testdog65 (testdog65) wrote in qaf_challenges, @ 2007-02-20 19:38:00 |
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Original poster: _alicesprings
Title: The Mark
Written By: tigbit
Timeline: S4 - An alternative look at the cancer arc
Rating: R for language
Warnings: Angst.
Author’s Notes: Thank you, my beta, for the beta. This is my first QaF fic, so judge as you will. :D
***
Brian’s never claimed to be psychic.
There are a great many things in his life that he never anticipated happening. Meeting Justin, for one – keeping the twink turned non-conventional-something-or-other in his bed, his loft, his life for more than the standard singular orgasm. Brian Kinney never anticipated this thing he feels in his chest – the burst of something that may or may not be love that pops up whenever Justin’s around.
Cancer, for another– being nuked with poison, throwing up, dealing with pity and care and a wide range of equally disgusting human emotions that are thrown at him left and right. Being forced to think about things like time.
And while Brian never dreamed – willingly or unwillingly – about love or cancer, he certainly never imagined he’d become intimate with his ceiling.
But he is. So to speak.
He’s familiar with the light – the way it transforms the ceiling at noontime, supper time, nighttime, and all the other times in-between with its shades of gold, yellow, red, purple, blue. He’s come to anticipate the shadows that slowly dance from one side of the room to another.
Brian knows exactly how many cracks, broken bits of plaster, and, predictably enough, the number of cum stains that grace the Javan-Dream paint above his head all night and nearly all day. Sometimes he amuses himself by remembering some of the more spectacular events that put them there.
He often suppresses the need to name them – the cracks and blotches of missing paint. In some of his more potent, drugged-up moments, it seems like a good idea. But then, he’d never want Justin to find out and he knows that with the right combination of fatigue, exhaustion, drugs, and hunger, his brain security could lax and it might slip out. So he refrains.
He tries not to think of them too much. Except for two.
One that looks suspiciously like a coffee stain. He’s thought over the logistics of the thing, but for all of his bed-sitting, he’s never been able to figure out how it might have ended up on his ceiling. None of his liquid-partaking activities in the bedroom have ever involved coffee. At least, not that he’s aware of. He’ll have to ask Justin.
The other mysterious mark rests nearly directly above the foot of the bed. It’s large – nearly the size of a child’s fist – and with the right amount of lighting and squinting, Brian thinks it looks like an elephant with an impressively large trunk. But on some days - with the right head-cocked position and time of day - it nearly looks like dick. A big one.
This pleases Brian to no end, of course, but Justin won’t have any of it.
“It’s just a stain, Brian,” he says tiredly after being pulled down on the duvet for a closer inspection.
“A stain that looks like a dick,” Brian corrects.
Justin sighs, knows he won’t win, and attempts to sit up before he feels a hand on his shirt, tugging him back down. He faintly tries to resist when Brian pushes him down the bed, but finds himself lying under the aforementioned mark anyway. Brian settles down next to him, shoulder touching shoulder, and raises a finger to the ceiling.
“Now,” Brain says, convinced of the better angle, “look at it again and tell me that it doesn’t look phallic. Or at least like an elephant.”
Huffing once more, Justin decided to indulge. He stares at the ceiling, takes in the fucking blemish of a mark – the edges and swirl that okay, yeah, might look something like a trunk – before his thoughts turn to other things. After a minute, Brian gently pokes his side. “So?”
He makes up his mind and snaps. “I told you, Brian, I don’t see anything.” Leaving a confused Brian on the bed, he stomps over to the kitchen. He doesn’t get very far before Brian calls after him.
“I thought you were an artist.”
What a stupid fucking thing to say. Justin opens the refrigerator for a bottle of water and barely refrains from slamming it shut.
“I am.”
“Then aren’t you the one who’s supposed to see strange images on my ceiling?”
“Not today.” Justin finishes picking out the pills that Brian needs to take. He keeps the bottles in a cabinet under the sink (he can’t fucking stand to look at them) and when he straightens up, Brian’s gone quiet – the subject apparently dropped. The cup full of pills jingles as Justin makes his way back to the bed.
He knows Brian’s heard him – he can tell by the way he’s closed in on himself, arms folded across his chest and eyes closed on a face that’s lost too much weight. No more goofy ramblings about dicks on ceilings, just preparation for another bitter acknowledgement of his sickness.
Justin hates it.
“It’s 12:30,” he offers softly, “Time to take your meds.” Sits on the edge of the bed and holds out his hands. Brian doesn’t even look at him – just pours the pills in his mouth and washes them down with one long gulp from the bottle.
Justin wants to say something, thinks he should. But the words on the tip of his tongue – “I’m sorry” “I wish you didn’t have to” “I wish I could take them instead”– are all trite and he swallows them, choosing instead to hold the empty cup so hard that it cracks. Fuck it. He wants to cry.
“Hey,” Brian whispers, and that quiet exhalation only makes Justin want to cry more. How pathetic. He’s not the one with cancer – he’s not the one wasting away – and here he is, a sniffling queen, begging for comfort.
