Cait

For the Secret Santa challenge.

*************

Brian’s mother died on a Tuesday in December, one week before Christmas.

He was in the grocery store with Justin when he got the call. They’d decided that the fact they had money again was the best Christmas present they could give themselves, so Brian had instructed Justin to pick out the most expensive of everything. Brian watched Justin in amusement as he selected organic apples and the best brand of water and luscious bars of dark chocolate.

“You know, you should come to my mom’s for Christmas dinner,” Justin said.

“The fuck I am,” Brian said idly. He cupped the back of Justin’s neck and shook lightly. “You want to turn us into some breeder couple?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. Then maybe we can go to church with the kids, and have egg nog?”

“Funny. Don’t get that brand of whipped cream; the other one is more expensive.” Justin mimed squirting the whipped cream in his face and Brian just looked back at him stonily as his cell phone rang. He grabbed it out of his pocket and answered as Justin started wandering down the dairy aisle. “Yeah?”

Justin was occupied with deciding if they really should get the most expensive brand of brie and turned when Brian didn’t follow him. Brian stood completely still. His face went blank, his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then he re-pocketed his phone.

“Hey, is everything all right?” Justin asked, coming over to him.

Brian’s face was still absolutely blank. “Yeah,” he said. He looked down at Justin like he was seeing him for the first time. Some of the feeling came back in his eyes and he tossed a couple blocks of cheese in their cart. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

*

Justin talked in the car all the way home about their Christmas plans, and Brian couldn’t even be bothered to be scared that Justin had started calling it their first official Christmas together. He felt vaguely disjointed from his body, like he was watching someone else go through the motions of living his life. His mind was a mess, scattering and skittering a mile a minute.

“Brian. You okay?” Justin said, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye as he drove them back to the loft.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because that’s the fourth cigarette you’ve lit and stubbed out in the past ten minutes.”

“It’s your driving. My nerves are shot to fucking hell. I don’t know why I ever let you get behind the wheel.”

“I thought you liked it when I drive,” Justin said, poking him in the ribs and grinning.

Brian watched him for a moment, leaning his head on his hand. “Justin.”

“Yeah?” Justin looked at him, eyes bright and wide, as he rolled to a stop in front of the loft.

Brian opened his mouth, shut it. Stuck his tongue in his cheek and shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s get the ice cream in the freezer before it melts.”

*

Justin conked out early, after ice cream and sex. On his stomach in the bed, face pressed against his sketchpad, he was glowing orange and peaceful in the mindlessness of happy sleep. Brian smoked cigarettes at the window until Claire called again, asking him to come over. He gently took the pencil out of Justin’s fist and made sure the security alarm was set before heading out the door.

His mother’s house was not decorated for Christmas in the slightest, though a large cross had appeared on the front door. He lit a joint, barged in and found Claire going through the china cabinet. Stuff was piled into boxes everywhere and it looked as if she had been at it for hours.

She huffed at him and rolled her eyes. “Put that disgusting thing out.”

“No. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.” He sprawled on the couch and started leafing through the Catholic magazines on the coffee table, blowing smoke rings. “Getting rid of Mom’s stuff already? Don’t let the body go cold or anything.” Cunt. Then again, as Brian considered his joint, maybe it was just her way of calming her nerves.

“When was the last time you had even talked to Mom?” Claire asked, her voice wavering a bit as she blindly packed up plates and cutlery.

Brian’s hands stilled and he looked at her. “I believe that would be when I told her to go fuck herself when she accused me of molesting your son.” His face was split by a wide, sarcastic grin.

Claire bit her lip and glared. “Mother died, Brian. You could at least show some respect.”

“Respect? Respect for the woman who told me I’m going to hell and never wanted to have me in the first place?”

“This is just like when Daddy died. You’re always so wrapped up in your own problems. Do you even care about anyone else but yourself?”

“Yeah, but I can’t mention it in this house. It’s a sin, remember?”

The rest of the night passed in stony silence as they sorted through the desk drawers, the bedroom, the closets. Sad, really, that when it came down to it, Joan’s life was summed up in a few old photograph albums and her Bible.

