Summary: Aragorn needs an heir. Arwen wants to go home. Legolas is just there for the free food. Aragorn/Arwen, Aragorn/Legolas.

One

It hadn’t really occurred to Arwen that she would one day die. Not until her hand slipped while composing a letter, and the edge of the parchment sliced a fine line across her palm. She stared at the paper cut with a kind of detached terror.

“Ouch,” she murmured.

Her handmaid knocked on the door. “M’lady,” she said, smirking, “it is time for you to meet the king in his private chambers.”

“I have not finished my letter,” Arwen said weakly.

“But it is your wedding night, my lady,” the woman protested. “You’re meant to–” She made a sort of in-and-out motion with her hands.

Arwen’s mind boggled. She had to– with– Oh. Right. Humans were very fond of fornication; it was only natural they had some sort of silly custom to accompany marriage vows. Barbarians, the whole lot of them. No wonder they all died so young. An Elf would never think to demand sex after only one night of marriage.

The handmaid watched her eagerly. For the first time in her life, Arwen felt truly helpless.

She was going to make love to Aragorn. And then she was going to die.

Arwen packed up her inks and quills, and she put her parchment aside for later. She smoothed her hand over her gown, and, meeting her handmaid’s eyes solemnly, she commanded, “Take me to my husband.”

*

Although he would late deny it, Aragorn, the heir of Isildur, the champion of the war for Middle Earth, and the present king of Gondor, had only a vague idea of what to expect on his wedding night. The years fighting Sauron’s people had been long and lonely, and he had remained chaste. Practically. Ever since he had fallen in love with Arwen he had pictured their first time beautiful. A union of two souls, coming together after years of forced separation, like a gentle, wonderful–

“Sweet mother of Valann!” Arwen cried.

However, he did understand that her look of utter horror was an inappropriate response to his body.

She gaped at him for a long moment before her expression smoothed over. “Do you have to be so… naked?”

“Actually, yes, this act requires at least partial nudity,” he replied. He glanced down at himself. Everything appeared to be in order, but when he pushed himself into a seating position Arwen looked away pointedly. He clutched the bed sheets awkwardly. “What? Is something wrong, my love?”

She took a few deep breaths. “Er,” she began. “Oh dear. I don’t suppose my father told you. We cannot do this.”

He goggled. “Arwen–”

She moved forward and covered his mouth with one hand. “Elves only consummate their relationship for one purpose: for the gift of children. Since our kinds are incompatible, there is no need.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said suspiciously. “Isn’t Lord Elrond half-Elf? That’s the whole reason you’re here, you go to choose–”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied sharply. “That’s just a myth. Our two species cannot mate.”

Her calm demeanor nearly sent him into a panic. “But tonight is our wedding night!” he exclaimed. “We should be together!”

“I am sorry,” she said, although she didn’t sound like she meant it.

Bitterly, he growled, “If I had known we could not have sex I would have married Éowyn! Hell, I would have married Frodo!”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Get out of my bed,” she threatened. When he didn’t immediately move she shoved him, hard, and his head hit the stone floor roughly. That was what he got for marrying a woman as strong as himself.

The next thing he knew a blond Elf was leaning over him, skin practically glowing in the pale light. Aragorn ran his fingers through the long hair.

“What magic has turned my dark Arwen so fair?” he whispered.

“Hey,” Legolas said, “it’s me.”

Disappointed, Aragorn pushed himself up. Several of his servants stood round the room in silence. Some looked worried; others seemed amused, and it was then he remembered he was naked and on a cold floor. His wife, however, was nowhere to be seen. Anger outweighed any embarrassment he had, and he snatched the sheets off the bed and wrapped them round his naked form.

“There was a rat nibbling on you,” Legolas said blandly, standing, “but I dare not say where.”

“Why are you here?” Aragorn asked. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, old friend.” With a wave of his hand his servants filed out one by one.

Legolas frowned. “I was sailing round the world with Gimli. He propositioned me after a few days at sea. I couldn’t be comfortable after that.”

“The Dwarf?” Aragorn asked.

“I believe he thought I was a she-Elf,” Legolas said. “That bastard.”

“The Dwarf?”

“I came here immediately after we docked. I wanted to see my friend.” At Aragorn’s raised eyebrow he confessed: “Fine, I was hungry.”

There was a pause as Aragorn let this sink in. Of course he was going to allow Legolas, his friend from the Fellowship and beyond, to stay in Gondor. Perhaps the prince would know what to do about his new problem; after all, his wife was repulsed by him, and Legolas was an Elf. Elves understood each other.

“You’re not going to ask why I was naked and unconscious?”

Legolas looked at the sheets bunched round Aragorn’s hips. “I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

When Aragorn bent to pick his trousers up off the floor, an idea occurred to him. A horrible, clever idea. He fingered the cloth thoughtfully. “We need to catch up on old times, friend,” he said, and Legolas smiled at him. “How do you feel about Hobbits?”

*

It wasn’t often that Aragorn ventured into his castle’s kitchens. His advisors had warned him repeatedly that anyone could easily slip poison into his food, and taking anything from there would put him at risk.

“Here, eat this,” he told Legolas, setting down a large platter of roasted boar on a plain table near the door. Aragorn found out quickly that eating was the only thing Legolas did not do prettily. He tore into the boar like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He was halfway through the creature when Aragorn was struck with an idea.

“I need your help,” he said quietly.

Legolas swallowed. “Of course, Aragorn. What would you ask of me?”

“An heir.”

“I’m not a woman,” Legolas said harshly. “Sometimes I really hate you people.”

“What?” Aragorn demanded. “I’m not asking you for an heir; I’m asking you to–” He broke off, frustrated. “Arwen will not lie with me,” he whispered.

“That does not surprise me,” Legolas replied. He stabbed a piece of boar with his fork.

“Unlike the Elves, I grow closer to death with each passing day,” Aragorn said. Legolas bowed his head sadly, and Aragorn knew the Elf’s resolve was weakening. He always saw Aragorn’s side of things eventually. “If I die without an heir Gondor will crumble.”

“What would you have me do?” Legolas asked.

“Kidnap a Hobbit and dress him up as my son.”

Legolas stared. “What?”

Normally, he would never resort to such things. But desperate times called for desperate measures. “A Hobbit would allow me to placate my people while giving me time to woo Arwen.”

“They’re going to realise it’s a Hobbit,” Legolas insisted.

“Most of the Men here have never even seen one.”

“Trust me,” Legolas said. He raised one smooth eyebrow. “They are going to notice.”

*

It was his loyalty to Aragorn that drove Legolas to ride out to the Shire at the next dawn. The rolling hills were a welcome sight after the dry plains of Gondor. Despite the beauty of Minas Tirith he never felt truly comfortable; the city felt too spacious. He missed the forests. In retrospect, he would have been better off going to Mirkwood or Lothlórien rather than Gondor — none of the Elves had ever asked him to kidnap a Hobbit, after all — but when one goes adventuring with Dwarves the neighbours tend to talk.

“I’ll await your return,” Aragorn had told him warmly.

Which is how Legolas found himself stalking the filthy alleys of the Shire a few weeks later. His infiltration had not gone unnoticed by the Hobbits. Sometimes they stopped to glare, but other than that none had approached. It wasn’t like he was wearing a sign that said, ‘Will work for Hobbit,’ but he hadn’t expected complete avoidance from them.

At long last a young Hobbit came sniffing about. His dark hair and fine face could pass as a Human child, if someone squinted and tilted his head just so. Legolas leaned out of the shadows and drew back his hood.

“Psst,” he hissed. The Hobbit looked up quickly. “Yes, you, little one. How would you like to be the prince of Gondor?”

“Would I!” the Hobbit exclaimed.

*

Two

Arwen avoided Aragorn for a week before she suddenly reappeared at breakfast. His servants had alerted him that she had padded her chambers. He reckoned she had realised she was no longer immortal, which must have been difficult for an Elf to cope with. He had no idea how to comfort her, if she even wanted him to. What would soothe the pain of an Elf who knew she was going to die?

Besides, she thought he was ugly.

She sat down at the table silently. He lowered his pipe and said, “You need not worry about consummating our relationship. Legolas is handling of it.”

“Legolas?” she repeated, frowning. “This isn’t one of those Fellowship ‘male-bonding exercises,’ is it?” He didn’t see how kidnapping a Hobbit had anything to do with the Fellowship. When he didn’t respond, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Legolas is very pretty.”

He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. “Yes.”

“I knew it,” she hissed. She stormed off, slamming the doors behind her.

The servants looked at him questioningly.

“She’s just upset because she’s slowly dying,” Aragorn told them.

Just then the doors to the hall were thrown open. Legolas marched in proudly. In his arms was a short, Man-like creature — the Hobbit Aragorn had requested. Aragorn’s heart swelled. “I’ve returned to you, sire,” Legolas called. He put the Hobbit down and brushed dust off his riding gear.

“Legolas,” Aragorn acknowledged. He walked over to them. The Hobbit looked round the large room in awe, and, finally, turned his eyes towards the king. “What’s your name, Halfling?”

“Fern,” the Hobbit quipped.

Aragorn frowned. “Like the plant? No, you need a noble name. Such as…”

“Ëarcelumessenaranwë,” Legolas supplied. Aragorn and Fern exchanged glances. “It means ‘kingly,’” he added snidely.

