Church | Hymns | Psalms | Testify
This site is not intended for those under 18 years of age.

The Night You Were Born

QAF US post-S3 B/J

Three weeks after Stockwell lost the election, a month before the first decent job offer came in, and two days into a disturbing drinking binge, Brian got a stomach flu.

The night before the flu hit, Justin came home from work to find him sitting on the kitchen counter cross-legged, wearing only a pair of jeans, cradling a nearly empty bottle of Scotch, and singing an unconventional version of the alphabet song.

"A B C D E F G," Brian sang softly, as if he was trying to lull the bottle to sleep. "Ho-mo-sex-u-al-ity. We pretend that we're just friends. But really we are lesbians. A B C D E F G - "

"Brian?"

He looked up, genuinely surprised that he wasn't alone. It seemed to take a moment for his eyes to focus. He smiled widely, patted the bottle, and set it down beside him. "Justin...did you ever know that..." He seemed distracted for a moment by a passing siren outside, or possibly the lights reflecting off the window, or possibly the imaginary crying of his infant Scotch. "That you're my hero," he finished. "You're everything I would like to be." His smile faded quickly, and his eyes turned threatening. "Give me a cigarette."

"This is the most disturbing thing I've ever seen."

"Give me a fucking cigarette," Brian repeated, leaning forward, his body in danger of pitching forward off the counter.

Justin put out a hand to steady him, and pushed on his chest until he was leaning back against the cabinets. "I think I need to call someone," he said. But really, in the absence of Michael, there was no one equipped to deal with this. And the absence of Michael, combined with the absence of a job, the absence of money, and the absence of the furniture, was probably exactly what caused such a truly horrifying event.

Yesterday it hadn't seemed this bad. Brian was knocking back shots at breakfast as Justin got ready for work, but Justin figured he'd just get drunk, go out, get laid, and feel better. But when he came home at only eight o'clock, Brian was passed out in bed. Alone. Which should've been the first warning sign.

With a quickness he shouldn't have been capable of in this state, Brian nudged Justin's hand away, retrieved his Scotch, and held the bottle up in front of him, both hands wrapped around it. "Give me a god damn motherfucking cigarette," he said, his voice eerily calm. "Or I'm going to kill the baby."

"Well, we wouldn't want that," Justin said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "After all, the baby's the spitting image of you. Smooth, hard, forty percent alcohol by volume." He put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and handed one over.

Brian gave him his you-are-so-stupid look, the one he used when Justin talked about cartoons or used the word 'relationship'. "It's not my baby," he spat out.

"That's right," Justin said slowly. "It's a bottle of Scotch."

Brian took a long drag of the cigarette, and held out the bottle towards Justin. "It's your baby."

Justin accepted the bottle and took a sip. If he was going to deal with a drunk Brian, he'd probably need a drink himself.

"I just donated sperm to it," Brian said flatly.

"Oh god!" Justin leaned over the sink and spit out the small amount of liquor he hadn't swallowed yet. "Christ, Brian!" It was one thing to suck another man off, but it was quite another thing for said man to jerk off into a bottle and hand it to you.

Brian chuckled and leaned down, stretching his body across the length of the counter. He tilted his head up so that he could watch Justin as he emptied the bottle down the drain.

"You're killing the baby," Brian said as he flicked ashes onto the floor. "I spent all afternoon conceiving it, you know."

"Couldn't you just have gone out to the clubs?" Justin asked. "Donated sperm at the baths or something?"

"Cover at Babylon, ten dollars," Brian said. "Drink at Woody's, five dollars." He reached down and grabbed Justin's ass firmly. "Nineteen year-old dick, priceless."

Justin took two glasses from the cabinet above the prone body and filled them with tap water. "Oh, stop, Brian," he said sarcastically. "You're making me swoon with your heartfelt declarations of love. Sit up."

"No more money," Brian said, ignoring the request. "No more cigarettes, no more bottles."

Justin leaned down and kissed him quickly, thinking that the next goal, after the sitting up, should be getting him to brush his teeth. "Yes, but you'll always be pretty."

Brian reached up and grabbed a lock of hair at the side of Justin's face. "You're pretty."

"I know. And also, ow." He leaned down and tried to remove Brian's fingers from his hair, but he had a serious grip.

Brian smiled up at him. "Can I have a cigarette?"

Justin gestured down to Brian's other hand, which was holding the cigarette dangerously close to the countertop.

"Oh, right," Brian said. He smiled again. "You're pretty. Can I have a drink?"