“Would you like to keep it?” Claire asked stiffly, holding it out to him.

“Why the fuck would I want to keep an old Bible?”

“Something to remember her by. You kept Daddy’s bowling ball, didn’t you?”

Brian considered ripping the pages out of the Bible one by one and feeding them to his cigarette lighter. “Whatever. Sure.”

“Fine. You need to go now.”

“Why?”

Claire was gathering up her purse, coat. “I’m going out.”

Brian slanted her a sardonic glance. “To do what?”

She raised her chin and glared back at him. “Pray.”

Brian drove back to the loft, found Justin still sleeping soundly. He set his mother’s Bible on the kitchen counter and looked at it for a time; the gold lettering on the cover, the thin and fragile paper. It still smelled like he remembered, that faint musty scent of wooden pews and candle wax.

He grew unsettled by the silence of the loft. Silence that exposed his thoughts, required him to listen to them. He didn’t want to think about anything right now.

He wandered out of the loft, walking a couple blocks before he realized he’d forgotten his gloves, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He tucked his hands in his pockets and walked down empty streets, past cheerfully decorated store windows and trees strung with Christmas lights. He walked past a church and stopped. A choir inside was singing, beautifully ghostly voices floating out into still night air. A song he remembered from every Christmas Eve of his childhood, until he started telling his mother he was an atheist and sneaking out to smoke pot on Christmas instead.

Ave Maria, gratia plena Dominus tecum benedicta tu in mulieribus Et benedictus fructus ventris tuis Jesus…

Brian listened to the choir sing, watching his breath puff out with every exhalation in the cold. He listened, absolutely still, and then he walked around the city for a very long time.

When he got back to the loft the sun was rising. Brian locked his mother’s Bible in his desk drawer and slid into bed next to Justin, but did not sleep.

*

“You’re not going to work?” Justin said incredulously the next morning.

Brian pulled the sheet over his head in reply.

Justin laughed and crawled into bed with him, straddling his body and pulling the sheet away. “Everything okay?”

“Fabulous.”

“Well, if we both have the day off, we should take advantage of it…”

Brian raised an eyebrow and Justin laughed. “Not that. I’m going Christmas shopping with the guys, do you want to come?”

Somehow Brian ended up trailing after Justin through a mall so busy and loud it made his ears ring, while and he, Emmett, Ted and Michael pointed out potential gifts and checked out asses and made more noise than a pack of five-year-olds high on sugar. Justin very unsubtly jabbered on about a new graphic design program for his computer he really wanted while Brian smoked cigarettes in non-smoking zones and didn’t tell him that he’d already bought it.

“So what will the tutor be getting his master this Christmas?” Emmett asked, as they examined racks of silk ties in Sak’s.

Justin glanced at Brian. “He already has a willing and nubile twenty-year-old at home, what else could he possibly want?”

“Maybe some Viagra? Or I hear nothing says I love you like Botox injections,” Ted said helpfully. Emmett cracked up and they moved onward through the store. Michael hung back with Brian, who was examining the floor and lighting another cigarette.

“I don’t think the Sak’s people will like it if you get the smell of smoke in their clothes,” Michael pointed out.

Brian shrugged.

“So do you want to see that new Russell Crowe movie this weekend?”

“I’m busy.”

“With what? It’s Christmas! Even you get a Christmas vacation.”

Brian shrugged again. Michael just smiled and started sifting through a pile of cashmere sweaters. “Do you like any of these? Justin wants to know what to get you for Christmas, I’m the go-between.”

“He was right. I don’t need anything.”

“Oh, sure. That’s what you always say. And then the next thing I know you’re sulking on Christmas Day because you didn’t get that pony you always wanted.”

“There are just some things more important than fucking presents, Mikey,” Brian said flatly.

Michael looked as if he had been slapped, recovered quickly. “Right,” he said, trying to sound amused. “I’ll remember that the next time you take Justin to Ibiza.”

“Fuck off.”

Michael peered at him closely, smile gone. “Is something wrong, Brian?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re acting like an immature asshole for no good reason.”

“Do I ever need a reason?”

