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Collide - Part One - Chapter
Nine 
part one: nails for breakfast. Monday comes faster than either of them expected it to. Justin shows up at Kinnetik, a small smirk on his face and hands hidden in the pockets of his jacket, fabric bundled around his body. They end up spending the morning going over whatever Brian can see fit to remember doing -- covering the charges that are being laid against Vincent, most of which Justin doesn’t even end up remembering; what the actual process will be like, and what will happen to Vincent once he’s proven guilty. ‘If’ is a word that Brian never uses, because he can already see the reaction it sparks in Justin’s eyes. But it’s when they’re waded down with proceedings schedules that Brian asks out of an almost nowhere, “Has the hospital been able to get a hold of your parents yet?” There is no hesitation in Justin’s reply. “Fuck no,” He snorts, eyes continually scanning the paper he holds. “I already told you. Even if you did find them? They wouldn’t come.” He looks up after that last word, and right into Brian’s eyes, Brian’s eyes that are carefully watching him. “They could care less about what happens to me.” Brian makes a face and decides to ignore Justin’s answer completely, and go for another tactic instead, asking, “When was the last time you saw them?” He tosses the copy of the schedule onto his desk, watching for a moment as it flutters on top of another stack of papers, waiting as Justin looks up from his own with a laughable expression played across his face. He looks as though he’s just been told the joke of the century. “I was twelve the last time I saw them,” Justin explains, eyebrows raising. Brian counts that there are four years between Justin’s numbers and his own. “Long story short? I ran away, and by the time I came back, they were gone. Moved. Dead, maybe. I don’t know. I never knew.” Brian leans back in his chair and shakes his head, smirking despite his best intentions as he says, “Trust me. You’d find out if they died.” A few beats of silence pass through the office, and Brian knows this type of quiet, because he’s dealt with it so many times -- too many times. Justin is thinking. Figuring out how to say whatever it is that’s getting stuck inside of his head, lodged halfway down his throat. “What about you?” Justin asks, after the silence is over. He nudges his foot up against the edge of Brian’s desk, and the toe of his shoe catches a stack of photographs, photographs all of his own stomach. The whole lot comes dangerously close to sliding off, but Brian catches it before that happens, and in the moment he was ducked down, equips himself with the classic ‘what the fuck are you talking about’ expression. Justin notices immediately, and they both know but he presses on anyways. “What about your parents, I mean?” Laughing, Brian leans back and runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve got an awful lot of questions for someone who should be giving me the answers, you know,” He smirks, settling back into his chair. Justin thinks that if Brian presses back any more, the chair is just going to snap in half, and he’ll end up on his ass on the floor. But instead of issuing a warning, Justin replies instead, “It’s the first I’ve asked you.” “Yeah? Today, maybe,” Brian grins, his tongue moving to press against the inside of his cheek. Justin raises his eyebrows and laughs, half in complete disbelief. They try to stare each other down, but Justin breaks it after only a few seconds to ask, “Why do you avoid questions that you don’t want to answer?” It’s Brian who laughs, then. Eyebrows raising further into his hairline as his chair spins slightly from side to side. Justin tries to figure out why he just can’t stop smirking as Brian carefully answers, “Because I don’t want to answer them?” “Well, answer me,” The blond replies, lips quick but tongue faster. Feigning complete innocence, Brian pushes himself up and out of the leather executive chair and moves across the room, aimlessly opening and closing and opening the top two drawers of the nearest filing cabinet. Filing cabinets that are not even being used for the Taylor case. “I forgot the question,” Brian grins, watching Justin from the corner of his eyes. Justin laughs, then, spinning the chair he sits on around with his legs, until he’s facing the filing cabinet and the green plant that sits on top and the lawyer and the lawyer’s grin. “That is absolute bullshit, Mr. Kinney.” Rolling his eyes, Brian once again closes the drawer. Everything on top shakes from the effort, and Justin guesses that this filing cabinet is a personal favorite of Brian, just judging by the way that paper almost spills out of its drawers. “What, you want the life story, or the episodic version?” Justin pretends to seriously consider it for a moment before replying, “Episodic.” “Born in Berlin,” Brian smirks, quickly moving to drop back down into the leather chair. “Moved to New York,” He throws one hand up in a semi-dramatic gesture before continuing, “Moved back to Berlin,” A pause, before the finale, “No parents.” The blond laughs and crosses his arms over his chest, and for those few split seconds, he feels okay. Just okay. He