“I was thinking more along the lines of Aeldarn,” Aragorn said.

“You can call me Snappy the Happy Clown if it’ll get me room and board,” said Fern.

Aragorn considered it. But before he could make a decision Arwen strode back into the chamber, her dark hair sweeping behind her. “My love, I apologise–” She stopped. “Is that a Hobbit?”

“He is my friend,” Legolas said quickly. He put a protective hand on Fern’s head.

“Isn’t Legolas queer?” Aragorn joked. “He makes friends with Dwarves and Hobbits.”

“I’m not a fool,” Arwen said. “What is this trickery?”

Aragorn sighed. “I’m using this Hobbit as a substitute for a child in hopes the people will be deceived until I can produce a real heir.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

“Are you my mommy?” Fern asked.

Arwen looked up at the ceiling. “I gave up immortality for this.”

“I’m merely doing what’s best for our people,” Aragorn snapped. “You didn’t exactly leave me with a lot of options.”

“Aragorn,” Legolas warned.

“No, it’s fine,” she said coldly. “This is not the life I expected either.”

His heart sunk as Arwen fled the chamber. Everything had been simpler back in the day of Elrond’s court, when he had been Estel, the ranger, and she had been the beautiful princess with the scary father. Perhaps she was taking her desperation out on him. Legolas squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. At least he had one Elf who still cared about him.

“I’m here for you, friend,” Legolas whispered, gazing at Aragorn in a way that made him uncomfortable, although he couldn’t put his finger on why.

“Right,” he said, smiling thinly.

Fern tugged on Aragorn’s sleeve. “Can I call you daddy?”

Aragorn eyed him warily. “Of course not.”

*

Dinner that evening was particularly awkward. Arwen made a grand gesture of sitting on the opposite end of the table.

“I do not understand why you’re so upset,” Aragorn said to her, frustrated. Something brushed his leg, and he frowned. “Legolas, get your hand off my thigh.”

“I was adjusting my breeches,” Legolas protested.

“That’s nowhere near my thigh,” he pointed out.

Arwen slammed her goblet on the table. “This is why I’m upset. Don’t think I don’t know why you invited Legolas to stay,” she warned.

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Aragorn said truthfully.

“Just because I don’t want to– I mean, can’t be with you intimately does not mean you can just run to another Elf. I always knew you preferred him over me. Daddy said you two were just ’special friends,’ but I knew better!”

“Are you mad?” Aragorn shouted.

“You brought a Hobbit here and are pretending he’s your son!” she cried shrilly.

“I need an heir! It’s not like I can get Legolas with child!”

“Hey, don’t bring me into this,” Legolas said.

“What are you going to do about it?” Aragorn retorted. “Sing?”

“Listen here–”

“No one’s going to believe this creature is our child, Aragorn,” Arwen scoffed. “Go ahead and present him to the court; I will bet you anything someone will point out he’s a Hobbit.”

Of course, she ended up being right. The next morning the first thing Aragorn did was bring out Fern, dressed in typical princely garb. The Hobbit’s curls were brushed out until they shone. His face was scrubbed freshly pink. He looked almost like a Human, if one squinted properly.

“This is my son, Aeldarn,” he declared. “Your new prince.”

The hall stirred. The court looked at the Hobbit, some in awe, most in suspicion.

“Hullo, all,” Fern said. Aragorn smacked him. “Ow! I mean, ooooh, pwetty, Daddy! I’m a pwince!”

Aragorn smiled so hard he thought his face would break. “Ha, ha. That’s my boy.”

“Sire,” began a member of his court, “your son is a full-grown man, only half the size of– Oh dear Lord, he is a Hobbit!”

“You are hence forth banished from this land,” Aragorn commanded.

Legolas stepped forward. Softly, he said, “Aragorn, you cannot continue to rid yourself of anyone who notices something is wrong.”

“Quiet, or the Hobbit gets your quarters,” he retorted.

The Hobbit’s face brightened. “I get a room?”

“Go get Daddy some ale, Aeldarn.”

*

“This isn’t going to work,” Aragorn muttered to himself. Fern had been in Gondor for three weeks, and already Aragorn had fired four servants and two royal guards for speaking out. The question, “Isn’t he a Hobbit?” was becoming commonplace. His cabinet had been silent thus far, but Aragorn knew they suspected something, especially since the court’s last gift to “Aeldarn” had been a bushel of smoking weed. The Hobbit hadn’t helped matters much either; he hadn’t listened to Aragorn’s and Legolas’ commands to keep to their private chambers. Aragorn was pretty sure Fern had slept with at least one of the kitchen girls.

Arwen was still behaving coldly towards him. The novelty of her anger had worn off, and instead of resentment he was filled with a lingering ache.

Legolas drew an arrow back. He frowned at Aragorn. “What are you going to do?”

The three of them stood in the royal archery range. Across the room Fern idly played with a miniature bow Legolas had constructed for him, smoking his pipe furiously. The little bugger used more weed in a single day than Aragorn used in a week.

“Get rid of him, for one,” Aragorn muttered. “I cannot believe Aeldarn didn’t fool anyone.”

“Yes,” Legolas said sarcastically, shooting an arrow into a target five hundred metres away, “all children come into this world fully grown and smoking like chimneys, especially when their mothers were never pregnant.”

“You’re rather cheeky for someone who doesn’t have a home.”

Legolas muttered something in Elvish about Humans and inbreeding.

Aragorn lowered his bow thoughtfully. “That actually gives me an idea,” he said.

*

Faramir clasped Aragorn’s shoulder in a manly fashion. “My lord,” he cried cheerfully, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I come with a heavy burden, Lord Faramir. One that only you can help me with. My wife, Arwen Undómiel, is unable to provide me with an heir.” It was the partial truth. A lie was far less embarrassing than the whole story. No one would respect a king with a wife who hated him, especially not Faramir, whose love for Éowyn knew no bounds. Unless he was drunk, and then it was every man for himself. “I have a request to ask of you.”

“You want a woman of my court?” Faramir questioned, frowning.

“Not quite,” he confessed. “Can I have one of your children?”

Faramir stared. “Absolutely not.”

“But you have so many. Éowyn won’t miss just one.”

*

Needless to say, Faramir had the guards toss him out of the court. Aragorn returned home to his Hobbit man-child, his estranged wife, and his uncomfortably friendly companion. Things were not looking up.

He was pacing the hall when Arwen entered, her riding pack slung across her back. She wore her riding outfit. The expression on her face dared anyone to cross her. Aragorn filled with dread.

“I’m going to my father’s,” she announced.

He put his pipe down. “For how long?”

“I do not know when I shall return,” she said. “You’re not the man I married!”

“Is it because I shower now?”

“I can deal with death lurking round every corner, naked humans, and short hair. But I cannot abide the Hobbits and the kidnapping and the sexual exploration.” She glared at Legolas at the latter remark. “Aragorn, I love you,” she continued, and her voice softened. “But I can’t stay here. I made the wrong choice. You understand, right?”

“No,” he wanted to say, but instead a choked, “Yes,” came out.

Arwen pressed her lips to his, but the kiss was gentle, completely lacking their former passion. He closed his eyes and grasped her hand warmly. “I have one last request,” he whispered. “Don’t tell your father I could not please you. Tell him I hit you.”

Legolas made a strangled noise.

They followed her out to the gates of the city. Aragorn waved away the guards the wanted to accompany them. After one final embrace, Arwen marched out of Minas Tirith.

“I’ll miss her,” Aragorn said.

“Lord Elrond is in the Undying Lands,” Legolas said, as if it was an afterthought.

They watched Arwen’s retreating form until it disappeared from their sight.

“I don’t think she’s coming back,” Legolas added.

“Bloody hell,” Aragorn said.

*

Three

All Aragorn wanted was a good night’s sleep. Arwen was gone, Fern wouldn’t leave, and he still didn’t have an heir that the court would believe. He briefly considered giving up entirely and letting the kingdom fall to chaos, but he couldn’t let that happen. The people of Gondor relied on him.

He closed the door to his private chambers behind him, stripping off his robes. He let his belt and shoes tumble to the floor, knowing someone would pick them up tomorrow. Reaching for the buttons on his trousers, he heard a deep voice.

“Ahem.”

“What the hell?” He turned quickly. Legolas was sitting on his bed, amused. “What are you doing here?”

Legolas cocked his head. “Your people are beginning to notice their queen is gone.”

“And you thought you’d help by sneaking into my chambers? Very clever, Legolas.”

Someone knocked on the door. Legolas stiffened and looked at Aragorn sharply. “Yes?” Aragorn called.

“Your Highness, we’ve received word that someone may have entered your private chambers without permission this night.”

“It’s just my wife,” Aragorn replied.

“Even so, I believe it would be safer if we could come in and search for intruders.”

The last thing Aragorn needed was rumours to be spread about him and Legolas. The Elf must have sensed his distress. “I am indecent!” he called in a falsetto.

The guard outside was silent for a long moment. “That sounds nothing like the queen.”

“Off with his head!” Legolas shouted.

Sounds of struggle erupted from the corridor — “Unhand me! I tell you, that is not the queen!” — and then nothing.

“That was my best guard,” Aragorn said darkly.

“Rubbish, you don’t even know his name,” Legolas snapped.

“I repeat my earlier question: what are you doing here?” he said coolly. “You have fine chambers of your own.”