Justin yanked Brian's hand away from his head, losing a few strands of hair in the process, and then held out one of the glasses of water.

Brian pulled himself up into the sitting position, wincing at the obvious head pain this caused, and took the glass. He took a gulp and grimaced. "This is water," he said accusingly. "Why do you hate me?"

Justin took a sip of his own water, tossed his and Brian's cigarettes in it, and grabbed Brian by the wrists. "Time for bed."

Brian resisted, pulling his arms back, and bringing Justin closer. He looked down at him suspiciously, as if concerned that following Justin might lead to more drinks that weren't alcoholic.

Justin put his hand on Brian's stomach and wrapped his fingers under the front of his pants. "You could do some more sperm donating."

Brian considered this. "Okay." He slid off the counter, and somehow managed to stand upright despite a lot of swaying, and more painful grabbing of hair. "But I'm not making any more babies. They're too much trouble. Always crying and...clinking together."

Justin removed Brian's left hand from his hair and put it around his shoulder instead. "I'll try not to get knocked up."

"Good," Brian said as they shuffled their way to the bedroom. "Your baby was fucking ugly."

The next morning, Justin was awakened by moaning. His first thought was that Brian really shouldn't be fucking some other guy in their shower this early in the morning. But then the memory of the previous night came back, and he realized the sound was vomiting.

Brian was sitting next to the toilet naked, his face flushed, his head tilted back against the wall. When he heard Justin enter, he opened his eyes halfway. "What the fuck happened last night?"

Justin was tempted to say that Brian had decided they should have a child together, but he looked so worn-out, that it would just be too cruel. "You jerked off in a bottle of Scotch."

Brian closed his eyes. "Oh."

"You should drink some water," Justin said.

Brian nodded to an empty plastic cup on the floor next to him. "I have been," he said. "And it comes right fucking back up." He rubbed his face. "Seriously, I've been vomiting fucking water for the past half hour."

Justin knelt down next to him and put his hand to Brian's forehead. "You're warm. I think you're actually sick."

"Oh, you think?" Brian rolled his eyes. "Now I see why all those Ivy League schools were clamoring for you."

"Bite me."

"Later, when I'm not contagious."

Justin sat down next to him and started rubbing his shoulders. "It's just a stomach flu. It's been going around. A few people at the diner were out sick this week. You'll be fine in a day or two."

"It's SARS," Brian replied. "I'm going to be dead in a day or two."

"If it was SARS, you'd have a sore throat."

"I do have a sore throat."

"That's just from puking so much."

Brian closed his eyes again. "Fine. You'll be sorry when I'm dead. You'll be at the funeral, throwing yourself on the casket, screaming, 'Oh Brian! You had the biggest dick ever!'"

Justin wrapped his arm around Brian's shoulders and tried to nudge him forward. "Come on; you should go back to bed."

"Can't. I'm gonna have to throw up again in another ten seconds."

"We'll bring the trash can," Justin explained. "Then at least you could get some sleep."

Brain allowed himself to be led back to the bedroom, where he collapsed on the bed. Justin pulled the blanket over him, but Brian tried to push it away.

"You have to cover up," Justin explained. "If you get too cold, you could catch a bacterial respiratory infection that could turn into pneumonia. My grandmother got that when I was a kid. She had the flu, and then once she started getting better, she suddenly started coughing up all this yellow stuff, and the doctor said - "

"Oh my god," Brian moaned. "You are the worst person on earth to be sick around." He pulled the blanket over his head. "Fuck off. Go out somewhere and let me die in peace."

"Actually, I am gonna have to go out. You need acetaminophen for the fever, and the only thing in your medicine cabinet is poppers. You could also use some Rimantadine. It's prescription only, but I think there might be some at my mom's house, because once when I was sixteen - "

Brian lifted the blanket over his head long enough to yell, "Get the fuck out!" and then disappeared underneath it again.

Justin leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "I'll be back in an hour."

He decided to go to the grocery store instead of just a pharmacy, because Brian would need some actual food once he started feeling better, and lately the refrigerator never held more than leftover take-out. They were out of bottled water too, which would probably be easier on his stomach than tap water.

Since it was still early in the day, the grocery store wasn't too crowded, and Justin was able to gather everything he needed quickly. As he stood in the checkout line trying to decide whether or not he truly needed chocolate, he noticed the woman in front of him.

Every once in a while Justin would see someone on the street and get this weird half-recognition. He was sure he knew them, but he couldn't place them. And he couldn't say hello until he knew, because where he knew them from would determine how he related to them. What if Justin started a conversation with the guy, and it ended up being once of Brian's old tricks? What if Justin gave him a flirty smile, and it ended up it was a guy he sat next to in his high school Math class?

