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Title: Golden Years
Author: darksylvia
Summary: The bargain was himself for everything else, and he was valuable. And there hadn't been any way out until Justin came along and latched on. Before Justin, his life was charmed, but borrowed. With Justin he had hope, and that was almost worse. ETA: This story is a retelling of this ballad.
Rating: PG-13-ish
Author's note: Thank you luceononuro and lesser_gods for betaing and being good sounding boards!


Afterwards, Brian tried to convince himself that it was a dream. And he even managed to convince himself that he’d convinced himself, but deep down, where he hid all the things he didn’t want to think about, he knew it was as real as anything else.

It could have been the drugs from that night. He’d taken a lot of them, mixed them every which way with alcohol, done everything a doctor would tell you was a sure-fire way to permanent brain damage. Ever since, he’d tried to be careful, doesn’t want to get quite that fucked-up ever again. He didn’t want to go back there. Whether it was real or not.

The benefits of that night were instantaneous. Any man he wanted, any thing he wanted. All he had to do was want it, reach for it, and it came to him. Those effects were hard to deny. It had never been hard before, but it had never been this easy. Every time Michael remarked on it, or Lindsay teased him about it, developing their own personal Brian Mythology, he became a little bit more brittle, a little bit more arrogant, to drown out the uncertain origins of this ‘luck’. And that just made men--and women—fall even harder, and he rejected all of them. He told himself he was doing exactly what he wanted to do, no apologies, no regrets, no bullshit. He was charmed.

Sometimes he saw others like himself, and he could tell who they were, even if he hadn’t seen the mark: they had a type. Brian wasn’t flattering himself when he observed that they went for the graceful, the beautiful, the ones who had a shine of intelligence and glamour to them to begin with, but had been enhanced. It wasn’t a gift, but a curse.

Just after that night, he started having nightmares. Indescribable ones, with things he could neither identify or put words to. It was like withdrawing from the strongest drug of all. He’d wake up in cold sweats, aching for something he’d lost, but in reality never had. This was before Justin, long before he even suspected that the strange sort of salvation that Justin gave him was possible. But even after Justin, he still had the nightmares once a year, on the anniversary. With Justin in his life, they faded, becoming less menacing with each year, with each second that he passed in Justin’s determined company. They diminished in power every time he woke up next to Justin and used Justin’s skin to drive them away. He felt hope.

Before Justin, he hadn’t had anything to lose. It was already lost. His life was merely grace, untouchable because it was gone. He drugged and drank, he fucked, he drove too fast and lived to feel. Then Justin latched on, held on. Brian tried to throw him off because it was part of the way things worked, part of the agreement, but also he’d have to be more of a bastard than he was to want to take another person down with him. Especially Justin, with his shiny innocence, his open humanity. That’s why Brian had picked him up in the first place. Brian saw him and he fucking knew he had to touch that, and feel a little of that naivety, remember what it felt like when he’d been too young and hurt to recognize the same thing in himself.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t known two things when he gave in to the temptation that was Justin: One, that once he’d tasted Justin, he’d only want him more, exponentially. Justin was worse than cocaine. And two, that Justin would be compelled to cling. The kid was fucking superglue. A small glow of grudging hope blossomed in his chest when Justin began to stalk him, and a simultaneous thread of horror snaked through him. They could not know about Justin. They would want him even more than they’d wanted Brian.

He tried to kill himself twice, almost as an experiment. Not the sort of ways he’d been testing the limits of their dominion, like drugging too much, driving too fast, too reckless, going off with dangerous-looking strangers. No, he tried twice for real--once with a gun, his father’s, at a thanksgiving from hell. The gun had gone off, right into his mouth, and the pain had been blinding. But by the time his mother and father and various aunts and uncles had burst through the door, there was no evidence of a gunshot wound at all. There was the bullet where it had ricocheted off a wall, and him gasping for breath.

So after that he thought about it a little more carefully. Maybe a slow death, something that would keep him dead--hanging. And why not make it as pleasurable as possible, since it would be his last hurrah? Mikey screwed that up, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have worked anyway. And then, well, Prom. Like having his soul ripped out through his lungs. He was pretty sure seeing Justin nearly killed was worse than whatever bargain he’d made.