“I know you’re upset because Arwen went to the Undying Lands. But she’s not dead; we Elves do not mourn when someone passes into that realm. She’ll live forever there, with her kin.”

“I’m not an Elf,” he retorted. “We do things differently in the world of Men.”

Legolas looked down at the floor. Aragorn reckoned he still didn’t understand.

“Would you give up immortality for me, Legolas?” he asked quietly.

There was a long pause. Legolas looked more scared than Aragorn had ever seen him. “Yes?”

Aragorn didn’t believe him. “Listen, I’ll be fine. But if you’re still concerned for my well-being you can stay in here tonight.” Legolas looked startled. “We’ll pretend we’re back on the quest.”

He sat on the floor. Legolas just sat on the bed and stared at him. It was going to be a long evening.

*

He awoke the next morning oddly refreshed — and with a new plan. He knew now what he needed was either an Elf or a Human child. One with no past connections or odd habits. Or libido, in Fern’s case. Instead of dressing in his robes and crown, Aragorn slipped into his old ranger gear. Breathing in the familiar scent of leather, he felt more like himself than ever.

“Put on your woodsman clothing,” he instructed Legolas, sliding his sword and knives into place. “Let’s hunt some children.”

“Let’s what?” Legolas sputtered.

But he followed Aragorn’s request. Soon after, they avoided the servants and exited through a side door in the kitchen. “Last night I realised that we have plenty of parentless children roaming the streets right here in Minas Tirith,” he said, leading Legolas along a rocky alleyway to the city. “Instead of persuading Hobbits to pose as Human children I should just take a Human child.

Indeed, there were heaps of children lingering in the back streets. As the two adults walked past they looked up at Aragorn with big, wet eyes.

“This is horrible,” Legolas whispered.

“I know,” Aragorn said. “They all have parents. We’ll never find a child in this!”

Legolas whipped round abruptly. He snatched up a young, dark-haired child who couldn’t have been more than five. “Were you reaching into my pockets?” he demanded. “To rob me?”

The kid’s eyes were huge. “N-no.”

“Liar!” But the child kicked Legolas in the shin, hard. The Elf yelped and dropped him. He took off running down the alley at breakneck speed. “That little brat!” Legolas shouted.

“I like him,” Aragorn said. “He has spunk.” He gave Legolas a pat on the back and followed the boy, his boots striking the cobblestone road loudly. He passed dozens of workers loading and unloading goods into the backs of shops. The smell of mud and rotting food permeated the entire area; he had nearly forgotten these in his brief stint as king. Legolas followed quickly at his heels.

He stopped at a dead end, breathing hard.

“We’ve lost him,” Legolas said.

The way a piece of cloth folded over a crate caught Aragorn’s attention. He reached in and felt something warm — a body. Quickly, he pulled the kid out. The boy swung his arms and legs wildly, but to no avail.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Aragorn said. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have any parents!” the kid shouted.

“Perfect. What’s your name?”

“Eldarion,” he whispered.

“That’s very kingly,” Aragorn mused. He felt a rush of excitement; perhaps they had finally found their answer. “How would you like to live in the castle and be my son?”

Eldarion stopped struggling. “You’ll feed me?” he asked hopefully. His blinked his dark eyes in an impossibly cute manner. Then he turned their power onto the Elf. “Are you my mommy?”

“Bloody Humans!” Legolas growled.

*

“Another son?” his advisor asked incredulously. “But your last, er, child is–”

“I had this one with another woman,” Aragorn lied smoothly. The court ooh-ed and aww-ed. “Now that Lady Arwen has rejoined her kin I feel it is safe to bring him out of hiding. This is Eldarion, the heir to the throne.”

The boy had been dressed in the finest robes for a prince. He looked a bit shell-shocked.

Aragorn found Legolas lingering near the exit, nearly hidden in shadows. His dress reminded Aragorn of the days of Elrond’s court. Strangely, he found himself feeling more content than he could remember; the last few weeks had been filled with enough insanity to last him the rest of his life, however short that was.

“I should leave soon,” the Elf said quietly.

But Aragorn couldn’t imagine Legolas not being at his side. Impulsively, he grabbed Legolas’ hands and whispered, “Stay here. Forever. Or until I die, whichever comes first.”

Legolas’ eyes widened. “What?”

“I want you to stay with me here,” he said honestly. “Eldarion needs–”

“If you say he needs a mother I am never speaking to you again.”

He laughed. “No! He needs his father to be happy. We have had a few rough weeks, friend.”

Legolas cocked his head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Did it ever occur to you to find another woman and impregnate her?”

Actually, it hadn’t.

“Of course,” he said briskly. “But I could not do that to my lady. What kind of man do you take me for?”

“You have your hand on my arse,” Legolas pointed out.

“I’ve made my choice,” he said.

Legolas kissed him, hard. His throat went dry, and he pulled Legolas closer. That was completely unexpected, but it was– nice. “Want to take this elsewhere?” Legolas whispered in his ear.

“But I thought Elves could only have sex to produce children.”

Legolas raised one fine blond brow. “Who told you that nonsense?”

Aragorn goggled. “Arwen said–” Then it hit him like a punch in the stomach. He stared at Legolas in horror. “That bitch!”

*

Thanks to Altricial, Kissaki, and Rube for beta reading.

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No profit has been made from this fic; in fact, Tolkien is probably rolling in his grave as we speak.

Summary: All Lucius wanted was for his son to make him proud.

The carriage ride to the Dark Lord’s country villa was a hellish experience. Not only did the rocking of the buggy make Lucius Malfoy physically ill, he also had to listen to Draco whine about how carriages were so last century and why couldn’t they just Apparate like normal Wizards and where was Mummy? Apparating to the Dark Lord’s secret location was unthinkable; Voldemort would kill them, dispose of their bodies, and still have time to sample the appetizers before the Ministry’s Aurors would even appear.

“You will remember to compliment Our Lord on His excellent decor and food, Draco,” Lucius commanded.

Since Draco’s birth, Lucius had been awaiting the day his son would follow in his footsteps. They had had several drawbacks over the years, such as Draco spending his time obsessing over Potter rather than studying, Draco being afraid of nipple clamps, Draco finding the Dark Mark unseemly. But in the same manner as he had believed his Lord would one day rise again (despite all of that dying business), Lucius found himself knowing with utmost certainty that Draco would make a fine Death Eater.

“Right, food, decor. ‘Is this salmon? I love salmon.’”

Or perhaps not. Lucius’ smirk slipped. “You will engage my peers in stimulating conversation,” he hissed.

“Stimulate your peers, yeh,” Draco said, staring down at the platter he was to present to Voldemort on his lap.

Lucius simply looked at him.

“What now?” Draco asked.

Lucius thought for a moment. “Don’t hog the chips.”

“Yes father,” Draco nodded. Lucius scowled at him, but Draco didn’t notice. He gingerly lifted the lid to the dish they were to offer. “What is this? It smells good.”

“Moose Casserole,” Lucius answered, idly studying his fingernails. Draco closed the lid, looking vaguely ill. “I’ve got Emu Goulash as well, it’s in with the driver.”

“Nice,” Draco gagged.

“My Lord was insistent that I bring the Turtle Piquant. I hate to say it, but Frances Crabbe has a house-elf far superior to mine. Really, if it’s a bad Turtle Piquant, it’s a bad Turtle Piquant, and Weeble only has experience with French cuisine…” he trailed off.

There was a long silence.

“I think I’ll just have the chicken soup,” Draco whispered.

Lucius couldn’t think of a Death Eater worth anything that ate chicken soup. “You will not,” he said sharply. “You will eat your Emu Goulash, and you will be happy about it.”

“Yes father,” Draco said, although he didn’t sound very convinced.

*

The Malfoys, of course, arrived fashionably late. The festivities were already in full swing; over in one far end of the hall, next to the vomitorium, was a long table covered in dishes. With a nod at Draco and the house-elves to follow, Lucius crossed the room, chin up, eyeing his fellow Death Eaters. A handful of them swarmed round the Dark Lord, who didn’t even look in Lucius’ direction.

Lucius caught the back of Draco’s dress robes with his cane as he saw his son start to edge towards the chip bowl. He gave Draco a warning look, but before he could begin to lecture him Crabbe Sr. wandered over.

“Lucius,” he said cheerfully, his rank breath causing Lucius to wrinkle his nose distastefully, “so nice to see you!”

“Charmed,” Lucius said snidely.

“I see you brought little Draco. Isn’t it grand that the boys will all be Death Eaters together?”

Lucius glanced over at Crabbe’s son, Vincent. The lad was wolfing down cupcakes like he wouldn’t be fed again for another month. He had a smudge of pink frosting on his nose.

“Yes, it’s fabulous,” Lucius said, snorting. He tried turning around to get a look at Draco, but before he could Crabbe yanked on his arm to get his attention.

“Where’s Narcissa?” Crabbe asked, eating a chip. “I don’t see her.”

Lucius glared at him. “She’s in France,” he snapped.

“Yeah, that’s what they always say.” He snickered and jovially slapped Lucius’ shoulder so hard he nearly fell over.

“Pardon me?” Lucius sputtered, brushing himself off.

“Eh, you know. When the cat’s away…” Crabbe grinned.

“No, I don’t know,” he seethed. “Please explain.”

Crabbe blinked, sobering a little. “Um. See, when a wife is not… near her… husband… and the husband… looks like… yo-” He coughed.

