The loft was pretty much a wreck. Brian had been out of town for a week, and wasn't due back for another day or so--he was always vague about when he'd be returning. Justin was 'house-sitting', because they still hadn't formally acknowledged that Justin had basically moved back in, and in Brian's absense, he'd sort of let the place go.

To make it worse, Michael had come to go over the next issue of Rage, bringing with him an assortment of take-out food. Now the place looked and smelled like a college kid's apartment. Cleaning it up was first on his agenda for the morning; it definitely needed to be done before Brian got home.

He frowned, thinking of the last time Brian had left town, and all that preceded it, and all that came after.

"What are you thinking about?" Michael asked, smoking the joint down to the tiniest nub.

"Mm. Just remembering when Brian came back from Ibiza," Justin's frown felt sloppy. He knew there was something off about that comment, he even knew what it was, but he couldn't seem to figure out how to correct it and make it accurate.

Michael just nodded, though, and Justin was relieved that he understood what he was talking about, that he didn't have to come up with a way to say, "When Brian got back from the hospital," knowing that he'd then have to clarify which time, not the time Gus was born, not the time Justin was bashed, not the time when Justin held his ground and insisted that Brian let him go with him for the treatments, but the other first time, and saying all of that just seemed out of his grasp at the moment.

"Yeah?" Michael prompted.

Justin rolled onto his side, propped up on his elbow, drawing designs with his fingers in the thick rug. "He'd been such an asshole to me before he left. Yelled at me in front of Cynthia--"

Michael giggled. "Oh yeah? What'd he say?"

"Hmm. He said that we weren't fucking married."

"Well, you aren't." Michael laughed out his puff of smoke.

"No, we aren't. And we never will be. But it was just so out of character to yell at me like that, in semi-public."

"Not so out of character. The Operating Manual has like a million chapters on Brian Kinney's rage."

"Yeah." Justin laughed, sucking on his joint. "So, what's the first chapter?"

"Of the Operating Manual?"

"Yeah, what should we call it?"

"I dunno."

"Well, what's in it?"

Michael shrugged. "I dunno."

"Buyer Beware. Common Problems encountered with the Brian Kinney model 1000, include rage, misdirected anger, jealousy steeped with denial, and occasional bouts of cruelty," Justin rattled off.

Michael giggled hysterically. "We'll need a section on translation, too. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, translations from Kinney to common English. Like, 'We aren't fucking married', means, 'I have cancer and I'm scared shitless you won't love me any more.'" Justin rolled his eyes.

"Well, I don't know if we need to add that one. It seems pretty obvious to me."

Justin laughed, punched Michael lightly in the gut, and sat up slowly, his head wavering on his neck. The room felt spin-y

Michael had finished his joint, and he reached for a hit of Justin's. They were quiet together for a few minutes, listening to the whir of the air conditioner, and the tick of the clock across the room.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about him. Tell me about when you guys were kids."

Michael smiled, his face growing soft and open. "I remember when I first met him, and he looked me up and down, and then threw his arm over my shoulder. He got real close, right up next to my face, and whispered in my ear. 'We're going to get along just fine.'" Michael laughed, shaking his head. "And we fucking did."

"What was it that made him--" Justin looked confused momentarily. "Oh." He met Michael's eyes and snorted; he remembered all too well the thrill and hope of recognition at that age, that maybe this person was like you.

"Gaydar," they said together, giggling like little girls.

"Thank God for it, for fuck's sake," Michael continued. "So we started hanging out, and I didn't understand because he always wanted to come over to my place, and he'd never let me go over to his house." Michael's voice grew sad, and distant. "He said it just wasn't fun there."

Justin kept his eyes on Michael's face, staying silent. The brood hung over them both, until Michael seemed to shake it off, taking another hit on the quickly disappearing joint.

"Can you say 'understatement'?" Michael half chuckled. "It was like a fucking freak show over there. It was like you walked into their house and you felt yourself just turn to stone. It was horrible. I don't know how he survived. Literally. I mean for fuck's sake, his father tried to kill him often enough."

"For real?" Justin asked. "Like really tried to kill him? Because he was gay?"

Michael shook his head, rolling it to look at Justin. "No. His dad didn't know."

"Right. I'd forgotten."

Michael passed the last of the marijuana to Justin, speaking very slowly, "No, I don't think that Jack actually wanted to kill Brian, but the bruises sure as fuck made me think so back then." Michael shuddered.

"Was it bad?"

"Handprints, footprints. Big, old bruises that just hurt to look at."

Justin knew he must look shocked.