He’d known investing so much worry and hope in another person was a bad idea. They were bound to notice, but it was he who ended up revealing Justin. He did what he had to do. He went back to them and asked for Justin’s life, even if it meant alerting them to Justin’s existence. Justin did not deserve to die, and it was within Brian’s power to bargain for Justin’s life. It was another little event he shoved down inside himself to hide with all the other horrible things he couldn’t face. He’d sought them out for the first time in twelve years, deliberately confronted them, gained an audience. All meetings with them were difficult to keep straight, as regular memories, and the proceedings had become immediately hazy afterwards, but Brian bargained some of his autonomy, some of his leash away, for Justin’s consciousness. He considered it cheap.

When Justin came through, Brian gave in. He gave in to the power of Justin. It sounded like one of his ad campaigns: The Power of Justin. A Cleaner Clean. And this time, anything that wanted to hurt Justin would have to rip Brian to shreds first, and he’d do his best to take it down with him. Brian did everything but install a tracking device, all while maintaining an outer shell of careful indifference. He did this for two reasons. The first was that he was sure that Justin’s attachment to him was just a symptom, that the professed ‘love’ was not because of anything intrinsically Brian, but a side effect of Brian’s bargain, the exchange of himself for everything else he wanted. But he also did it because he did not want Justin sucked in--tied to--Brian’s borrowed time.

One night, during Justin’s ridiculously embarrassing gogo-boy career, he saw Justin from his watch on the catwalk, down in the far corner talking to, being touched by, one of them. Brian was too far away, and the masses of naked men--usually his drug of choice--were suddenly obstacles. He’d watched in agony, in fear and a terrible frozen anticipation, as Justin stood listening. His heart beat in his ears and he tasted bile in his throat, gripping the railing so hard he had imprints in his hands for an hour afterward. Then a small miracle occurred: Justin pushed the guy away. Shoved him back three feet, said something hard and dismissive, and stalked away. Brian began breathing again and knew he was further gone; soppily, disgustingly gone for this bright kid who resisted what Brian hadn’t. He knew he had to push Justin away, but it was hard. He wanted him; but he also wanted him safe, which meant away from him.

Time passed. Time that allowed Justin to unconsciously draw Brian further from the ranks of the condemned, but always on edge, waiting to be tossed back among them when Justin left. Justin would leave when the illusion of Brian’s goodness wore off. Brian’s gifts were not lasting.

When Justin left him for the fiddler, he felt equal parts relief and panic. Not to mention the surprise horror of the bone-deep ache at his absence, the knowledge that once again, Brian was living on borrowed time with no Justin to push it back. But Justin—he was happy and free. It was comforting.

The Lady came in person not long after. A delicate, dangerous person. Like white tea laced with cyanide. She gave him his task, sweetly but with no room for opposition. “Be a good boy, Brian, and help dear Jim become mayor. It will benefit you as much as him.”

He helped Stockwell because by then he didn’t give a fuck about anything, and also because it was part of the deal and he couldn’t really resist, had his will to resist restrained. He wanted to play the devil, wanted to get away from the site of his stupid broken hope, take back their grace, forget he’d ever foolishly hoped for freedom. He worked hard at it.

But freedom came back to him instead of their favor. Justin walked in to his office one night, wrapped around him, held on again. The hope came back, not dead, just hiding.

He knew right away when they--when she--had withdrawn their gifts. Stockwell started it, his fall from favor with the voters. Brian’s first act of blatant defiance. And the only reason he’d been able to do it was because of Justin, the breathing room that Justin gave him to act out and defy. But of course, that visible act of rebellion alerted them that he wasn’t being ‘a good boy’. The cancer, the broken collar-bone, the syphilis, and fuck--even the Rage movie--they were all symptoms of withdrawn support. Or maybe karma catching up from the unnatural period of untouchability he’d enjoyed when he was in favor, the favorite. They were not fair, not nice, and often vengeful. They could not kill him, because the bargain was still there, himself for everything else, and he was valuable. But he could still be punished.