“What are you implying?” Lucius demanded icily.

“Oh, look! Crackers!” Crabbe beamed, and stuffed a handful in his mouth. “These are really good, Lucius,” he garbled, consequently spraying Lucius with soggy Ritz crackers. “Have some?” Crabbe’s fleshy, hairy hand extended a few crushed crackers.

Lucius backed away slowly. “I think I’ll pass.”

Crabbe nodded, and Lucius took off. He scurried past a few more of his fellow members of Death Eater gentry, trying to locate Draco – who was probably off hoarding mini-soaps and shower caps from the men’s lavatory, come to think of it. He passed Voldemort and his crowd, inadvertently catching snippets of conversation.

“If you ask me,” Goyle was saying, sipping on a Shirley Temple with five or six cherries bobbing at the top, “he should have died. He would have been The Boy Who Died. That’s what should have happened.”

“Life is overrated,” someone added, and several people nodded their agreement.

Lucius was seriously questioning the wisdom of his chosen social circle when, “Dad?” He spun to see Draco staring after him nervously, the front of his robes bulging.

“Don’t talk to me until you put back the hand towels,” Lucius warned. “I am in no mood.”

Draco sheepishly reached into the front of his robes and pulled out a stack of the towels. He tossed them onto a nearby table. “They’ve got ‘LVR’ stitched onto them,” he needled. “All we’ve got are those lousy ‘Malfoy’ ones, in the forest green. I hate those ‘Malfoys’,” he added passionately.

Lucius tried not to growl. Growling was obvious. “Do you even know what ‘LVR’ stands for?” he questioned shrilly.

“No?”

“‘Lord Voldemort Rules’,” Lucius hissed, one of his eyes twitching dangerously. “In comparison, ‘Malfoy’ is a bloody sonnet.”

Draco looked thoughtful. “But,” he started quietly, and Lucius could practically *see* the wheels turning, “he does rule.”

Lucius was wide-eyed. “Don’t talk to me,” he wheezed. Draco looked up at him, and Lucius was about to snarl, when he noticed Voldemort watching. “I love you, son,” he choked out. “You perfect little Death Eater, you.”

“Um,” Draco said cleverly.

Pained, Lucius risked a glance at Voldemort, who was sneering with approval. The whole effect was rather spooky, because Voldemort didn’t really have lips, per se. Lucius scowled back, inclining the head of his cane, and Voldemort snarled his acknowledgement.

“Dad?” Draco asked. “What the hell are you doing?”

Lucius stopped making cutthroat gestures long enough to answer. “Paying my respects.”

“Okay,” Draco said sombrely, but Lucius knew he was secretly amused.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he barked. “Try it out.” He looked expectantly at Draco, who shifted under the scrutiny.

“I am not making funny faces at the Dark Lord, all right?”

“Yes you are, and they will be good.”

Draco screwed his face up into a grimace and said something that sounded like “grr arg.” Voldemort roared in response.

“Wonderful, son. I’m proud of you.” Draco looked absolutely stumped, so Lucius changed the subject. “Have you been making the rounds?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Draco nodded. He started ticking off names on his fingers, “I told Mrs. Crabbe that her hairstyle was simply divine, Greg came up to talk, and so I insulted his jacket, Helen McNair and I had a lengthy discussion on glasses, and how the majority of people who wear them are seriously fashion-inept…” he grinned broadly, obviously proud of himself.

“That’s…” Lucius struggled for a word to express his horror, but Voldemort was still watching. “Nice.”

“Great. Can I go charm the Dark Lord now?” Draco flashed another wide smile. “I promise I’ll be the most evil Death-Eater-In-Training that he’s ever seen.”

Lucius considered. “Fine.”

Draco pranced — there was no other word for it — up to the Dark Lord. Voldemort gazed at Draco with an odd mixture of hate and arrogance as Draco bowed and gave a charming Malfoy smirk.

“My Lord, I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be one of your faithful servants,” Draco said, and Lucius thought perhaps this would turn out okay after all. “I can eat death like nobody’s business.”

The room fell silent. Lucius pondered the best way to first kill Draco, then himself.

Rushing forward, Lucius grabbed Draco’s bony shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry, My Liege. Draco is just excited to finally be presented before you.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. Or would have, if he had had any skin on his face. “I’m sure, Lucius.”

“Neither Draco nor myself can wait for him to join the inner circle,” he continued.

Voldemort took a pointed sip of his wine. Then, he hissed merrily, “Pity that won’t be happening.”

Lucius goggled. Draco squeaked. “What do you mean, My Lord?” Lucius asked, trying to sound concerned and confused at the same time. It was quite an effort, because his gaze kept travelling involuntarily to the sharp utensils displayed on a nearby table. “Surely you can find a place for my son in your exceptional ranks?”

“It’s not that I can’t, Malfoy, it’s that I won’t.”

Lucius swelled like a peacock. “Begging your pardon?”

“Your son,” Voldemort began, sizing Draco up, “is a complete idiot.”

“Oh, most assuredly not!” Lucius gasped, horrified. “He has top-notch marks in Potions, and Charms, and…” Lucius looked back desperately at Draco for support.

Voldemort’s slits narrowed shrewdly, until they almost resembled eyes. “Snape teaches Potions, yes?” Lucius nodded. “Ah, yes, it is no wonder. He always did fancy that type…”

“Excuse me?” Draco bristled. “I am not a type! I’m –” but Voldemort cut him off.

“And any half-wit with a fondness for custom accessories excels in Charms, Lucius.”

“I’m third in Transfiguration,” Draco said weakly. “That’s not lip service.”

“You change birds into goblets,” Voldemort said bluntly. “Big deal. Crabbe can do that, can’t you, Crabbe?”

Crabbe sneered. “Yes, Master. And cups, too.”

Voldemort took a deep breath.

“But Crabbe is much more stupid than Draco!” Lucius protested. “And far less attractive!”

“Well,” Voldemort snapped sarcastically, “that seals it! Let him in!”

Draco mumbled something under his breath that Lucius couldn’t hear. “My Lord,” he started, and couldn’t think of anything. “My Lord, surely…”

“Lucius,” Voldemort growled. “Do not push my good will.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Lucius mumbled, bowing his head. He grabbed Draco firmly by the arm and started to drag him away.

“That’s it?” Draco whined. “We’re just going to give up?”

“Yes, unless you have a masochistic fondness for the Cruciatus curse,” Lucius hissed, stopping by one of the many tables of food. “In which case, I say go over there straight away, and demand to kill some dirty, rotten muggles!”

Draco looked appallingly thoughtful. “I could always get that Lestrange freak to do it for me,” he said slowly. “Lord knows that she likes to be Crucio-ed…” Lucius swelled. Draco deflated. “I’m sorry, dad,” he sighed, helping himself to a crab cake.

Lestrange walked by, followed closely by Mulciber and Avery. Lestrange was limping obviously, and Mucliber was muttering something about the Imperius curse.

Draco bit noisily into his crab cake. “These cakes are delicious,” he said loudly, and all three Death Eaters turned around to stare at him, “but I’d much rather be eating death.”

The three of them sniggered and wandered off.

Lucius fought the urge to strangle his one and only successor. “You are fighting a losing battle, boy.”

*

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: Implied sexual situations between an adult and a minor.

Summary: Michael plus huge mistake equals character growth. Or something.

Chapter One

There was a line to be drawn somewhere. Unfortunately, Michael had crossed that line about two blowjobs and a fuck ago, and the sight of Gus Peterson-Marcus curled up in his bed was like seeing his name signed on a death warrant.

“Oh my God,” he said. “I’m going to die.”

Gus stirred. Michael goggled for a second at the long, tan, naked leg slipping out from under the flannel sheets. He clutched his crumpled jeans to his chest; this was just like when Alex Summers slept with Jean Grey, except he and Brian were not brothers, and Gus wasn’t Brian’s boyfriend, and either way this was completely fucked up. There was that one time he had written Rage fucking Zephyr’s boyfriend, Ken, but obvious parallels aside, this really wasn’t the same thing.

By the time Gus’s eyes fluttered open Michael was dressed and scrambling to get all of Gus’s shit together.

“What time is it?” Gus asked, yawning. His hair was sticking straight up in a very Brianish manner.

“Time for you to go,” Michael said shrilly. He shoved Gus’s clothes into his arms.

The kid stood and, throwing him a sour look, dropped the sheets. Michael cringed and looked away, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Just bcause they had sex last night it didn’t mean he was comfortable with Gus stripping right in front of him. Especially since as his head was beginning to clear it was dawning on him he’d probably completely, utterly ruined Gus’s life. He was just as bad as any child molestor.

When he ushered Gus downstairs he caught sight of a long wool coat draped over a kitchen chair. A briefcase sat on the table. “Holy shit,” he hissed. Gus looked at him calmly, like this was no big deal. In one swift motion Michael grabbed Gus’s jacket, handed him his shoes, and started to push him towards the door.

“Hey!” Gus exclaimed. “You just can’t–”

“I can and I am,” he whispered angrily.

Gus clutched the doorframe. “When can I see you again?”

Michael slammed the door shut.

Hunter walked out of the kitchen, munching on a bagel. They should never have given him an extra key; Hunter, in some act of childhood regression, liked to come over on weekends and loudly watch tv until Mike woke up and yelled at him to shut up and go to work, and he had his own house and his own life partner and his own food, for Christ’s sake. Early Saturday morning fights were routine by now. “Was that Gus?” he asked.