doesn’t feel like he’s twelve years old, being shipped to his father’s house because his mother can’t take care of him. And he doesn’t feel like some Special Ed case, handled by ‘professionals’, or worse yet, peers. And in those split seconds? He almost feels normal. “That’s bullshit, too. The immaculate conception?” Justin snickers, “Your idea of a shortened version totally sucks.” Brian feigns a 1920s movie worthy gasp, interrupting himself just long enough to grab a piece of paper that begins to eject itself from his printer, obviously after having been directly sent to him via Adeline. It’s a transcript from an officer who interviewed Vincent at the jail. “Sorry, I forgot to include,” Brian smirks, though now he’s mostly involved with the paper in his hands. He glances up just once, but manages to land right on Justin’s eyes. “Once I did steal fifteen dollars from my mother.” Justin snorts and says, “Liar.” … Seven days pass after that Monday afternoon, and then Justin finds himself standing in the middle of an empty hospital room, personal belongings bag clutched under one arm and jacket thrown over the other. Janice is behind him, nattering away on her cellphone, and vaguely Justin begins to wonder about the whole ‘no cellphones in a hospital’ rule, but doesn’t bother saying anything about it. He’s leaving. The wound on his stomach is now just a bright red scar, not yet faded to pink or white or gray, or whatever ripped up abdomens do end up fading to. He no longer has to live under the guise of blood pressure checks every two point five hours, and IVs pricking the back of his hand every four. “Your taxi should be here any moment,” Janice tells him, snapping her phone closed. He feels her touching the top of his shoulder blade before she asks, “Do you need me to carry anything?” Shaking his head, he starts trying to shrug his jacket on one-handed. He doesn’t have any possessions, really. Nothing worth anything at least. Just a few changes of clothes that came from the lobby thrift shop, and a little stuffed bear that one of the nurses bought him one night, probably hand made. Definitely hand made. “Okay!” She smiles, gesturing towards the door. “Let’s go, then.” … “Ah, my boy!” He greets, waving him over with a tattooed hand. Brian has never seen any part of Lars’ body free from any kind of mark, including the corners of his eyes, and above his knuckles. Smiling, Brian lets the front door close behind him, the bell making a little jingle that pharmacy commercials are made of. Standing on the opposite side of the counter to Lars is another man, only this man is about half of Lars’ size. “Nathan, this is the boy I was telling you about.” Brian laughs and shakes his head, disagrees, “Hardly a boy.” After a brief shake of their hands, Nathan introduces himself. “Just came in today to have the last part of my sleeve finished by Frank,” He explains, tipping his head sideways across the room. Brian follows the gesture and sees Frankie moving in the storage room behind the counter, probably either looking for ink refills or gauze, and definitely cursing Toby for not having the items hand ready for him. “I was saying how I’ve been looking for some legal advice, and Lars here recommended you without hesitation.” Smirking, Brian leans against the glass counter and glances over at Lars standing across from him, Lars who is grinning proudly. Like a real father. “I am the best attorney you’ll find in Berlin,” He explains, half shrugging one of his shoulders. Lars begins to laugh at the words, looking over to Nathan for a reaction. He’s smiling, teeth crooked and gapped. Brian smirks, then offers his best ‘sorry’ face, a face that he does not pull often. “Though, regretfully, Nathan, I’m already tied up with another case.” Lars slaps him on the back with a large hand. “Have you seen my boy in the papers?” He asks Nathan, though it comes out sounding more like an order. Nathan shakes his head, slightly bewildered from the abrupt change of direction in their conversation. “The biggest case of the year! That’s what they’re calling it.” The two men fall into a conversation that Brian could really care less about -- something to do with Roman politics, and the spray painted murals that are beginning to pop up all over the city -- so he ducks out of the debate, and starts over to where he saw Frankie when Nathan first bothered to point him out. “Isn’t that Toby’s job?” He asks, leaning against the inside of the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. Frank glances up from the photocopier, where he’s transferring a piece of art onto a stencil. There’s an obvious scowl on his face that answers Brian’s question with a simple ‘yes.’ The machine starts to whir, springing to life just as Frank answers, “Of course it is. Fuck knows where the little bastard got to, though.” “His bike was out front when I pulled up,” Brian shrugs, offering no more help than those useless words as he studies the profile of Frankie’s face, watching as strips of light seep from between the lid and the glass plate of the photocopier and project themselves across Frank’s cheeks, his chin. He has known Frankie for years, going on ten at least. Brian remembers arriving at Tätowierung when he was eighteen. Shrugging off his jacket at seven in the morning as he watched the newest apprentice artist following Lars around like a puppy, copy catting every move he made. Back when Brian was nothing more than a little punk with bright red hair glued into spikes and a ring through his eyebrow, Frankie had been that kid with the Mohawk and more piercings than could be counted on one hand. And yeah, Brian surely remembers being nineteen and stepping into the same room that they’re both standing in now. Only back then? There was one wicked difference, back then. Frankie would not have been leaning over the photo copier as he transferred an image that would shortly become a walking piece of art. In fact, if Brian remembers correctly -- and he does -- Frankie would have been bent over the machine, ass in the air as Brian fucked it. “I have the day off,” Brian finally says, eyeing what he suspects is a brand new piece of ink on the back of Frank’s neck. “You want to go get some food or something?” … Justin sits down on the edge of the cardboard thin bed. “This is only temporary,” Janice assures him, her voice hushed so the other five children in the room don’t hear her. They’re not all guys as Justin had earlier presumed -- the youngest is a girl probably no more than three years old, at most. “We’re working to have you moved into a private room as soon as possible, and the councilors have been talked to about what’s happened to far.” The blond nods and lets his gaze wander around the room. Everything in it is unfortunate, and he’s beginning to feel a lot like that himself. The kids are all gaunt and gray, the walls are colored like a sheen of dirt has been washed over them, and there isn’t a second in the day when Justin doesn’t feel at least one set of eyes on his back. Watching his every move. This is one of the only things that he has ever considered lower than sleeping on a curbside, curled into a gutter. Having to live in sardine packed rooms with other children, all like him, too weak to do anything else, other than suffer. “You have a meeting with the head councilor in the morning,” Janice explains, standing up to try closing the single curtain that separates Justin’s bed from the next. The rings catch on what Justin suspects is a rusted spot, and only after a moment of yanking hard Janice manages to get the curtain closed half way. “If you ever feel uncomfortable, you can phone me, and I’ll be here immediately. And you still have William’s number, right? The one that I gave you?” He ignores her question, and instead snaps, “I don’t need a therapist.” “I know you don’t,” Janice nods, voice soft. She smoothes her palm over his shoulder, trying to get him to look her in the eyes. He scowls and watches the floor instead. “But you know what, you might find that you want one.” Shaking his head again, he listens to her as she gathers up her keys and cellphone, and leaves. … “Fuck, would you look at that?” Brian takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance over his shoulder, to where Frankie is pointing out the back car window. In the front display of what is obviously an electronics store, there are stacks upon stacks of television sets tuned into the local news station, and Brian’s face is on every one. People pass by the window, but none of them offer a screen a single second glance. “Figures. Adeline’s been getting interview requests out the ass,” Brian shrugs, constituting it as a real answer as he pulls into another lane. Frankie’s still sitting half backwards in the seat, arm thrown around the head rest of the chair as he watches the multiple screens shrink smaller and smaller through the back window. Just before they almost disappear entirely, Justin’s face flickers across them, all in rapid fire. “Some North American stations are even picking up the story already.” Shaking his head, Frankie turns around to watch out the front window instead. … The next morning, Justin wakes up with a young girl staring at him from the foot of his uncomfortable as it looks bed. “Jesus Christ!” He shouts, jumping, his body automatically moving up the bed, until he’s flattened against the wall above it. She blinks back at him, her eyes huge and hazel. “What the fuck!” The little girl frowns at him and rubs her small fingers against both of her closed eyes, and Justin realizes with a cold flash of panic that she’s about to cry. But she doesn’t only cry. She begins to wail, her voice sharp, high in its pitch. “Shut up!” He shouts, stumbling out of his bed and onto the cold floor. The pants he ended up falling asleep in are twisted around his waist, and just as he’s fixing them, one of the floor councilors rushes inside of the door. The worker hurries across the room and glances between them, asks, “What happened?” “How the fuck should I know!” Justin yells, the pitch of his voice upsetting the child even more. He presses his hands against his ears and scowls at the two of them, the young worker speaking quietly and quickly to the girl, until her screams are sobs, and then hiccups. They both shuffle across the room to her bed, and the worker closes the curtain behind them, not sending Justin a second glance. Her curtain doesn’t get stuck.
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