The dull, untreatable pain, like a bad toothache, when Justin was in California, and the way everything was better when Justin returned, was what finally taught Brian, finally gave him the courage to fight for himself. His acknowledgement was tricky. In order to let Justin help him and protect him, he had to stifle the knowledge that anything was even happening. Luckily, he was very well-versed in self-delusion. Never once did he say to himself, “Justin is my last defense.” They might have noticed. They noticed anyway, but they couldn’t do anything about it as long as Brian still appeared to be trying to drive Justin off.

When Justin left for New York, Brian knew his time was up, the rollercoaster of hope and despair was over. That in spite of all the struggles he’d gone through over the past four years--alternately needing Justin and trying to drive him away--it was time to face what he’d known all along would be his fate. Babylon’s bombing was the last warning. They’d lost patience with him. He was chosen. The fairest one of all, which made him laugh and want to cry. He dutifully had Babylon rebuilt. And the knowledge that soon, soon he’d be forfeit, built up in him made him wild and itchy, sun burnt. But it also made him strangely calm. Everything was so simple.

He wrote his will. He said goodbye to his son, said an internal goodbye to Michael, and said a private goodbye to Justin. Then he waited for the inevitable end.

It was not long after the reopening of Babylon. It was just their style. It was Halloween.

____________________

Brian did a bump, closed his eyes, and acquiesced. He told himself he’d always known it was coming. And he had known, deep down, in that place where he hid things from himself so that he could function. It was inevitable, probably even from before he’d been taken.

He danced, and he waited. He didn’t have to wait long. The music changed. It was theirs, even if it sounded to everyone else like another dance song, Brian heard their hand in it. Then they came. First a beautiful black man, mocha skinned, but eyes cold, he danced with Brian, pulled him along toward the back room. Then another came, slid in between them, took over. This one was the color of dark sand but also cold, a contrast to Justin’s pale, warm skin. Brian closed his eyes as he danced with this one, swallowing back the burst of longing that washed over him at the thoughts of Justin, which he had been so carefully avoiding.

There should have been a third. They liked threes. He felt the second slip away and Brian didn’t bother to open his eyes, waiting for the third, no doubt a pale young man, dressed for Halloween.

Hands gripped his hips. He ignored them. Lips brushed his jaw, a familiar smell hit him, and he snapped his eyes open. Justin stepped up to press against him, smiling, incandescently happy. He was so fucking warm and sharing all of that warmth with Brian, who hadn’t even known he’d been cold until he wasn’t any more.

“Justin,” he said. He couldn’t think of one other thing to say. Sadness and horrible happiness clashed inside him, and he almost wished for the cold to come back, freeze him so that he could let this happen with dignity. “What are you doing here?” It was not one of his brighter questions.

“I couldn’t miss Babylon’s return,” said Justin, then more quietly “And I missed you, Brian.” Another kiss on the jaw, Justin’s hands sifting through his hair, the familiar shape of his body pressing against Brian, then a kiss on the mouth, slow and smooth, a greeting and declaration of love. Brian had to stop this. It was going to hurt too much this way.

A beautiful boy with impossibly blue eyes, and pale, pale skin met Brian’s eyes from over Justin’s shoulder. The boy didn’t twitch a muscle, but Brian got the message all the same. Come.

“I’m sorry, Sunshine,” Brian said, each carelessly patronizing word like a rough cut to his skin. “I’m a little busy right now.” He detached himself from Justin and maintained a carefully careless expression and gait. He grabbed the boy’s jean loop and towed him toward the back room, just as he’d done a thousand times, with harmless, horny human boys.

Justin looked distinctly taken aback. “Wait, Brian,” he said, half-exasperated, and half-confused. “What the hell?”

Brian ignored him and moved into the back room. He hadn’t thought that would be enough to put Justin off, so he wasn’t surprised when Justin jogged in front of him, blocked the way.

“What’s the matter, Brian?” Justin asked, concern in his voice. “I thought we were past this shit.”