She was an older woman, with a firm line for a mouth and a coat too thick for this weather. Justin watched her as she paid for a small assortment of vegetables. Was she one of the clerks from the post office? A professor from PIFA that he'd never had, but seen around the campus?

She was standing at the end of the register area, putting her wallet into her purse, when he realized it.

"Mrs. Kinney?"

When she looked up, Justin instantly regretted calling her name. There was no recognition in her gaze, and Justin couldn't think of a way to politely explain how he knew her. He was tempted to start by saying that they were almost kinda related, but the hardness in her eyes stopped him.

"I'm Brian's...friend," he said, and the word brought on a wave of shame. He was reminded of one day last year when he'd answered the phone at Ethan's, and it had been Ethan's father. The man said, "You must be Ethan's special friend." and Justin replied, "No, I'm the guy he's fucking."

"Oh?" she said coldly. She didn't remember, or more likely, didn't want to acknowledge, that they'd met once before.

Justin didn't know what to say next, but he didn't want her to leave. For some reason, it seemed important that he talk to her. He wanted to pour it all out at once: Don't hate Brian, he's a good person, and I'm not his friend, I love him, and you have to love him too, because you're his mother for fuck's sake, and you can't just stop being someone's mother because you don't approve of which gender sucks him off.

But since he didn't want her to run screaming, he said, "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "You?"

"Okay," he replied. He gestured to the small bag of groceries the clerk had just placed in front of him. "Brian's got the flu."

She nodded. "He's a handful when he's sick."

"He says it's SARS."

There was the hint of a smile on her lips. "Used to be polio."

"Nineteen twenty-five," the clerk said.

Justin was afraid to tear his eyes away from her, afraid she'd disappear. "Don't - don't go anywhere," he said as he took his wallet out of his pocket. "Could I maybe...buy you some coffee?"

"I have to be going home," she said.

"I could walk with you then," he offered quickly.

"I drove."

He handed a twenty to the clerk, and didn't bother waiting for the change. Mrs. Kinney's bag was still sitting on the counter, and he grabbed it. "I could walk to your car. I'll carry your bag for you."

They exited the store in silence, and Justin got nervous. He only had a few seconds now, and she was walking quickly into the parking lot, a few steps ahead of him.

"I know you don't approve," he said suddenly, and she stopped.

"I know you don't like what he does," Justin continued, though he was talking to her back. "And you probably don't want to see him or anything, but...maybe if I told you about him, it would be almost like you did see him, and that's better than nothing, right?"

She turned, and regarded him again with an aloof stare. Then she looked across the street, and he followed her gaze to see a dry cleaner, a Blockbuster, and a bar.

"You can buy me a drink," she said.

They sat at a small table in a bar that was understandably deserted, since it was still before noon. She sipped at a glass of Scotch while Justin had a beer, and he almost laughed and told her about Brian's adventures with Scotch the previous night, until he realized that doing so would be beyond inappropriate.

He felt the need to defend Brian. His mother must imagine that he was a lot like her late husband, except screwing around with men instead of with women, which made it double the sin.

"He's really nice to me," Justin blurted out.

"Is he," she said without interest.

"He's done some really amazing things lately," he continued. "There was this guy, running for office..." It occurred to him that Mrs. Kinney was, most likely, a proud Republican, and explaining how Brian brought down the man she voted for wasn't the best course of action here.

"I mean," Justin continued. "He's a great friend. One of our friends had this web site, and when he got arrested - " Nope, she definitely wouldn't appreciate how Brian helped save a porn peddler from prison. Wow. It was odd how much things could change depending on your perspective.

She raised her eyebrows at him in a silent question, and Justin laughed nervously. He had to come up with a story, quick. Something that even the straight conservatives could appreciate. Something that cut to the heart of it. Something undeniably real...

His smile faded when he realized it.

"When I got hurt," he said. "Brian took care of me. He didn't have to, and actually, no one wanted him to. But he...he made sure I was okay."

Mrs. Kinney let go of her glass for the first time since they'd sat down. "How did you get hurt?"