“Uh, no,” Michael lied. “I was just getting the paper. W-Why would you think Gus would be here so early?”

“I dunno, I just thought I heard his voice,” Hunter replied, shrugging.

“Well, it wasn’t him, alright?”

Hunter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Whatever, I was just–”

The door opened again, and Gus poked his head in. He looked very young and innocent then, with his wool cap and messy brown hair. Michael knew he was a very bad man. “Can I have some money for the bus, Uncle Mike?”

Michael buried his face in his hands, horrified. He heard Hunter snicker, and then a rustling of paper. “Here, kiddo,” Hunter said, “don’t spend it all at once.”

“Wow,” Gus drawled sarcastically, “ten whole dollars. Now I can afford that car I’ve been saving up for.”

“Fucking teenagers,” Hunter grumbled.

It wasn’t until the door closed that Michael lowered his hands. Hunter just stood there with raised eyebrows. “It’s not what you think,” Michael said hastily. “Okay, well, it is what you think, but I have a really good excuse.”

Hunter’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“If you say anything to Ben, you’re grounded,” Michael shrieked.

Hunter just stared at him. “First off,” he said, “I’m twenty-seven years old. You can’t ground me anymore. Second, what is there to tell? You’re acting like you fucked him or something.” He said it jokingly, but Michael’s stomach clenched. He must have had a horrible expression on his face, because Hunter sputtered, “Oh my God!”

“Shut up!” Michael yelled. “Shut up!”

“Isn’t he, like, twelve?” Hunter asked.

“Fourteen,” Michael said defensively. “But that’s not the point. The point is that you never saw anything, and I’m never going to do it again.”

“Is this what you do when Ben goes out of town?” Hunter demanded. He looked at Michael with disgust. “God, how could you do this to him? That’s a real assholish thing to do. He’s going to shit when he finds out.”

“He’s not going to find out,” Michael snapped.

Hunter’s head snapped up, his mouth dropping open. “So you’re not going to tell him?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s fourteen years and one hundred pounds to tell, Mike.” He goggled. “What about Brian?”

Brian would kill Michael and dump his body in the river. “Brian’s better off not knowing.”

Hunter’s jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything for a few beats. Then: “Let me get this straight.” Michael was instantly reminded of his boy as a teenager. Such a little bastard. “You wouldn’t let Brian fuck me when I was sixteen, but hey, it’s cool if you do it to his son.”

“Brian never wanted to fuck you,” Michael sputtered.

“My huge cock begs to differ.” He raised an eyebrow as if challenging Mike to argue.

“Okay, gross! And my fucking Gus was totally not planned. It sort of just… happened.”

“‘Oops, I slipped and fell on his dick’ happened, or, ‘Oops, I seem to have gotten him drunk and horny’ happened?’

“What? Neither!” He paused. This really wasn’t something he wanted to go in to. “I was in a really weird mood, alright?”

Hunter gave him a look. “Tell me you’re not blaming this on PMS.”

He glanced away, feeling his face grow hot. He couldn’t look at Hunter anymore. “We were watching Dirty Dancing,” he mumbled.

“What the shit does that mean?”

“And–” He stared down at his feet, clearing his throat. He was so fucked. “Gus really looks a lot like Brian.”

Silence.

“Oh. My. God. You fucked Gus while thinking of Brian and looking at Patrick Swayze.” Mike looked back in time to see Hunter throw his hands in the air. “Well done, Michael. You’re going to Hell. You’re just going to Hell.”

*

When Brian hit thirty-five he informed the group that Babylon was no longer available to them. After many long, loud arguments, they all came to the decision that Babylon was fine for Emmett and Justin, but not for Ted, Michael, Ben, or Brian, especially since Brian’s stance was basically that everyone would look down on them for behaving like they were in their twenties, and if he wanted to fuck a kid he’d go to the orphanage, and, wow, that was ironic now. So instead they just stuck to Woodys, where, as Brian put it, they were allowed to be old without shame. Justin didn’t hit the clubs as often as he had when all of them had gone together, although Em still spent a fair amount of time there. Times had changed, but they were all still best friends.

Until Michael ruined everything by fucking Brian’s son, of course.

Michael was starting his first beer when Hunter showed. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Michael hissed, glancing around quickly to make sure none of their friends could overhear. “I thought you and Francois had your fancy schmancy bar. Get the hell out!”

Hunter leaned against the bar, smiling innocently. “I just thought I’d recall the glorious days of yester-year, Pop.”

Michael’s throat tightened. “You’re going to try to tell Brian!”

Hunter smirked, but then Brian was there, passing Michael with a pat on the shoulder. “Tell me what?” he asked casually.

“Nothing,” Michael muttered.

“Gus said he had a good time last night,” Brian said, and Hunter choked loudly. “Why’d you make him take the bus?”

“Uh, I remembered I had some work to do at the store and didn’t want to waste time.”

“Oh, well, next time just drop him off at the diner.” Next time. Right. Brian rolled his eyes. “He said some old fag hit on him.”

For a horrifying split-second he thought Gus had told Brian, and Brian was only fucking with his head to get him to confess. But Brian’s nonchalance was genuine, as far as he could tell.

“Would you believe the number of pervs out there?” Hunter drawled.

“Fourteen was when the balding old man at the corner store started giving me ninety per cent discounts on booze if I wore my tightest jeans,” Brian replied wistfully.

“Just because you like being leered at by pervs doesn’t make me one, okay?” Michael cried, sweating.

Brian stared. Hunter grinned. Panicking, Michael slammed his empty bottle on the bar and marched off before he said anything else stupid. From behind him he heard Brian ask, “What the fuck is his problem?” and Hunter reply with, “Mid-life crisis. You know how it is,” to which Brian snapped, “I fucking well don’t.”

He was almost to the exit when Emmett grabbed him. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I’m heading home,” Michael said. “Long day.”

Emmett smiled sympathetically and patted his shoulder. “Missing your hunky professor?”

From his place at the bar Hunter looked right at Michael, scowling. If he didn’t know any better he’d swear the kid had super hearing. “Uh, he’ll be back Thursday,” Michael told Em.

“You should call him,” Emmett said brightly.

Yeah, that would go down well. He could imagine the conversation already: “Hey, Ben? You know Brian’s kid, the one who calls me Uncle Mikey and lets us buy him ice cream and comics? I fucked him last night. Isn’t that super?” Ben would leave him, Hunter would sell his story to the newspapers, and Brian would systematically destroy his life from the inside out — if he was lucky. And there was that whole prison thing too.

“I’ll… do that,” he replied slowly.

As soon as Emmett became distracted by something bright and shiny at the bar, Michael fled.

That night Ben’s framed bedside photo bore holes into his head. For half a second he almost got up and threw it across the room, but he already felt guilty enough for betraying Ben; throwing his photo wasn’t going to help things. Michael reminded himself of that as he fell asleep staring at Ben’s bright smile.

*

His mother always said the devil makes work for idle hands. Bright and early Sunday morning Michael went to the shop to take stock. He didn’t traditionally work on Sundays, but comics had been his escape from reality in the past. He figured it would keep his mind off the wrecking ball that was his life.

The phone rang about mid-day. Caught up in the latest issue of Wolverine, he answered it carelessly: “Red Cape Comics.”

It was the last person he wanted to hear from. “I want to see you again,” Gus said huskily. Well, as huskily as a fourteen year old just over the puberty line could go.

“No way,” Michael said.

“So you’re just going to fuck me and never speak to me again?” Gus demanded.

“It’s a cruel world, bucko,” Michael replied, and he hit the off button. Next Sunday’s family dinner was going to be a bitch. “Holden,” he called to the kid he had hired a few months back, “put the new Supergirl–”

The phone rang again.

Irritated, he grabbed it and snapped, “Gus, I fucking said no, alright?”

“Gus called you?” Brian’s voice.

He faltered. “He wanted me to take him to the zoo?”

“Get over here,” Brian said.

Michael nearly dropped the phone. Holden looked at him strangely. “I didn’t– He– What did I do?” Mike sputtered.

Brian paused. “I thought you should come over for dinner, since the professor’s away. All work and no play makes Mikey go crazy.”

He struggled to breathe again. “O-oh. Is it just going to be me and you?” he asked hopefully.

“Sure. And Justin and Gus and possibly Buffy, if Linds can convince Melanie I’m not going to poison her.”

Mel didn’t trust Brian with her daughter (Buffy Brianna Novotny Peterson-Marcus — named by Hunter, naturally, much to Mel’s chagrin) ever since that one time he went out of town in an emergency and left both her and Gus with Emmett, who dyed her hair pink in some sort of artistic endeavour. Even though it was Em who had directly applied the dye it was still Brian’s fault in Mel’s mind. Michael didn’t quite get it, but he wasn’t going to be the one to tell Mel to back off.

“Brian Kinney, the family man,” Michael said jokingly.

Brian sighed dramatically. “Get your ass over here by eight or I’m giving your plate to Gus.”

A weight lifted off his chest; perhaps things were going to be okay. If Gus hadn’t told Brian by now chances are he never would. After a few weeks the paranoia and discomfort would surely go away, and as long as Brian and Ben didn’t find out, he was in the green. Maybe he could convince Gus to tell Brian he was suicidal, or something, and then Michael could casually offer to pay for his therapy.