“What shit?” Brian said. “I said I’m busy.” He allowed himself to sneer as the boy stood silently by, patient for now. Brian met Justin’s eyes and made himself feel all of the confused hurt he saw there as penance. “Leave, Justin,” he said, and winced at the way his voice cracked and broke on Justin’s name. “Get the fuck out of here, or I’ll have the bouncers throw you out.” At this point, Brian could hardly believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. It has him speaking them, they were coming from his mind. And yet at the same time they weren’t. The words weren’t his, they were theirs. But he didn’t fight them. He wanted Justin out of there. Out before she noticed he was there.

“No, you won’t,” said Justin, calmly calling Brian’s bluff like he’d been doing all along. He reached a hand out, grabbed Brian’s wrist hard enough to bruise. “Fucking tell me what’s wrong, Brian.”

“Nothing,” said Brian. “Except that you’re still here.” Brian ripped his wrist from Justin’s grip and before he knew what he’d even done had planted a hand on Justin’s chest and shoved him back hard enough to knock him into the wall, made him hit his head slightly.

Justin’s face went from concern to shock. Brian had never touched before him in pure anger. Even at their angriest sex, even at the height of Justin’s pink posse bullshit, or when Brian had tried so hard to make Justin leave during his chemotherapy, Brian had never raised a hand to Justin in uncontrolled fury. That was because, of course, it wasn’t completely Brian.

“You’re fucking right I’m still here,” said Justin. He glared at the boy. “Get your hands off my fucking boyfriend,” Justin spat. “He’s mine.”

The boy melted further back into the blue light of the back room, expressionless as ever.

“That was really stupid, Justin,” Brian said, his body sagging in defeat. “Please leave before...” he stopped himself from saying anything.

Justin stepped in front of him, wrapped a fist in his shirt, eyes glittering dangerously, and said. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Not really. But I have an idea. I’m not letting you go any further alone. I’m coming with you, you asshole. And I’m coming out with you after whatever-it-is happens.”

“You don’t know anything about this,” said Brian, but he was intrigued in spite of himself, the fog of inevitability was lifting from him. There was, just maybe, a tiny flicker of trust. Justin was very convincing.

“Yes, I do.” Justin glanced around and then continued. “When I was in L.A., I went to a party. It was really weird. It...reminded me of you, for some reason. And there was a guy I fucked there who had the same tattoo you have. In the same place.” Justin took a deep breath. “I saw some things. It wasn’t the drugs. Someone had given me some strong shit. Something that made me sweat and feel sharp. But I know I saw real things, even if I didn’t know what I was seeing.” Justin shook him a little. “I don’t—I don’t know what they are, but I know I’m not letting you just go in alone.”

Brian paused, willing himself not to freak the fuck out right there. He wanted to be composed. He needed to go through this in control. He stared at Justin hard, and then took a deep breath. “I have to keep moving. They’ll miss me if I’m not there soon.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Justin.

“I don’t think it will do any good.”

“Yes it will. I’m coming.”

“Justin,” Brian said. He hesitated. “Please don’t--” he cut himself off and swallowed, trying to get the rough edge out of his voice. “I don’t want you to see it, them to see you. I want you safe.” He felt a sad imitation of a smile ghost over his mouth. “I want you around for a long time.”

“I want the same. You’re coming back out with me,” said Justin, stubborn. Brian looked away, but Justin caught his jaw, forced it gently back. He kissed Brian slow, eyes wide open. “You can’t get rid of me, Mr. Kinney.” He grinned. “I’m on to you.”

Brian sighed, gave in, and he felt his smile get a little less brittle. He leaned his forehead against Justin’s. “Let’s go. They’re waiting.”

Justin took a deep breath, stepped back and nodded. Then he carefully interlaced their fingers. “Lead the way.”

At the end of the back room was the emergency exit. Brian opened it and they walked through, not into the alley where it should have led, but into another hall. Blue light, sourceless and infused in the walls, lit their way.

The end of the hall held an elevator. It opened as they approached, an old-fashioned operator standing just inside. He waited as they got on, silently closing the doors. They began moving. It was impossible to tell whether it was up or down, or even sideways. They didn’t talk. Justin braced a shoulder against him, to comfort Brian or himself, Brian did not know. The elevator continued to move, long moments, impossible to count, five minutes or twenty-four hours. It was like being frozen, a place where thinking was nearly impossible.

