InsaneJournal

23. His Own Brand of Broken (Drabble 23)
Title: His Own Brand of Broken
Author: fansee
Drabble: 23 by zaipixie
Notes: I want to thank the person who wrote the drabble that grabbed me and wouldn't let go and my always-excellent beta.



Despite what people thought, Brian knew just how screwed up he was. He also knew the reason for it. The years guarding his heart and soul in the Kinney household had erected seemingly solid walls to hide behind. But the hair line cracks needed constant seeing to.

His pain management was easy to recognize, and he kept it no secret. Sex. Lots of it. Drugs. Equal amount.

Most people didn't even bother to name it as the pathetic band-aid it was.

But the things he did to keep things as firmly together as he was, was something he did alone.

Your friends thought you had a policy of one-night stands because you craved constant novelty. They thought you were so highly sexed that no one person could ever satisfy you and that you were so shallow that you wouldn’t even consider more than a fleeting encounter. Brian knew that he had built a wall around himself but that the wall had hair-line cracks. Cracks need constant attention. Cracks can never be left alone or they extend, they get wider, and eventually the solid walls crumble. Whenever Brian saw the thinnest of cracks developing, he took action.

Hotlanta was a hair-line crack. He reminded Brian of Emmett, partly because of his soft Southern voice, partly because of his height, but mostly because of his warmth and humanity. With Emmett, Brian always was aware of his gauzy “No Trespassing” sign. Hotlanta’s gauzy sign said, “Welcome. Come on in, put your feet up and set awhile.” Brian was tempted. Putting his feet up and just setting while Hotlanta smoothed out the corners of his life and made him comfortable had its appeal. Hotlanta had definite hair-line crack potential, though, so Brian spackled over that crack quickly.

The Italian Guy could have been another crack if Brian hadn’t been quick to take care of the problem. Because of Michael, Brian knew all about Italian families, and he should have known better than to go home with Italian Guy. Sure enough, his apartment smelled of salami and hearth-baked bread and tomatoes picked ripe…the kinds of food that make you gain weight before you take the first bite. They fucked and it was fine, but when the Guy made a snack afterwards, Brian knew he had to leave quickly and never come back. The Guy brought out a plate of very thin slices of prosciutto alternating with slices of a melon that had been picked at its peak of ripeness, and with it he brought a bottle of red wine that had to be savored for its richness and sheer good taste. Brian ate the prosciutto and melon, he drank some wine, and he left, his own personal devils at his heels.

The White Party should have been safe. Brian expected numerous encounters with guys whose names he’d never know and whose faces would barely make an impression. He hadn’t expected Zen Man. Zen Man’s attraction wasn’t that he had features that would look good stamped on a coin or that his body was incredibly buff and remarkably attractive, although both those factors came into play. Brian could almost admit to himself that he envied the way the man’s zen mindset allowed him to bottom for a stranger and to enjoy being tied up while bottoming, but it was Zen Man’s intellect that made him dangerous. Brian was used to blank stares if he quoted Shakespeare to make a point, but Zen Man could usually complete the quote or top it. Furthermore, he could produce an argument that started at point A and concluded at point D, touching points B and C - in their proper order - along the way. That sort of discussion gave Brian a rush that was almost orgasmic. He counted himself lucky to have encountered Zen Man in Palm Springs and made sure not to get his phone number or e-mail address before he got himself safely on a plane back to the Pitts. That was one hair-line crack safely sealed.

Then there was Dijon-like-the-mustard. Dijon loved to give head, and he was extremely good at it. He was an even better bottom. His fatal attraction, however, was his ability to make Brian laugh. Dijon’s sexual preferences were ordinary, but he had an off-beat way of looking at the world and the ability to express his thoughts comically. His kinks were intellectual, and he fascinated Brian. They spent a night together, had an early breakfast the next morning, then Dijon was off to the airport. “I won’t be back until tomorrow night,” he said. “Shall I call you?”

Brian almost said Yes, but he remembered in time: you like somebody, you see them once, twice, three times, and you start to like having them around. They, in turn, learn about you and find out where your tender places are, where you can be hurt. One day something happens, and the knife goes in and gets twisted in that tender place, and you are left, hemorrhaging painful, unstaunchable emotions, with no bandage to seal them away again.

So when something in his mixture of naiveté and courage attracted you to the Blond Kid you fully expected the routine to repeat itself. Even though you took his cherry, even though he named your son, there was no sane reason for this not to be just another one-night stand. Years later, you still aren’t sure what happened.

You tried hard enough to discourage him, but instead you got entangled, drawn deeper and deeper into his innocently-spun web. Things happened and you did get hurt, because the hair-line cracks in those seemingly solid walls you’d built had grown longer and wider. You did hemorrhage, but afterwards there was healing and the new bandage you slapped on was smaller than the old one had been.

Over the years that you and the Kid circled each other, flying apart, coming together again, some of the walls crumbled. When they did, you found, to your surprise, that the new space gave you room to grow. You grew enough that when the time was right, you could tell the Kid, “It’s only time,” and let him go, confident that you would circle each other again. His leaving hurt, but this time you knew the pain was the pain of more walls crumbling and that when the pain passed, you’d have grown into the new space. The Kid hurt you, but he healed you, too.

Now you no longer maintain your walls. You don’t knock them down, because you still need them sometimes, but when a part crumbles, you don’t repair it, either. You’ve had walls fall before and you’ve lived through the pain. So you shrug and keep on dancing.