Justin wasn't sure how to answer. He hadn't ever been asked that question before. Everyone knew. How could they not know? It must've been all over the news when it happened, because the media covered when he was released from the hospital, and again during the trial. Afterwards, Daphne had shown him an issue of Pittsburgh Out that she'd saved, where there was a whole feature article about him. Then, when he'd made noise at Stockwell's appearance at the Gay and Lesbian Center, his name was mentioned in the articles about it, and the whole story outlined again. And even though over a year had passed since the original incident, people still remembered, to a maddening degree. Every once in a while he'd be hanging out with Emmett at Woody's, or dancing with Brian at Babylon, and someone would tactlessly say, "Hey, aren't you that kid?" And he would get weirdly angry, defensive, yelling, "Yes, I'm that kid, what the fuck of it?" He'd lived it, forgotten it, remembered it, relived it, had dreams about it, wrote a fucking comic book about it, made a fucking political statement over it, and said, "Yes, that's me, thank you, I'm fine" until he was so sick of it that he never wanted to talk about it again.

But he'd never actually told anyone about it.

And now her drink was done, and his time was up, and this was his last line of defense.

"When I was in school," he began. "There was this guy, and he would pick on me. You know, because I'm gay."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had an elaborate lie ready for when he got back to Brian's. He had been at the grocery store, and he ran into Vic, who offered to give Justin his recipe for a homemade chicken soup that would help clear Brian's sinuses. So he went over Vic's, and Debbie was there, and you know how Debbie starts talking and never stops. So Justin visited with her for a little while, and then Vic decided to just go ahead and make the soup while Justin waited for it. And you know how all of Vic's recipes are incredibly complicated and take forever. Then Justin went to his mother's house to see if she had any of his old prescriptions from when he used to get the flu a lot. She didn't, but while he was there Molly ran in from outside screaming that she'd found a baby bird that was hurt. She was so upset that Justin and his mother had to go rescue the baby bird from where it was just lying there twitching, and feed it water through an eye-dropped for half an hour until it finally died. Then, to make Molly feel better, they held a funeral in the backyard. Then Justin had to go back to the grocery store, because he forgot to get the acetaminophen. So that's why he took so long.

As it turned out, Justin hadn't needed to think up with such a great, convincing story. When he got back, Brian was passed out, and didn't even stir when Justin covered him with the blanket that was now tossed on the floor.

He figured he should let Brian sleep through as much of the illness as possible, so he made himself busy in the kitchen by heating the pre-made chicken soup he'd bought on his way home, as part of his fabulous cover story for spending three hours getting drunk with Brian's mom.

When she'd left, he stood at the side of her car as she sat inside, unsure of the proper way to say goodbye to a man's estranged mother when you're his queer not-boyfriend.

"It was nice talking to you, Justin," she said, her eyes straight ahead. "Even if we don't agree on many issues."

He nodded. "I still think the Pre-Raphaelites were for shit."

"But Waterhouse is still my favorite artist." She turned her head towards him and gave him a restrained smile. "And you watch your language, young man."

Justin laughed, but his amusement was cut short by the noise of her car engine starting. "Hey, maybe..."

Maybe, Justin wanted to say to her, you could come over for dinner sometime. Or, since we're currently without a kitchen table, we could take you out to dinner. Me and you and Brian. We could go to the Liberty Diner and you could see where I work and look at the paintings I have up there. You could meet Debbie and join PFLAG and hang out with her and my mom, and then in the Spring when they have the barbeque, we could all go together.

He remembered when he first heard about that bullshit sexual harassment charge against Brian. He'd argued that they shouldn't be able to suspend someone from work until the charge was proven. Brian had given him a condescending look and said, "You just live in Magical Happy Justin Land, don’t you?"

So instead he said, "Maybe you could call him sometime. Maybe he wouldn't hang up."

She'd just nodded slightly, and drove away.

The plastic container of soup was still heating in the microwave when he heard a soft, "Fuck", followed by a retching sound. Brian was awake.

He was bent over the edge of the bed, spitting weakly through dry lips. He didn't look as if he'd gotten much sleep; his eyes were dark and deep-set, and his face was pale.

"How are you feeling?" Justin asked.

Brian looked up at him. "I'm dry-heaving into a trashcan, retard."

Justin nudged Brian's foot playfully as he approached the bed. "Don't call me a retard."

"I'm dry-heaving into a trashcan, genius," Brian said sarcastically.

"That's better."

Justin settled into the bed beside Brian, who covered his eyes with his arm and took a few deep breaths. "What took you so long?"

Right. The brilliant cover story. "Yeah, so many things went wrong, just on my way to the store."

"And I'm sure your suffering completely overshadows my West Nile Virus," Brian said.

Justin reached over and smoothed Brian's hair back from his forehead, which was still warm. "You'll be fine."

Brian removed his forearm for his face and stared up at the ceiling. "The world really knows how to kick me when I'm down, huh?"