“And you’re answering all my questions with a question, a classic Kinney defense mechanism.”

Brian rolled his strained neck, feeling the joints pop. “It’s nothing, Mikey. I’m fabulous.”

“You know you could tell me if something was wrong, Brian.”

Brian clapped him on the shoulder briefly. “I know. Tell Justin I like the black sweater.”

*

The morning of the wake, December twenty-second, Brian woke up late, deflected Justin’s questions about calling out of work again. Justin had made him coffee when he got out of the shower, handing the mug to him with a kiss.

“This tastes like shit,” Brian said shortly, dumping it down the sink.

Justin looked taken aback. “Good morning to you too.”

“Did you pick up my dry cleaning?”

“Yes. Now you owe me a blowjob in the Vette.”

Brian pawed through his closet angrily. “They shrunk my five-hundred dollar shirt again. Motherfuckers.” He pulled on gray pants and a black sweater instead.

“Where are you going?”

“Fucking.” He gathered up his coat and slammed out the door.

The call history on his cell phone remained blank all day, Justin knowing, of course, to just let him ride his pissy mood out. Brian remained silent through the half-assed and somber toasts at the wake. He slumped on the sofa in his mother’s living room and downed three Scotches, watching the kids and breeder couples and wishing he had a joint.

One of his overbearing cousins, Janet, came over to him hesitantly. “Brian? How are you holding up?”

He spared her a brief glance and spun his empty Scotch glass in his hands. “Fine.”

She sat beside him and patted his hand. “I noticed you came by yourself. What about that nice friend of yours…Michael? You really should have someone with you during these times of trouble, Brian.”

Brian chuffed out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t you have anyone – special in your life?”

“I have my daily eleven o’clock with a fifteen year old whore. You know how it is with us fags.”

Janet stuttered, open-mouthed.

He concluded that the wake was a complete success, left his sister to deal with the clean-up and headed to a bar for some decent Scotch. Yet everything he tipped down his throat just made him feel more and more sober.

Later that night, Brian slid open the loft door slowly and noticed Justin sketching in bed.

He smiled a little at Brian. “Hey.”

Brian wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He remembered their fight of that morning. I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but of course he couldn’t. He just stood there in the middle of the living room, staring at Justin. He had never been at a bigger loss for words in his life. The helplessness made his fists clench.

Justin blinked at him, set aside his sketch book. “You okay? Did you go to the Baths?”

Brian dropped his jacket, toed off his shoes. He felt heavy, like he was treading through water. He managed to nod.

“Mm. Anyone good?” Justin crawled out of bed and strolled over to him, teasing, wearing just briefs and a t-shirt. He ran his hands up Brian’s chest and smiled that good old sunny smile.

Brian just shook his head. “I–” he said, and it was such a struggle just to utter that one sentence, his voice was gone, caught somewhere in his throat halfway between a whisper and a sob.

Justin furrowed his brow and touched his cheek gently. “Brian?”

The loft was so quiet Brian could hear their breathing, practically hear Justin’s heartbeat. “Nothing,” he managed finally. “Fuck it. It’s nothing.”

Justin’s eyes grew soft and tender. He traced the edge of Brian’s jaw with a fingertip, followed it with his lips. Then he took Brian by the hands and led him over to the bed, helping him sit down like a mother leading a child, gently undressed him with careful and sure hands. Each item of clothing came off with a whisper and Justin kissed the bare skin left exposed, lips warm and familiar and yet Brian could only sit there, lost in an ocean.

Then Justin was pushing him back and his mouth was on his cock, and that was warm and familiar too, and any other time, any other shitty circumstance this was exactly what Brian would have wanted. Mouth on cock, cock up ass, everything habitual and good and everything he associated with healing, and suddenly for some reason it just wasn’t enough.

Brian came in Justin’s mouth for a lack of anything better to do. Afterwards they lay side-by-side in silence and Brian had to look away from Justin’s eyes, because there was so much desperation in them.

Please tell me, Justin’s hand on his arm said.

Please stop trying, Brian wanted to say in reply, but of course he couldn’t. He never could. He got up and headed into the bathroom, leaving Justin alone and blinking in bed.