The doors opened with a little ‘ding’, so incongruous in the circumstances that Brian felt a half-hysterical laugh burst from his chest. Justin squeezed his hand and followed when Brian stepped forward.

They were on a landing just before a sky bridge. The city twinkled all around them, but there were no stars, and no moon in the sky. In fact, if he looked up at all he felt faintly queasy at the unnatural blankness. When he looked down from the edge of the bridge he saw that there was a river flowing under, seemingly right through the middle of the city. The elevator door closed behind them.

“Justin,” Brian said, suddenly.

“What?” Justin asked, both of them looking ahead.

“I’m not sure how I’ll act. I’m not sure how much…control they have. Across this bridge we’re on their ground. If I’m…weird, just know that—“ he stopped.

“That it isn’t you,” Justin finished. Brian didn’t respond, only stroked his thumb down the center of Justin’s palm. They stepped forward onto the bridge, the only sound their footfalls and breathing.

On the other side of the bridge was a door and Brian didn’t have to talk himself into opening it—it was flung open. A half-naked young woman nearly fell out.

She looked him over and narrowed her eyes, changing from drunk sorority girl to something cold and unearthly in a millisecond. “You’re late. She’s waiting.” And she stood aside so they could pass.

Inside, it looked like a cross between the orgy room at the baths and some sort of warped palace. Young men and women lounged, danced, fucked everywhere. But a path cleared for them. He was the guest of honor, after all.

Many stopped to watch him as he passed, all with the same chillingly expressionless eyes, like kids watching an ant just before another kid stepped on it. They walked on until the crowd had parted all the way to a dais, an ornate sedan parked on it, and a woman reclining inside.

When he saw her, he stopped in his tracks, barely aware he’d done so, barely aware of Justin’s hand tightening in his own. The strange music in the background had stopped, and off to the side of his consciousness, he could feel hundreds of eyes watching him, unmoving. A long silent moment passed.

Then Brian cocked his head and forced a mocking smile, his voice harsh in his own ears, “That’s an interesting costume you chose to wear.”

“I thought it was appropriate, given the circumstances,” said Joan Kinney’s voice and mouth and face. “And so…Freudian.” There was light, mocking laughter from all sides.

“Joan wasn’t much of a mother, and she’s not much of a disguise, either,” Brian told her.

“Oh, it’s not a disguise.” She laughed freely, as the real Joan hadn’t done since Brian’s childhood, if ever. Then she sobered abruptly and stood from her sedan, as fluid as a young girl and moving utterly wrong for her “costume”. As if working under some invisible command, Brian felt the others close in behind them, leaving them in a wide, empty circle, hundreds of bodies between them and the door.

Brian could feel his heart thudding in his ears as he warily watched her advance. She ignored Justin completely and stopped no more than two feet away before she spoke. “Come here, Brian.” She didn’t need to beckon. Her words were like a shove from behind. He involuntarily took a step forward, unable to stop himself.

“No!” said Justin. He yanked Brian’s arm back. He stepped so he was slightly in front of Brian and he met her eyes. “He’s not going anywhere.”

She transferred her gaze to Justin, as if she only just noticed he was there. Then looked back at Brian, her face suddenly tight with fury. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said to Brian. Brian didn’t think he could answer. There was pressure constricting him from all sides and he couldn’t tell if it was in his head or if the air was actually trying to strangle him. When he didn’t answer, Justin did it for him.

“I dare,” he said and Brian watched as Justin gave her—her!—his best ‘back up off my man, bitch,” look. Joan’s eyebrows rose. Brian felt the pressure recede just a little.

“So you lay claim to him?” she asked, her voice low and deadly, clearly stating that it would be a very bad idea to do so. Luckily, Justin had never taken direction well.

“Yes.” Justin tightened his hand and looped his other arm across Brian’s chest. “He’s mine.” It was such a relief not to have to flinch away from Justin’s possessive grip for fear that he’d be found out. This was as found out as it got and even though Brian couldn’t move, there was freedom in not having to fight Justin away any more.