"You didn't know?"

"I suspected," Justin whispered. "I didn't realize it was that bad, though."

Michael shrugged. "Brian would say it's all relative, and that at least they didn't fucking rape him, or prostitute him." He snorted. "Or intrude on his adult life at all. Of course, that's because they never really fucking cared about him, you know?" Then he shook his head hard. "It was fucking disgusting, and I honestly don't know if Jack really wanted Brian dead. But I wanted him dead. Me and Ma, both."

Justin tried to imagine what living with that would have been like. He'd always been afraid of his own father, just as any boy might be whose father was bigger, louder, and critical. But until he was seventeen, Craig never laid a hand on him, just intimidated with words and towering anger--effective enough for a kid, but not when he finally knew what and who he was.

He didn't know if he should ask, but he did anyway. "Why didn't your mom--"

Michael cut him off. "She did. Child and Family Services were an even bigger joke back then." He sounded pissed; Justin knew they'd had some trouble lately with Hunter's situation. "And, believe me, we weren't the only ones who noticed. Some teachers tried to intervene, and it just made things worse for him." Michael seemed pained by the memory. "Ma let him stay with us for awhile. I think she wanted him to stay forever."

Justin flopped onto his back, crossing his arms over his chest, and worrying for a lost Brian that he'd never known. He wondered how many things he'd never really know about Brian.

Michael turned suddenly, looking into Justin's eyes. "Shit. I probably shouldn't tell you this stuff. If he wanted you to know--"

"He'd have told me himself? Give me a fucking break, Michael." Justin smirked up at the ceiling. "The Operating Manual is very clear on the fact that if Brian Kinney had his way, no one would know a fucking thing about him, he'd be alone and miserable, and probably fucking dead. It also says on page 194 that the only way to get info about what makes Brian Kinney tick is through trickery, careful observation, and comparing notes with others who know him well. So fuck that shit."

Michael still seemed worried. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. But, just don't tell him I told you, okay?"

Justin rolled his head to stare at him. "I cannot fucking believe you just said that."

"What?"

"You know, Michael," Justin sneered. "We don't have the best track record for keeping our mouths shut about shit."

"I'm sorry. Christ, how many times do I have to--"

Justin held up his hand, stopping the flow of words.

Michael crossed his arms over his chest and frowned deeply at the ceiling. Justin continued to glare at him, trying to decide if he wanted to possibly murder him, or maybe hug him. He wished he didn't like Michael. Stupid fucking pot, making him sentimental and too damn forgiving.

Michael finally said, "You're right. We don't have a good history with that, so maybe we could try something radical?" He barked a harsh laugh. "Well, for us anyway."

"What?" Justin turned onto his side again, cradling his head on his arm. "Wanna make a blood pact?"

"No, idiot." Michael scratched his nose, and laughed. "But when Brian and I were fifteen we made this blood pact that--"

"Michael!"

"Right." Michael came back from his memories, and said seriously, "Maybe we could trust each other, you know? To like, do the right thing? You know, like I trust you not to bring any of this up unless it's appropriate, and you do the same?"

Justin's tongue touched the corner of his mouth as he considered, looking into Michael's eyes, measuring the possibility of trusting Michael to not use their words as weapons. He felt like he was walking into battle after ripping off his bullet-proof vest, but he held out his index finger, and said, "Blood pact?"

Michael giggled, touching Justin's finger with his own. They pressed them together as though there were actual blood to seal the deal.

Then they both dropped their hands to the floor, and turned their attention back to the rafters. One thing Justin did appreciate about Michael, well, among the many things he reluctantly appreciated about him, was the quality of silence with him. They were able to sit together in silence for a long time, and neither of them felt uncomfortable, or pressured to say a word. It was nice, and something that he had only felt with Daphne and Brian, and sometimes his mom.

The minutes drained by, and Justin was starting to drift off to sleep when Michael said softly, "Hey, Justin."

"Mmhmm."

"Did you have one of those Sit-N-Spins when you were a kid?"

"Yeah. Everyone did, right?"

"Man, I used to get on that thing and spin and spin and spin, until I was so dizzy that Ma thought I'd upchuck on the carpet and started yelling at me. The whole room would go blurry with it, but I didn't care. It just felt so good to be in motion like that, you know?"

Justin nodded, his eyelids felt heavy, and he didn't know if he'd be able to stay awake much longer.

"But now it just seems like some kind of pattern in my life--I just go round and round. Spin, spin, spin."