“Remember when you fucked Justin the first time?” Michael asked.

“No,” Brian replied.

“Haha, very funny,” he said. “Well, say there’s this guy who has a crush on me–”

“Does Mikey have a secret admirer? It’s Holden, isn’t it. I knew that kid wasn’t there for the comics.”

Michael glanced suspiciously at Holden. He was busy drooling over an old issues of X-Men. “I need to know what you said to Justin trying to get him to back off. That way I can do the exact opposite and get rid of this kid.”

Brian hung up.

Naturally, Hunter had to be at Brian’s when he arrived at 7:58. Hunter smiled at him evilly, and Michael wondered if punching your twenty-seven year-old kid was still considered child abuse.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Michael demanded.

“He brought Gus home from soccer practice,” Justin said dryly, accepting the cookies Michael had brought. “Lucky us. By the way, thanks for taking Gus this weekend, Michael.”

“Haha,” Michael said nervously.

Brian padded into the kitchen in jeans, t-shirt, and bare feet. “What do you want on your pizza?” he asked, waving his cell phone.

“You asshole, you said if I was late you’d give my dinner to Gus,” Michael said angrily. Brian shrugged.

When the pizza arrived Gus clamoured to get the chair beside Michael. Gus was starting to remind him less of Brian and more like Hunter, which only made the whole situation worse. Halfway through the meal, as Justin rambled on about a movie he recently saw starring some guy he had gone to PIFA with, Gus rose up and reached for a napkin, his ass dangerously close to Michael’s face. No one seemed to notice, but Michael sweated bullets anyway.

“Gus, there’s something different about you,” Hunter said sweetly as Justin’s story ended. “More… mature.”

Gus glanced at Michael briefly before smirking. “I got a haircut,” he said, equally saccharine.

Michael swallowed thickly. “Brian, pass the garlic sauce. Oh, and I fucked Gus last night.”

There was a long silence.

“Shit,” Michael muttered.

Hunter stood abruptly. “Well,” he said, and before Michael knew what was happening Hunter had fled, slamming the front door shut behind him.

Brian seemed frozen in place. Justin, looking horrified, put a hand on Gus’s shoulder, as if protecting him from the evil pervert sitting at their table. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Justin demanded.

“You don’t have any right to be complaining, Mr I’ve-Been-Going-to-Babylon-Since-I-Was-Seventeen,” he yelled in defense.

“I can’t believe you!”

Brian finally seemed to focus on them. He gazed around the table, blinking rapidly. “You’re going to have to repeat that, Michael.”

“He said he fucked your son,” Justin said.

Maybe it was the fact Justin had said it, or maybe he just needed to hear it a second time, because Brian’s face turned a rather frightening shade of red.

“Uh, I was kidding,” Michael said weakly.

Brian stood abruptly, shaking his head. “God, I need a drink.”

Michael sat at the table, unable to move, while Brian got up and made his way to the bar. He heard the clinking of glasses, and then Brian returned with two. One he kept, and the other he handed to a very disgusted Justin, who swallowed his in a few quick gulps. Michael smoothed down the front of the white tablecloth nervously.

“Did you enjoy it?” Brian asked Gus seriously.

“Brian!” Justin nearly shouted.

Gus tilted his head thoughtfully. “It was alright.”

Michael decided this child was evil. “Brian–”

But Brian was still looking at Gus. “You’re grounded,” he said flatly.

“For three months,” Justin snapped.

“God, my parents suck,” Gus grumbled.

“Although apparently not as well as Mikey,” Brian drawled.

This time Justin did shout, “BRIAN!” He turned to Michael quickly, and from the expression on his face Michael knew he had to run. “Get out.”

Brian raised his eyebrows and waved. “See you later, Mike.”

It wasn’t until the door shut that Michael realised Brian hadn’t actually gotten angry.

*

There was a large suitcase waiting on the front steps of their townhouse when he got home. He recognised it from that time Ben thought he was moving to Tibet. It was big enough to easily fit enough clothes for a month. Considering their neighbourhood Michael was surprised it hadn’t been stolen.

“That’s weird,” he said.

He tried the door, but it was locked, despite Ben’s bike in the rack.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

His key didn’t work either.

A tapping noise got his attention. Standing in their window was Hunter, who waved and then flipped him the bird. Ben walked up behind Hunter and roughly pulled the curtains closed.

“Fuck,” Michael groaned.

*

Chapter Two

The first thing Michael did was take his suitcase and high tail it out of there. The second thing he did, at the bus stop, was call Brian. Unfortunately, no one picked up, which left him only one option. Michael knew he’d hate himself forever for doing this, but he couldn’t very well live on the street. Or with Ted and Emmett, who still lived together despite not actually being together.

He banged on the front door until Debbie answered. She seemed pleasantly surprised to see him.

“Can I stay here for a while?” he asked.

“Oh sweetie,” she said, glancing at his suitcase, “of course you can.”

He was ushered into the kitchen. She took his suitcase and sat him down at the table. She probably realised his being there wasn’t a good sign, because she also set a plate of oatmeal cookies in front of him.

“I think Ben and I broke up,” he said sadly. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, cheating with his best friend’s son and all, but that didn’t stop it from stinging. He loved Ben more than anything. Everything was so fucked up.

Debbie stroked his cheek. “Honey, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

He bristled. “Why do you automatically think it’s my fault?” She simply gave him a look. Sheepishly, he muttered, “This really isn’t something forgiveable, Ma.”

She looked alarmed. “Jesus, what did you do?”

He cringed and told her.

When it was over she just stared as if she didn’t recognise him.

“Ma?” he asked timidly.

“Jesus H. Christ on a cracker,” she murmured, shaking her head. She waved a finger in his face. “Out of all the dumb things you’ve done this is the worst. You go to your room and think about what you’ve done, young man.”

*

Brian was waiting for him outside the shop at seven o’ clock the next morning. He wore his black leather jacket and sunglasses, and the way he casually smoked a cigarette normally would have made Michael’s knees weak. But today he knew Brian wasn’t there to make a social call.

They were both silent as Michael unlocked the store. Brian followed him inside, stubbing his cigarette out on the brick wall. His enraged expression made Michael gulp; hopefully Holden would call the cops before he did any serious damage.

“Brian,” Michael squeaked.

“So I was talking to Justin,” Brian said calmly. A cool bead of sweat slipped down Michael’s back. “He was really mad I didn’t care you fucked my kid.”

“A-are you going to beat me up for Justin?” Michael asked, quickly glancing at the door. Holden was late again. He was a dead man.

Brian didn’t seem to hear. He slowly tucked his sunglasses into his coat pocket. “And I was, you know, trying to tell him you two were just pulling our legs, but he said you weren’t. And Gus was there, and he said you really did fuck. While watching Dirty Dancing.”

“Oh God,” Mike whimpered.

“Then Justin pointed out Gus looks a hell of a lot like me,” Brian added. His gaze hardened. Maybe he could shove past Brian and run. Mexico was supposed to be nice this time of year. “So I was thinking that maybe you really did fuck my son, possibly while thinking of something — or someone — you really shouldn’t have.”

“Brian, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Brian leaned in close. Once Michael would have said it was intimate; now it was simply frightening. “He’s fourteen,” Brian hissed.

“You slept with Justin when he was seventeen,” Michael countered shrilly.

“For one thing, Justin has always been very mature for his age,” Brian sniffed. “For another, he wasn’t my best friend’s son.”

“Oh,” Michael said. “Right.”

Brian raised his brows and sent him a look that said, “Well?”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Michael explained. “And– and you fucked Ben!”

Brian blinked. “You did this because I fucked your husband fifteen years ago?”

“No, I just meant– I forgave you for fucking Ben. So you should forgive me for fucking Gus.” He tried to smile, but he suspected it was more like a wince.

Brain’s disbelieving stare was enough for Michael to realise that had been the wrong thing to say. “Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Most of them,” Michael said.

Rather than punching him, Brian scrubbed his face with his hands. He hadn’t seen Brian this distressed since Ted had stolen his corvette and sold it for drug money. Seeing Brian hurt only made him feel even worse.

“You know, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done. I could deal with your– feelings–” Brian said the word like it was a vile, disgusting thing. “–When we were younger. Hell, I even liked it before–” Michael knew he stopped himself from saying Justin’s name. “But when you do this to my kid it’s just sick.”

“I know,” Michael said quietly. “I think Ben’s left me.”

“That bastard,” Brian said sarcastically.

“Look,” Michael said, irritated, “I’m sorry, alright?”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t change a fucking thing,” Brian snapped. “I want you to stay away from Gus.”

Relieved, Michael said, “Can you keep him from calling me too? It’s getting really annoying.”

*

Lindsay knew Brian really hated confrontation, so she let him ply her and Mel with drinks and thinly veiled insults until Mel looked ready to scream. Something was wrong — this much was obvious from Brian’s pleasantries and Justin’s shifty behaviour — but she couldn’t put her finger on just what.

“Mel,” Brian said smarmily, practically batting his eyes at her, “have you lost weight?”

Clearly disgusted, Mel set down her drink. Linds hid her smile behind her hand. “Cut to the chase, Kinney. I know we’re not here because you were feeling sociable.”

Justin nudged Brian with his elbow.

“Alright,” Brian said soberly. “Justin has something to tell you.”

Justin goggled. “What? Me?”

“You expect me to tell them?”