Not-Joan’s eyes rose to sweep the crowd and Brian could almost see the pure concentrated rage coiling behind her impassive face, her calm voice. “That’s too bad,” she told Justin. “Considering what he did to you.” She gestured to Brian. Justin glanced up at Brian and then flinched all over his whole body, though his grip didn’t loosen.

Justin reached up, slow, and nearly wincing, touched Brian’s chin. “Ethan?” he said and for a worrying split second, Brian felt his face curve into a smile that was not his own.

“I knew you’d come back,” he heard Ethan’s voice spill out of his own open mouth and wanted to cry or scream, but it was Ethan’s mouth right now and he couldn’t do anything.

“I’m not--. I didn’t--.” Justin paused, was silent as he studied Brian for a long moment. Then he drew a deep breath and visibly took himself in-hand. He cupped a palm over Brian’s—Ethan’s cheek. “Nice fucking try,” he said softly, and leaned in to kiss Brian’s mouth, bit his lip hard as Brian moved into the kiss, finding he could move, could kiss back with tongue and teeth and enthusiasm. When Justin opened his eyes again, he smiled. “Ethan never liked to be bitten,” was all he said.

Then Justin turned to not-Joan. “He’s still mine.”

“Of course, dear,” she nodded and smiled a snake’s smile, a slight curve of her lips, but no warmth. “But perhaps you’d like to look a little closer?”

Justin’s grip on him tightened, even as his head whipped back to look. He wrinkled his nose in genuine disgust, an expression he’d never aimed at Brian before.

Brian found himself trying to shake his hand loose, even as another part of him tried desperately to hold on.

“Stop it, Brian,” Justin said. “I know you’re in there.”

“I’m not that disgusting pervert,” Brian’s mouth said. “Has he done something so horrible to you that you can’t even recognize your own father?” Justin tightened his grip on Brian until it was painful, even as Brian tried to rip their hands apart.

“Oh, please!” Justin shouted, glaring around at their silent audience and hardest at not-Joan. “If I didn’t believe Brian was Ethan, why would I believe he’s my father?” He gripped Brian by the shirt front and hauled him close, surprising Brian with the amount of strength.

“Though,” Justin said, so only Brian could hear, “I’m going to have to close my eyes for this one.” He leaned in and kissed Brian again--and again, Brian found he could move, could contribute to the kiss. His eyes drifted shut as he tried to put his gratitude, his relief, his utter pride in Justin into it.

When Justin broke the kiss and Brian opened his eyes, it was pitch black. He had to close them and open them again, just to make sure he really had them open.

“Is it over?” Justin asked. “Maybe when they left they took all the light with them.”

But no, a soft glow started from somewhere and gradually gave shape to the place they stood in. The lights turned harsh, fluorescent, and he heard Justin make a horrible strangled noise, like he was choking.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuck,” Justin muttered, panic in his voice, and when Brian tried to move, tried to reassure him, Justin blanched and tried to jerk his hand away. Brian barely held on, their fingers linked and nothing else.

When Brian tried to ask what was wrong, all that came out was, “Fucking faggot.” And it was then that he noticed they were standing in a half-empty parking garage, and Justin’s face was ghastly in the light, strained with fear.

“This isn’t real,” Justin said, his voice just short of shaking.

“Don’t have a gun now, do you, you stupid queer?” was what spilled out of Brian’s mouth even as he railed inside. He screamed and kicked and tried desperately to get out, to get to Justin. But he could not move his own body.

With a horrible, sick twist to his stomach, Brian realized that the hand not linked to Justin’s fingers was clenched around a baseball bat. He hefted the bat and looked up at Justin. “Maybe this will work this time, actually kill you.” Brian-Chris’s jaw jutted out. “And there will be one less perverted buttfucker in the world.”

Even though it only took a split second, Brian could feel every tiny increment of time as Justin wrenched out of his grasp and turned to run. But when their fingers stopped touching, the world lurched and blurred sickeningly, as if he was inside a movie while it fast-forwarded. When he found himself back in the circle, in front of not-Joan, he stumbled so hard he fell.