*

Lindsay called the next morning. “Justin’s really worried about you,” she said. “And Michael says you haven’t wanted to do anything together in days. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fabulous,” he said, not even bothering to put a sarcastic punch in the word anymore.

“Any exciting Christmas plans?”

He looked at the Bible on his coffee table, considered the funeral later that day, and beyond that – a blank. What day was it again? “No. Nothing.”

“You could come over? For dinner? We’re having turkey and latkes, and opening presents.” Brian could imagine Lindsay’s eyes growing wide in her eagerness, biting her lip a little. “Gus would love to see you.”

That made him slip up for just a fraction of a second. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good! Bring Justin. And try to smile, all right?”

Justin came home from Daphne’s just as Brian was planning his funeral outfit. Justin didn’t try to kiss him. “What’s with the suit?”

Brian looked at him, Justin’s pale face and listless eyes and knew that he couldn’t do this anymore. He paused, considered his tie, and the next sentence was out before he even thought about it. “Why, you don’t think it’s appropriate for a funeral?”

Justin’s reaction was so predictable. A slight jerking of his head, eyes going wide and blinking. “What?”

“Yeah, my mother finally decided to join her Lord in heaven.” Brian brushed invisible lint off his lapels. “And now I can start rejoicing.”

“Why…why didn’t you tell me? Or anyone?”

Brian glanced at him briefly. “I just needed to deal with it. Without any of Michael’s sniffling or Debbie’s mommying or worse, your shit. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

“Brian, I thought we … I thought we were together. If something happens–”

“Jesus Christ, we’ve been having this conversation since you were seventeen years old, haven’t you learned by now?” Justin just looked at him, mouth open a little, as he ranted, and Brian reveled a little in each painful word. “You don’t know shit about my mother and you don’t know shit about me or how I feel, so what would be the fucking point in telling you?”

A long pause.

He could see Justin trying to choose his words carefully. “The point is we are supposed to be there for each other. You said that yourself.” He came over to Brian and tried to touch his cheek. “Partners, right?”

Brian jerked away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Justin squared his shoulders and frowned. “Do…do you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

“Brian, I’m not seventeen anymore. If something happens, we deal with it. Together. You didn’t think I would care if your mother died?”

“Forget it, Sunshine. It’s not important.”

“Brian–”

“Justin, this has nothing to do our quote-unquote partnership or whatever the fuck we’re calling it these days. This is about how my mother died and I don’t need your fucking pity. Now….I have to go listen to my sister cry hysterically for two hours. Don’t wait up.”

*

A sea of black-clad family members gradually drifted away from the gravesite, ants scattering for warm houses and the comfort of alcohol. Another year. Another sermon. Another procession. Another funeral in the middle of fucking winter. Except this wasn’t the same as his father’s death. It wasn’t the same, at all. And Brian was left standing alone in front of the graves of both his parents, feeling the snow hitting his cheeks and nose and not really caring.

He was silent and still for what seemed like a very long time. And then, a warm body at his side. He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

They were quiet. Then Brian coughed – the fucking cold. “So, that’s it.” He huffed a short laugh and looked at the ground. “Good fucking riddance.”

Justin was looking at the matching graves, too. He squinted a little in the harsh sun bouncing off the beds of snow and didn’t say anything.

Brian focused on breathing in and out and suddenly he was talking, without even meaning to. “You know, when I was a kid, after my dad had had a few too many, he used to come after me with those big fists…if I flunked a test, if I swore at him, whatever. And my mother would always step in his way. I used to be afraid that this time she would let me take the punch.”

Justin looked at him. “But she didn’t.”

“So?”

“She must have loved you.”

“Once, maybe. Before she started praying for my filthy soul.”

“And now you can let it go. Good riddance, right?”

Brian ducked his head and shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Brian, I know why you didn’t tell me. I know you had to deal with this on your own. But I do know shit about you. And I’m not here to give you my pity.”

Brian turned to look at him for the first time, eyebrows raised. “What are you here for, then?”

Justin’s silence said more than any piece of advice or words of love ever could. He smiled, and slipped his warm hand into Brian’s.