"Now give me the goddamn gun!"

Brian watched Justin stalk down the stairs and out to the kitchen, tucking the weapon into the back of his pants like some gang member, or a sissy boy just begging to get his ass shot. Not that Brian was going to be expressing that opinion any time soon.

For a moment he wondered if Justin would leave, but after a few minutes of listening to him bang around in the kitchen, he decided that Justin would rather stay and throw a princess fit than leave and have no one to endure his wrathful stomping. Or maybe they were just past that point in their...partnership. Maybe there came a time when people didn't just walk out when things got rough, but instead stuck around to make everyone miserable for awhile. Brian pondered that. At least make-up sex was hot.

It wasn't that long ago that he would have been telling Justin to get the fuck out, but he could tell, he could already feel the pull, that he was going to be the one to break the silence, to try to soothe the little broken brat, to lure him back to bed so that he could cuddle and comfort him, and Christ he was such a dickless lesbian that it made him want to puke. Only it didn't. He growled and rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of faded jeans, leaving them unbuttoned.

Justin sat at the kitchen counter, somehow turning the consumption of cereal into a violent expression of his rage. He was talented like that; Brian had to give it to him. A person would be hard-pressed to queen-out better than Justin.

Brian drew up close behind him, and ran a hand down the pale curve of his back, over the place where the black bruise had healed to faded yellow. Justin muttered, "Fuck off."

Sighing, he dropped onto a stool, his back to the counter, and tried to catch a glimpse of Justin's eyes. "I don't want a gun in my loft. You can keep it at home, you can keep it in your ass, but if you do, then your ass better not be in my loft."

"You had no right to snoop through my things."

Brian lifted his brows. "Says the guy who uses my toothbrushes, eats my food, watches my porn, and rifles through my shit looking for a pencil, or paper, or whatever the fuck he wants."

Justin didn't say anything.

"I was looking for a goddamn light, anyway," Brian continued.

"Not like you don't have a million lying around."

"I didn't want to get out of bed and your bag was right there. Look, that isn't the fucking point. I don't want that thing in my loft. I don't want you running around with a concealed weapon picking fights with asshole straight guys who'd sooner shoot you than look at you, but since I can't stop you from doing that, I can tell you that I want nothing to do with it, and I don't want it in my loft."

Justin shrugged. Brian didn't know what to make of that. He could be building up for another round of yelling, or he could have decided that the silent treatment was the best tack to take at the moment. It only took a few moments before Justin whispered, "I thought you said they aren't all assholes."

Brian sighed, ran his hand through his hair and shoved off the stool. "They aren't. But if you go out looking for the ones that are? You're going to find them."

He'd reached the steps to the bedroom when the spoon clattered against the bowl in warning.

"You don't know what it's like! You have no idea! And I need this, Brian. Do you understand? I need this."

It never did any good to remind Justin that he'd been there, that he'd suffered through it, and of course he goddamn well knew what Justin had lost that night, because he'd seen the light go out. The light. Everything that had been strong and sure in Justin had been shattered, had been taken away in an instant. He fucking knew that, and he hurt for it every day, but, fuck. All Justin was doing was going out and trying to get himself killed. What was he trying to prove? He was already more courageous than anyone Brian had ever met, and yet it wasn't enough for him. He wanted it all back. And he deserved to have it, but--

"And there's no other way?"

"Brian...."

Justin had a way of saying his name like he was a small child who just simply didn't understand his lessons. Sometimes Brian felt like he might be right. He pulled his hand through his hair and said, "Come to bed. I'm tired, and it's late."

"In a minute."

"I'm serious about the gun. I don't want it here."

"Fine."

The sheets were cool against his skin, and he lay with his eyes closed listening to the sound of Justin moving in the kitchen, padding across the floor, and getting undressed. The shift of the bed under his weight tipped Brian toward his warmth, but he continued to feign sleep.

"You know, I love you, Brian, and I respect your opinion. But this is for me."

Brian hoped his breathing remained steady, because he was asleep and he wasn't going to acknowledge that statement. Justin didn't rest his head against Brian's chest when he stretched out, instead keeping squarely to his own side of the bed, and Brian missed his warmth, knowing it was another display of the demon driving Justin.

Everyone had to fight their own demon in their own way. Sometimes they fought it by letting go of long held defenses, sometimes they fought it by erecting walls that are impenetrable, and sometimes they charge ahead like a knight facing a dragon. That was Justin. That was his way, it always had been. It always would be. And if he died or got hurt in his battle, then that would be the way he'd want to go. Justin was a fighter. A scrapper as Brian's dad used to say. If anyone could slay a dragon, it was Justin.

Brian just wondered when Justin would realize that the demon he was fighting was within, not embodied in the straight world around him. Brian hoped it was soon, because he'd become attached to the warmth of Justin's body next to his own. He didn't like the distance of cool sea between them, as Justin lay on the opposite side of the bed, doing battle even now in the solitude of his heart.


THE END