“The claim has been relinquished, and our previous claim now stands unchallenged,” she said.

“No,” said Brian, and his voice came out ragged, like he’d been screaming. He struggled to stand, found he was naked. The floor was weirdly soft under him, as if it was melting and his struggles only accelerated it. “No! Fuck you, I want out.”

“If I had seen how you were betraying me, Brian,” she said, her voice full of hatred. “I would have cut out every last ounce of humanity you possessed.” When he glanced up next she was no longer taking the shape of Joan. She was a fierce drag queen, beautiful like knives, and her eyes glittered blackly in the dim light. The circle of people watched dispassionately as Brian struggled harder to stand, even as he felt himself sink. “I should have cut out your emotions, and there wouldn’t have been any of this messy defiance. You were so primed to be a perfect sacrifice.” And fuck, this was really happening. He was going to die right here. But at least Justin wasn’t there to witness it. “I’ve followed every rule in our bargain. You agreed to the terms,” she continued, her voice was loud and chiding. “And your little loophole has let go of you—.”

“No, I haven’t!” he heard Justin say angrily, shoving through the crowd and coming up behind her. “I’ve never stopped holding on to him! Even when I was a thousand miles away, even when I was fucking someone else, even when I was in a fucking coma! He’s mine! And he’ll be mine even if I die, even if he dies, even if the world fucking ends!” This was Justin at his most insane and fantastic, eyes glaring, arms flying, nearly spitting. Brian felt slack with awe. “And,” Justin said, smug satisfaction flowing into his voice, “He was mine even when you thought he was yours. Making him look like Chris Hobbes will never change that. It’s a cheap trick, just like you looking like his mother.”

He moved past her and leaned down to take Brian’s arm, hauled him up from the strange sinking floor, though it still melted and turned under him, and they both struggled to stand.

“Stop it!” Justin commanded, glaring all around, looking scared but powerful, too. And just like that, the floor firmed up, though Brian felt like he’d just gotten off a boat, and he was cold and exposed.

There was no roof now, and no floor, no strobe lights. Everything had become curiously blank and windy. Justin noticed the absence of Brian’s clothing, and shrugged halfway out of his sweater before Brian tightened a hand on his wrist and they both looked at the mass of people surrounding them. The crowd seemed as if it was closing in, even though no one had moved. It felt like they were holding back and waiting for something, but just barely, and suddenly they didn’t look so much like young human people. They looked long and angular and their teeth seemed sharper.

“We have to leave,” Brian said. “Now.”

“Not arguing,” Justin said. Justin had just managed to pull the sweater off and get it over Brian’s head when the drag queen began to wail, like a cat screaming, like metal scraping metal, like tinfoil between teeth, “He’s lost.” The rest screamed with her and suddenly the waiting was over. The crowd surged forward, closing in. Hands scrabbled at them, bodies leaned forward to try and grab them. Brian clutched Justin’s hand and they shoved. None of the hands found purchase, almost like they weren’t substantial enough. There was no door or bridge to run across, only darkness and nothing to do but blindly keep running until the hands stopped grasping, the screaming faded and the only light left was a pale yellow glow. It took Brian a long breathless moment to realize it was a streetlight. He found himself standing in a dirty alley way, his fingers wound so tight with Justin’s that they hurt and throbbed. His breath steamed out cold and the smell of slightly rotted things filtered into his nose while he shivered, barefoot, on slightly frosted asphault.

He laughed suddenly, surprising himself as well as Justin, and pulled a dazed-looking Justin in, his fingers stroking over Justin’s body of their own accord. “You won,” Brian told him. And he kissed the soft, dangerous mouth that had claimed him so ferociously, kissed Justin and smiled and felt like he might be coming apart. Every habit he’d developed for more than half of his life had been in opposition to, or in accord with, the bargain he’d just broken, and was now unnecessary. He could be whatever the fuck he wanted to be and he felt like he was just breathing for the first time, feeling for the first time.

“I didn’t rescue you to lose you to frostbite,” Justin laughed, pulling away, but Brian held on, buried his cold face in the crook of Justin’s neck and they shivered together for a long moment.