"If you get all self-pitying, I'm going to record your whining, and then show everyone on earth what a queen you are," Justin said.

Brian tried for a threatening glower, but was too worn-out to manage much of a facial expression. "I'm not being self-pitying. I'll be fine." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Because I'm Brian Kinney. And when the world tries to screw Brian Kinney, I bend the world over a public toilet and fuck it up the ass."

Justin smiled and stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet. Beside him, Brian's breath was thick and steady, and the afternoon sunlight came through the blinds in muted strips, falling just short of their still bodies.

"That's a beautiful metaphor," Justin said finally. "After you die of SARS, I'll put that on your gravestone."

He looked to his side for a reaction, but Brian was asleep. Though his face was pale, and he was still clearly feverish, he didn't look much worse off than when he passed out after a night out at the clubs.

It was pointless to heat up soup now, and Justin didn't have anywhere to go for the rest of the day, so he moved closer to Brian and pulled a blanket over both of them.

Since he wasn't tired enough to fall asleep immediately, Justin closed his eyes and let random thoughts wash through his mind. He thought about his work schedule for the rest of the week, and wondered if he'd have the energy to hang out with Daphne's friends if he got out on time Thursday night. He thought about the sketches he'd done for Rage, and how he'd tease Michael once he got back, saying that Michael would never catch up on the writing, perhaps throwing in a few age remarks.

He thought about mothers who didn't understand, no matter how much they promised to and appeared to. He thought about their patient, pitying looks and gay pride t-shirts and hugs that should be more comforting than they were. He thought about places with hot food and big bedrooms, places that were supposed to be home but always felt temporary, even when he stayed there for longer than his memory went back.

He thought about men who were gone, who'd never see their sons again, or their grandsons. And how there was a time to pretend to understand, to make peace, but that time passed. And there was this muffled, almost unnoticeable longing, which could be easily dismissed, proclaimed healed, like a scar just above your hairline. You can't find it anymore, even when you've just come out of the shower, and you comb your hair back, separating it lock by lock. It's disappeared, but you know that somewhere below the surface there's a bit of bone missing, a wound, a hole. In the back of your mind, at the front of your head, an aneurysm is growing unseen, threatening to destroy you, even though they've cut you open, washed you clean, and proclaimed you healed.

Justin turned on his side, so that his face was against the side of Brian's face, and drew in the warmth.

"The night you were born," he whispered. "Your father rushed into the room, and he was so shocked at your presence that your mother almost laughed. When he held you, he looked awed, like a man seeing god, and your mother knew that you would always be loved."

Justin pulled the blanket up to cover his shoulder, and fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brian woke up confused. It was dark outside, he couldn't remember what day it was, there was a loud humming noise, and Justin's hair was in his eye.

"Fucking stupid hairy fuck," he mumbled, brushing his face off. He sat up in bed and looked for the source of the noise, which revealed itself as the phone, glowing blue on the floor across the room with each aggravating ring.

"Fucking stupid fucking phone." He rubbed his eyes as he stood, and realized he was incredibly hungry. And sweaty. And needing a shower and a blow job. At least he wasn't feeling nauseous anymore. But it would probably take a few showers and blow jobs to restore him to his natural physical condition.

He answered the phone with a curt, "What?"

"Brian?"

He recognized the voice immediately. "Mother," he said with mock affection. "How good of you to call. Is it time again for the annual God Hates Fags telethon? Because I already donated at the office."

"Brian, if I could..." She trailed off, and was silent for a moment.

"What?" he asked sharply. "Have you run out of bitchy things to say? Would you like to call back later when you've had time to rejuvenate by drinking the blood of virgins?"

"Brian..." Her voice was a whisper, and the uneven breathing that followed sounded almost like crying.

"Mom," he said. "Mom, what is it?"

"Honey..."

Brian frowned, his hunger and horniness forgotten. This wasn't what he expected. This sounded like a woman he hadn't spoken to in a long time. His mouth formed the word "Mom" again, but no sound came out.

On the other end of the line, she took a deep breath. "Is Justin there?"

Brian held the phone out away from his face and just stared at it for a moment. "...the fuck?" he muttered. He could hear her asking again, her voice louder this time.

Brian walked back to the bed, where Justin was laying buried under the blankets, and chucked the phone in the general direction of his head, where it landed with an unsatisfying thump. Justin murmured some sort of question, and reached out of his cocoon to retrieve the phone.

Brian crawled over him, yanked the blanket away from him, pulled it over his head, and fell asleep just as Justin was sitting up and saying, "Hello?"

The End