“He’s your son!”

“They like you more than they like me.”

“Someone had better tell us now,” Mel growled.

Brian and Justin exchanged glances. “Michael fucked Gus,” they said simultaneously.

“Consensually,” Brian added, as if was an afterthought.

For a second Lindsay didn’t feel anything. Then her blood rushed to her ears, and she went cold all over.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mel asked flatly.

“Would I kid about something like this?” Brian replied.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“H-has he done anything to Buffy?” Linds asked, her throat filling with tears. Michael, molesting her baby. It wasn’t possible.

“God, I hope not,” Brian muttered, sounding disgusted. Justin scowled at him. “I mean, no. I don’t think so.”

“Wait,” Mel said, voice rising, “you’re saying you’re serious about this?”

“I told him to stay away from Gus,” Brian replied. “And me.”

“Holy shit,” Mel gasped. She clutched Lindsay’s arm.

Linds wiped her eyes with her hands. Justin handed her a tissue, and Mel’s clinging became hugging. “What are we going to do?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“We could have him arrested,” Mel said tersely.

Brian’s head snapped up. “That’s kind of harsh,” Justin said.

“A forty-three year old had sex with our fourteen year old son,” Mel snapped.

“Maybe they’re in love,” Justin protested.

The room fell silent.

Justin sighed. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“If Michael and Gus are in love I’m the one who’s going to need therapy,” Brian said.

“Okay,” Justin went on, “Michael’s your — our — friend. He did something really bad, but I don’t think he deserves prison for it. Look at all the times we’ve forgiven Ted. Sure, there are times I really miss my computer and the ‘vette, and I’m sure Em blames him for what’s-his-face’s death, but the important thing is–” He stopped. “Uh, I forgot what I was saying.”

“Michael’s our friend,” Brian reminded him.

“Right, he’s our friend, and, um, prison is bad.”

The four of them sat quietly. Lindsay wiped her eyes on a tissue, blotting away her mascara. Beside her Mel was tense, her body radiating rage. Even Brian was fidgety.

“I’m certain I could get a restraining order,” Mel said finally.

“I have no problem with that,” Linds replied.

*

It was probably suicide for Michael to be seen in Woodys right now, but being drunk considerably lessened the fear of imminent death. He had no friends, no lover, and no family, and, to top it off, his mother was barely speaking to him.

“My life is so incredibly fucked,” he moaned.

Justin snorted. “You do the kid you do the time, Michael. You should feel lucky no one called the cops.”

For some reason Justin had pulled a stool up to his table about half an hour ago. Initially Mike had been afraid Justin would punch him — he knew from past experiences Justin and pent up anger was a lethal combination, Justin being brain damaged and all — but then he decided he just didn’t have the energy to care. Besides, it didn’t make him an alcoholic if he drank with someone else.

“You’re the only one talking to me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Justin studied his drink. “I’ve done some stupid things too, Michael, remember? Well, I never fucked Gus, but I did join a gang for a little while. Besides, I don’t want Brian to lose his best friend.”

“Maybe I should join a gang,” Michael mused. “I can learn to bust caps in people’s asses.”

“Poor, young, innocent, blind Gus,” Justin sighed.

“What about poor me?” Michael demanded. “It’s not like he wasn’t a willing participant. I was confused. He took advantage of me.”

Justin raised a cool blond brow. “How exactly did he take advantage of you?” Michael worked his mouth, trying to come up with an answer, but Justin asked, “By looking like Brian did at his age?”

Michael looked away. Justin sighed again. “That’s so–”

“Sick and wrong,” Michael snapped. “Yeah, I know. I’m a horrible person. I just want things to go back to the way they were before.”

“Did you ever think maybe you purposely sabotaged your relationship with Ben, and that’s why you slept with Gus?” Justin asked.

“Who do I look like, Brian?” Michael scoffed. Justin scowled, and Michael hastily added, “Just kidding, sheesh.”
“You can’t make things go back to the way they were.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he wailed.

“Well, you’re not going to fix anything by sitting here and getting shit-faced, Michael,” Justin said.

Justin was right. But there was no way Ben was going to see him. “How did you get Brian the first time? And the second time? And that time you–”

“What, you want my advice? This is a first.”

“Nevermind,” he seethed. “Just forget it. Forget it!”

Justin set his drink down and turned to him. “Listen, here’s what you have to do: you have to let Ben know you’re not going to let him cut you out of his life. You have to be aggressive. You have to put yourself out there. Don’t let him move on.”

“Are you telling me to stalk him?”

“Stalking is such an ugly word,” Justin said sombrely. “I prefer the term courting.”

“Courting,” Michael scoffed. He rested his head against the cool surface of the bar. “I must be losing my mind, ’cause I’m actually considering doing this.”

Justin smirked. “It worked for me.”

“But– but Ben isn’t like Brian. He’s not going to think me showing up everywhere he goes is ’sweet.’ He’s gonna think it’s fucking creepy!”

“Fine,” Justin said nonchalantly, “let him just kick you out of his life. You can spend the rest of your life waiting for a phone call from Hunter or a letter from Ben, until you die miserable and all alone.”

Justin snagged his drink and headed back to the bar.

Michael stared at the tabletop. “Shit,” he muttered.

*

Michael carefully placed his clothes in the tiny, cramped closet of his old room. It was his new room now, he supposed, frowning at the row of jeans and sweaters. He could hear his mother in the kitchen downstairs, putting away dishes; he knew soon she’d walk to her room for bed, not bothering to stop and say goodnight like she used to. His childhood home had never felt big and empty until now.

He returned to the comic shop early the next morning, nursing a vodka-induced headache. Trying to focus on the fine print in the classifieds section of the newspaper was nearly impossible. He was grateful when the phone rang.

“Red Cape Comics.”

“It’s me.”

“Ben,” he breathed.

“I’ve left some of your things with Emmett.”

Michael closed his eyes. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t mean to fuck Gus or you didn’t mean for me to find out?” Ben asked sharply. Michael couldn’t reply. “Just tell me… why did you do it?”

“I really don’t know,” Michael confessed. The other end of the phone went quiet save for Ben’s steady breathing. “I don’t know, maybe it’s a midlife crisis or something. We were watching Dirty Dancing, and Gus looked so much like Brian, and I thought– I just thought, ‘I can pretend I did this when I was fourteen.’”

“If you want to be with Brian–”

“I don’t!” he interrupted. “And he doesn’t want to be with me. It was just a mistake.”

Ben sighed. Michael clutched the phone so hard his hands hurt.

“You’re not fourteen,” Ben said. “You can’t spend one night pretending your life is different, and then spend the rest of it pretending that night didn’t happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. He missed Ben so much it ached. “Believe me, I just want to take it back.”

“But you can’t. All you can do is fix what you did.”

*

Less than a week after he’d made the biggest mistake of his life Michael returned to the diner. As soon as he walked in he saw the usual gang at their usual table; Ben, who was facing the door, met his eyes briefly before looking away. Michael straightened his shoulders and pressed onwards.

Conversation went still as he approached.

“Well, if it isn’t Michael,” Ted drawled.
“Hey, guys,” he said.

Ben slid out of the booth, ignoring Michael completely. “I’ve got to run some errands. Later, everyone.” He left without even a glance back, which stung.

“Oh!” said Emmett, looking at his watch with a melodramatic cry of surprise. “Ted, honey, we’ve got to leave now or else you’ll be late for your group.”

At least Em sent him a sympathetic look as they walked out past. “Try not to fuck any teenagers while we’re gone,” Ted whispered loudly, patting Michael on the shoulder. That left him and Brian; Brian didn’t even acknowledge him as he took a seat.

They sat in a silence for a few minutes.

“Do you think stalking’s romantic?” Michael asked.

Brian looked at him sourly. “You’ve been talking to Justin.”

Michael started to deny it, but Brian pulled his newspaper over his face, dismissing him.

“Can I get a coffee?” he asked the passing waiter.

“Coffee for the perv at table seven,” the waiter called to the counter.

Michael buried his face in his hands.

*

Chapter Three

Michael quietly shut his bedroom door. It felt like he was sixteen again, trying to call the guy he liked without his mom finding out. Not that she would have minded him seeing someone; when he was young he had always hated her giving advice and being so open about everything. He used to like to sneak around just to pretend he came from a normal family, or more like Brian, who had to hide everything from his parents and sister. Now Michael pulled out his cell and dialed a familiar number: his own.

After a few rings the machine picked up. “Hi, this is Ben–” “And this is Mike!” “Leave your name and number after the beep–” “And we’ll get back to you!”

“Ben,” he started, “it’s me–”

The machine went dead. The dial tone rang in his ears.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

Something tapped on his window. He whipped around, part of him expecting it to be Debbie. But it was Gus, trying to climb through.

“Oh my God,” Michael groaned, opening the window. Gus clumsily struggled into the room. “What are you doing here? Do you know how much trouble I could get in?”

“I had to see you,” Gus gushed, straightening his clothes.

“I’m your uncle!” Michael hissed.

“Not really,” Gus pointed out. “Buffy and I aren’t blood related.”

Yeah, whose brilliant idea had that been? “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve still known you since the day you were born. I used to give you baths and change your diapers. Doesn’t that gross you out?”

Gus frowned, looking very much like Brian. “You didn’t have a problem with it that night.”

