishes cleaning up my vomit like it’s nothing more than spilt milk.
***
Brian Kinney does not cry.
Memories instantly rise up to prove me wrong, whispering and spreading their fingers wide over me. That old fucking asshole and his fists. A bowling ball disappearing into the mist. Blood soaking into concrete.
Justin finishes up and washes his hands. He turns to me and freezes. He was about to say something, but his jaw slowly drifts shut. He takes a few steps and sinks onto his knees, sits back on his heels.
He reaches out and wipes a tear from my cheek.
I grasp hold of his hand and try to speak, but my throat is raw. He gently pulls his hand free and lifts up the water bottle. I take a few sips. My voice is still hoarse, but the words finally come.
“I’m sorry.”
He tries to smile and I know what he’s going to say. I know exactly what he’s going to say. His voice is shaky. “Sorry’s—” I press my finger to his lips, cutting off the words I’ve said myself a thousand times. Time for new words.
“I love you.”
His eyes go wide, and for what seems like a goddamned eternity, he just stares. Then he takes a deep breath and leans in and kisses me. It’s slow and soft and he touches my face lightly. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining. I take his hand and weakly thread our fingers together. He squeezes tight and kisses me again.
As I part my lips, I know my breath tastes like puke – sour and stale. And I know he doesn’t care. And I know I’d do it for him. All of it.
Because that’s fucking love.