“I’m fine,” he lies, but it’s too late – Brian catches his hand, tugs it until Justin is forced to put the cup on the nightstand and fall onto the mattress.
He hates this too – the way they don’t fit like they should. It’s still perfect, of course, Justin will never want someone else’s hands to crawl around and rest on his ass, never want non-Brian breath this close to his lips. But it’s different.
Brian’d always been skinny, but Justin’s never been able to feel his ribs – not even in the face of near poverty after Stockwell. He traces them with shaking fingers and wonders if he’ll ever be able to feel them disappear under a little layer of fat. Or if this is the way it will always (until it can’t) be.
The thought forces another soft sob from his lips.
“It’s okay,” Brian says, and presses a kiss on the tip of Justin’s nose. Brian’s long arms wrap around him, and Justin follows the slight roll as Brian leans to lie down on his back. Deciding that the research, the art project, the groceries, the update he owes Debbie, the worry can wait, Justin rests his head against Brian’s neck and breathes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see a dick on the ceiling,” he sniffs, pressing his face in further.
Brian chest rumbles with one, gruff grunt of humor-less laughter. “That’s okay.”
And just before Justin nods off, he hears Brian finish.
“There’s really nothing there at all.”
***
Justin spends a lot of time being angry, these days.
He’s angry at his mom when she calls – absolutely can’t stand the way the pity crawls through the telephone lines to his ears. He sits on one of the stools or chairs and grits his teeth through endless minutes and questions, trying his best not to snap.
He’s angry at Debbie. Her voice is too loud in the loft – he has to resist the urge to shush her when she visits, stopping only because Brian grins a bit when he smells the tuna casserole. He’s always thankful when she’s gone. After all, he’s lost count of the number of dishes he’s had to throw away – always waiting until he’s sure her shift at the diner has started before scooping it all in the trash. Brian can’t eat it, anyway.
He’s angry at Brian’s friends. Resents them when they leave because they can. He hates how they deal with Brian’s new reality for minutes at a time instead of days, weeks, months – how they whisper “Are you okay, Justin? Do you need anything, Justin?” when Brian’s only feet away. It makes Justin want to scream.
He’s angry at the world, really. Hates bright days with no chance of rain, hates it when he catches someone smiling or humming in the grocery store. He walks past groups of happy teenagers at PIFA and has to repress the need to hit them, hurt them, make them feel as miserable as he does. Resents the fact that they most likely do not have a boyfriend at home with cancer.
But most of all, he’s angry at Brian.
For being sick, for not getting better. For having ribs that stick out and for fighting less and less these days – jibs and snarky retorts disappearing like the fat on his body. For being braver than Justin is in the hospital when they sit in front of the doctor for the latest update, for still being able to smile.
More than anything, he wants it to be over. He wants to wake up in the morning without the weighted worry that Brian won’t. Wants to have cabinets full of Cap’n Crunch and greasy chips instead of dozens of pill bottles with dangerous side effects.
He’d like to go to the park – stay outside for longer than it takes to get from one building to another. He wants to soak up the sunshine he’s too angry to enjoy.
He’d like to be able to fuck, again. Misses more than anything being able to touch Brian – wants to run his fingers across miles of healthy skin, kiss Brian’s cock, lips, nose, ears just because he can on a Saturday morning. Wants to feel that beautiful release that only Brian can give him – wants to moan and clutch the sheets with the wonderful misery of it being just. that. fucking. good.
He’d like to be happy.
But he can’t.
Not while he can see Brian’s ribs, not when there are still pill bottles in the cabinet. Not when they have to sit in front of distant doctors and hardly ever see sunshine and never, ever fuck. It’s just too hard.
It’s true. Justin spends a lot of time being angry.
***
“I’m just going to chuck it up anyway, what’s the point?” Brian grumbles. It’s been less than an hour since they’ve left the hospital, and Justin is trying to convince Brian to stop at the diner. The exit is coming up soon.
“You know the point,” Justin bites out. They’ve been over it a hundred times – the dehydration, the need to get some kind of nutrition, the normalcy of it all that will keep them sane. Keep him sane.
“Fuck the point.” Brian passes an old couple in a Honda, revving the engine. He still likes to break the rules when he can.
“No,” Justin’s fingers curl on the edge of the seat, “we’re not going to fuck the point. You’re going to listen to me and you’re going to get over right fucking now so we don’t miss the exit.”
Too late.
“God damn you, Brian.”
A short laugh.
“I think he already has.”
***
They ride back to the loft in relative silence – Justin alternating between staring out the window and trying not to notice the way Brian rubs his stomach when he thinks Justin’s not looking.
It’s nearly dark out; they had a late appointment today so Justin didn’t miss his 4th Conceptual Media class. He didn’t mind skipping, but Brian wouldn’t hear any of it – he called and changed the time as soon as he found out.
Back in the loft, Brian dabbles on the computer – it’s a fairly good day, considering – while Justin sets about trying to cook something with the meager supplies they have.
He’s just decided to fuck it and call the Thai place down the street when Brian clears his throat.
“Justin?”