"So stop spinning." Justin rested his head on his curled arm, and let his eyes drift closed. "Or maybe you just like spinning, and that's okay, too. If everyone went in straight lines all the time, we'd keep bumping into each other at full speed, or pass each other by, or cut each other off. We all need some circles in our lives. And what would art be without the curves?"

Michael seemed to think that over and asked, "Who circles in your relationship?"

"Is that code for asking who tops?"

"I know who tops, asshole." Michael's sarcasm lacked any sting.

"That's what you think."

"Well, don't let Brian hear you saying that, or you'll never top again, that's for sure."

Justin kept his eyes closed and grinned. "Ah, ah, ah, Michael. You're forgetting article twelve, paragraph fifteen of the Operating Manual which clearly states that Brian Kinney loves getting it up the ass, and although he'll protest at first, a good hard shove on his shoulder, along with an expression proving that one understands what an honor it is to be fucking him, will usually have him on his stomach, ass up and ready to go."

Justin could feel Michael's gaze on him, and after what seemed like an unnatural silence, especially since Michael didn't even laugh at the joke, he opened his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing. You're just--" Michael crossed his arms over his chest, and gazed up at the ceiling.

"I'm just what?" Justin started to feel defensive, the evening had been going so well, but with Michael, he never felt entirely safe. Two knives shoved deep into one's back will do that to a guy.

"You're just amazing, that's all. I mean that in the most platonic way possible, by the way."

"Thank God."

Michael rolled his eyes. "I'll have you know that I'm considered hot in some company."

Justin bit back his comment about what company that might be exactly, and just gave Michael an amused glance.

"Besides, can you imagine the shit that would go down if we did something? Brian would go out of his mind!" Michael started laughing, and Justin giggled too. "Fuck, got any more pot?"

Justin shook his head, rolled up to a sitting position, and reached for his backpack under the coffee table. He searched the pockets and found his allergy medicine, popped the pills and swallowed them with a swig from the water bottle on the table. He laughed again, imagining Brian's face if he came home early and found him and Mikey in a compromising position. Christ, Brian had practically destroyed his own loft the last time. "It'd almost be worth it just to see the shit hit the fan."

Michael chuckled, turning to look at Justin. "Are you serious?"

Justin lifted his eyebrows, smiling. They measured one another up, started laughing, and both said, "Naah," at the same moment.

"Jinx," Michael said. "Besides, I'm married."

"Yeah, I heard a nasty rumor about that. So it's true, huh?" Justin teased.

"You sound like Brian."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that," Justin said, laying back on the rug, and staring at the cross-beams and the depths of shadow on the ceiling.

"Just spin it," Michael laughed.

"Yeah, spin, spin, spin." Justin whispered breathlessly, "It's awfully blurry in this spinning world."

Several minutes later, floating high in a beautiful place, Justin asked, "Really? You think I'm amazing?"

"Or brain damaged."

"Or both," they said in unison.

"Jinx," Justin said, slapping Michael's stomach lightly. "Well, a bat to the head will do that to you."

Michael grabbed his hand and held it, fingers intertwining, stroking the palm. It felt tingly, good and comfortable. Justin scooted a little closer so that only a few inches separated them.

"Of course you're amazing. You're beautiful, but you know that. You're smart, and brave--"

"Really? You think I'm brave?"

"Fuck, yeah, you're brave."

Justin pondered that, and in general he had to agree. He'd learned though, that there was a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and he'd been known to cross it more than once. "Well, you're pretty okay, too."

"Thanks, I'm so flattered," Michael said, laughing, the sarcasm light and harmless. "Ben would say we're on the same page."

Justin snorted. "Yeah, the same page we were on when you got here. We still don't know how Rage and Zephyr are going to rescue JT from the evil Dr. Virus."

Michael's eyes drifted closed, and Justin studied his face, the face of the man Brian had loved first, and would love long after everything else faded away. Sometimes he liked to believe that he fell into that same category, but he didn't know for sure. It was too soon to tell, and the time they'd spend apart for the making of Rage: The Movie--well, who knew how that was going to affect them. Still Justin wanted to believe, and so he let himself.

Michael's breathing deepened into a slow rhythm, echoing the slip of his fingers against Justin's hand. Small gentle strokes that soothed and comforted, and Justin didn't even know he'd needed that.

Sometimes he hated Michael. And God knew, it was nearly impossible for him to trust him. But he tried, because sometimes, he thought Michael was his brother, and knew Michael was part of his family, and that's what families did. They tried again, and again, because they loved each other.

Justin closed his eyes, and the light tickle of Michael's fingers on his palm lulled him into sleep.

THE END