Justin puts away the frozen bag of veggies and looks over. Brian’s not looking at him – just staring at the screen. If Justin were in a more optimistic mood, he’d say Brian was about to say something about their relationship – it looks like the words are stuck in his throat. It’s funny how he equates that with love.
“Yeah?”
Brian takes a breath, steeling himself. “I’m sorry.”
Justin mentally flips back through the day. Excluding the car incident (which is, all in all, a fairly low incident on the Brian Kinney Scale), he can’t think of anything remotely needing forgiveness.
He cocks his head, interested. “For what?”
“For all…” Brian’s free hand gestures down and up his body, makes a grand arc at the quiet loft. Continues to look at the flickering screen. “For all this shit.” He looks uncomfortable and Justin waits for him to finish, but he only clicks aimlessly at the screen.
“You’re sorry that I’m here?” Justin doesn’t believe for one second that’s what it is, but he says it anyway, just to hear.
“Did I say that?” Brian finally looks over, eyebrows rising with impatience.
“No, I just don’t know what you mean.”
Brian sighs. “Jesus, Justin. You know what I mean.”
“No,” says Justin, starting to feel the prickling of his anger – the product of frustration - seeping through, “I don’t.” He walks closer to Brian, who tries not to noticeably shrink. As tough as he is, he hates being confronted by Justin in a pissy mood.
“What do I mean? I mean that it can’t be fun to watch me…watch me puke and fucking fall apart, Justin. That’s what I fucking mean. You’re too young to deal with this shit.”
That strikes a nerve.
”I see. So I’m old enough to bash homophobes and I’m old enough to strip on a bar, but I’m too young to deal with…” He will not say death, “…with my partner being sick. Why is that?” Hand on his hip, he ignores Brian’s ‘back-off’ signals. It’s been too long since he’s felt the fire of a fight. It’s been too long since he’s felt the fire of anything and it’s too addicting to stop.
“No one should have to deal with this, that’s what I’m saying.” Brian’s eyes are cold.
“Well that’s not what I heard.”
Brian stands up, seems to make a decision. The chair screeches as it slides. “Fine.” He makes a move to walk past Justin, stops when Justin throws out an arm.
“No. You don’t get to run away. I don’t care how sick you are.” He doesn’t even know what they’re really fighting about anymore. He just wants it to go on.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Brian says, and tries to throw off the arm. Grits his teeth when Justin doesn’t let go. ”What?”
“Tell me what the matter is,” Justin says, blue eyes pleading, “I just want to know. Why did you say you were sorry? Tell me.” He continues to hold on.
“Because!” Brian explodes, “Because my fucking boyfriend has to clean up my puke! Because, Justin, you never go out, you never look happy – you’re always fucking here fucking taking care of me and you shouldn’t have to! I’m sorry that I’m fucking sick! I’m sorry you have to fucking deal with it at all! We sit around here all day like we’re,” he makes a helpless gesture around the room, “waiting for the Grim Reaper. I might be dying, Justin, but I’m not fucking dead!”
And what can Justin say? Suddenly filled with a heavy weight, he drops the arm holding Brian. He wants to crumple down on the floor and disappear but his legs are stuck and unmoving. He can’t tell where Brian is through clouded eyes, so he jumps a bit when two hands frame his face.
“So quit acting like it,” Brian adds, softly. He brushes away a tear with a thumb before moving away.
***
It’s late.
Justin stays on the couch through Brian’s nightly rituals, leaving only to put a bottle of water next to the bathroom door when he hears the tell-tale sounds of puking. He hears the toilet flush, the running water of the shower, the faint sounds of Brian brushing his teeth, and finally, the creak of the frame as Brian crawls into bed.
When the clock hits 2, Justin stands up. He pulls off his shoes before making his way to the bedroom – unsure if Brain has fallen asleep or not – and stands at the foot of the bed, waiting.
Brian’s awake.
Justin stands a little longer, feeling awkward, until Brian reaches over and pulls back the sheets – his silent apology. The bed dips as Justin crawls in, wiggling his way next to Brian. He offers a soft “sorry” when his cold feet touch Brian’s leg.
It’s still a bit awkward – there are still things that need to be said – but Justin bides his time, lying on his back and reaching out a hand to grab Brian’s wrist.
“I can’t just be happy about this, Brian,” he says to the ceiling.
“I know. I don’t expect you to be.”
Justin nods and scoots a bit closer. On his side, he twists his leg in with Brian’s and lays as much of himself as he can on Brian’s body – soaking up the warmth and smelling the soap from the shower. Kisses Brian’s neck with his mouth open slightly and rubs his nose over the wetness it leaves behind.
They lay quietly for a few moments, bodies adjusting to comfort. Justin is nearly asleep when it pops into his head – a lazy thought.
“You know that stain on the ceiling?” he asks, keeping his eyes closed.
“Which one?” Brian’s voice is getting gravel-like with sleep.
“The one you made me look at.”
Brian snorts softly. “Yeah.”
“I don’t think it looks like a dick.”
“I know,” Brian says, “You told me.”
“I think it looks like a snail.”
Brian’s laughter fills the room before he bends his neck to kiss Justin’s head.
“You would.”
-end-