Michael groaned. “That night was a mistake,” he admitted. Gus flinched. “It should never have happened. You’re fourteen! I’m lucky your moms and dads haven’t pressed charges!”

“I get it,” Gus snapped. He slammed his fist on the desk. Michael wondered if he’d just scarred the kid for life. Was he going to become another Brian, scorning love until it was almost too late, and then falling for some drama-prone underaged artist, just because Michael had turned him down? Was this how Brian had started out? And more important, did this mean Brian had slept with his uncle?

“You should find someone your own age,” Michael said. “One that has absolutely no interest in sex. Maybe someone religious.”

“Kids my age are morons,” Gus sneered.

Oh God. Gus wasn’t Brian, he was Justin. “I am so creeped out right now,” Michael said.

“Fuck you,” Gus shouted. He stormed to the window and loudly tried to scramble out.

“Could you be a little quieter?” Michael demanded. “My mom’s gonna hear.”

Gus slammed the window down so loudly the entire room shook. Michael waited for his mother to burst in asking what the hell was going on, but she never did.

*

“So my best friend’s a child molester,” Brian said. He swallowed his shot of scotch, barely wincing at the familiar burn.

“Remember when they used to call you that?” Justin asked thoughtfully, signaling the bartender.

Brian sighed. “Those were the days.”

Emmett, the only one of the three probably still sober, eyed them. “I’m the only one of us still sane, aren’t I.” It wasn’t a question.

“That depends,” Brian said. “Has Ted relapsed again?”

He glanced over Emmett’s shoulder. Sure enough, in the far corner Ted was bobbing away to the music in his own head. Groaning, Em went to go rescue him. Or lecture, whichever came first. In the past Brian had almost been amused by Ted the stoner, but after ten years it was just pathetic.

“I think you should forgive Michael,” Justin added. Brian rolled his eyes. “Gus doesn’t seem fucked up. Well, no more than any other teenage boy.”

“I lost my virginity when I was fourteen,” Brian muttered, frowning.

“Shit,” Justin said, sitting up straighter, “Gus needs therapy.”

*

Gus should have known something was up when both his father and Justin were home at three ‘o’ clock in the afternoon. “I’m just here to grab my stuff,” he called. “I’m going to Kiernon’s to do our science project.”

“Not so fast,” Dad said. “We’re going to have a little talk.”

Gus dropped his bookbag on the floor. “Uh, is this about Uncle Mike?” That was something he really didn’t want to get into with his parents. Especially since Uncle Mikey had dumped him last night like that. Like he didn’t even care.

“Yes,” Dad said, as Justin replied, “No.” “Sometimes,” Dad started loudly, “when two men really like each other–”

“Oh God,” Gus groaned.

“They want to fuck.”

“Make love,” Justin corrected.

“But you have to be prepared for the consequences of fucking. For instance, if you fuck at work, sometimes you get sued.”

“I don’t have a job,” Gus said.

“This is why you never mix sex and work,” Justin added.

“A lot of responsibility comes with fucking. Sometimes one night stands turn into fourteen years.” His father’s mouth dropped, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. “Oh my God, it’s been fourteen years.”

“Yeah, it’s been a real party for me too,” Justin said flatly.

Dad leaned closer, putting a hand on Gus’s shoulder. “You have to be prepared, because sometimes all you want is a one night of hot sex, and the next thing you know he’s showing up everywhere you go, and then you’re at a high school prom, and then suddenly he’s bashed in the head with a baseball bat, and then he’s moving in with you, and then he leaves you for some disgusting, pussy-faced fiddler with poor hygiene–”

“Uh, Dad?” Gus cut in, uncomfortable.

“–And then magically you’re back together before you realise what the fuck is going on, and then you lose your job, and then he joins a cult, and then you blink and you’re letting him move in with you and give your company some stupid name you’re too chicken shit to say you hate–”

“Hey,” Justin protested, “Kinnetic is a fucking brilliant name.”

“–And then you’re practically married, and he wants you to have a commitment ceremony in front of your friends and God, God of all people–”

“I make one suggestion in the shower five years ago…” Justin sighed.

“–Suddenly you stop fucking redheads, and then you feel personally offended by green eyes–”

“Oh. Oh!” Justin exclaimed. “Is that why–?”

“I’m not talking to you,” Gus’s father said. He turned back to Gus. “And then you find yourself painting the toenails of some chick you barely know while watching Powerpuff Girls reruns on the floor of the place you bought together, even though you don’t actually remember purchasing it, and you know you’re watching reruns because you’ve seen them all with him, all because you were horny fourteen years ago.”

The kitchen went silent, save for Justin loudly tapping his fingers on the counter.

“A-are you talking about Justin?” Gus asked. “‘Cause he’s right here, and, Dad, that’s not cool.”

Dad looked at Justin, who seemed annoyed. “You’re hot when you’re pissed off,” Dad told Justin sweetly. But then he looked right back at Gus and said, “Oh yeah, and sometimes you get AIDS and die.”

Justin buried his face in his hands. “Why do I bother?”

“I’m going to be late,” Gus announced loudly.

“You’re not fucking Kiernon are you?” Dad asked, brow furrowing.

Gus wrinkled his nose. “Ew, Dad, he’s, like, a kid! Besides,” he added bitterly, “Uncle Mike doesn’t want to see me again. Apparently I’m too ‘immature.’”

“What?” his dad demanded. “That shit!”

“Brian!” Justin hissed. “Don’t encourage it!”

Rage rose in him. “You know, I’m not a stupid kid,” he spat.

But his dad gently touched his arm. “No, sonny boy, you really are just a stupid kid. That’s the point.”

Gus was speechless.

*

The fifth time he rang Ben actually picked up the phone. “Michael,” he growled, “I haven’t been answering because I know it’s been you. We have caller ID, remember?”

“Oh,” Michael muttered.

Ben hung up.

*

Gus had just finished brushing his teeth when Ma peered into the bathroom. “Hey, kiddo, I hear you and your dads had a little talk today.”

“Yeah, it was stupid.”

She opened the door all the way. “They forgot to mention something,” she muttered.

He put his toothbrush back in the holder. This should be fun. “Yeah, what’s that? The part about sex leading to low self-esteem? I’ve had sex-ed, Ma, I’m not stupid.”

“No, just that if you have sex again before you’re married you’re a dead man.”

Somehow he believed her. “Oh. Um. Okay. Does this apply to Buffy too?”

She snorted. “Of course not. What do you think this is, the 50’s?” She was halfway out the door before she paused. “Unless Uncle Mike wants to have sex with her. No sex with Uncle Mike. For anyone. Ever.”

“Am I not allowed to see him anymore?” Not that Uncle Mikey wanted to see him again, but– Gus still really liked him. Even if Uncle Mikey didn’t see him in that way they could still hang out together. Mike was cooler than Dad, who paid too much attention to him, and Justin, who always had to turn something into some sort of after school special. “Now what did we learn from this experience?” Justin would ask. He was actually surprised the lecture had come from Dad.

“Not for a while,” Ma said. “Honey, do you know what child molestation is?”

“I’m fourteen, not four,” he replied angrily, throwing his toothbrush down.

She seemed surprised when he pushed past her.

*

Michael sent Ben a letter. Three days later it came back marked ‘Return to sender.’

Maybe he needed to rethink this.

*

The first two times Michael showed up at Ben’s lecture Ben had stared at him throughout the entire hour. The third time Ben had ignored him completely.

At the fourth lecture he was startled out of a daydream involving him, Captain Astro, and a spaceship by Ben standing over him. “Ben!” he exclaimed. Everyone around him was scribbling furiously.

Ben handed him a piece of paper, smiling.

“What’s this?” Michael asked.

Ben’s smile tightened. “Today’s pop quiz.”

*

Chapter Four

Patience had never been one of Michael’s strong points. Two days after the pop quiz — which he failed miserably — he was walking out of the grocery store when it hit him that he was just sick of it all. He was sick of waiting, sick of being alone, and, most of all, sick of feeling guilty. He knew the guilt would never fade entirely, but he didn’t think it should get in the way of his life. He’d make it up to Gus somehow.

Michael turned around, stalked back into the grocery store, and bought a bottle of wine Ben liked. Then he rode his bike all the way back to his old apartment.

He was relieved when Ben actually answered the door. He looked angry for a second, but before he could tell Michael to go away Michael blurted: “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

Ben’s expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. “What you did was inexcusable, Michael, to both me and to Gus.”

Michael combed his fingers through his hair nervously. His bravo was fading. “I know, I know. That was probably the worst thing I’ve done in my entire life.”

Ben sighed and shook his head. Michael’s chest tightened. “I need to be sure you don’t have any feelings for Brian.”

“I don’t,” he replied honestly. It seemed like he had been in love with Brian an eternity ago. Ben had changed him into someone better; someone he was proud to be. Michael didn’t want to lose him. “But I was for a long time, and I slipped. It doesn’t make what I did right. I love you,” he repeated.

He took a deep breath. Ben gazed at him evenly. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” Ben said bluntly.

That hurt. He hadn’t really expected Ben to take him back just because he showed up at his doorstep, but it still hurt. Michael nodded and studied his shoes. “Okay. I had to try though.”

He was already walking away when Ben called out: “I’m surprised Brian forgave you so easily, although I guess I shouldn’t be.”

Michael stopped to looked back. “Oh, I really haven’t talked to Brian since he practically murdered me for touching Gus. He was next on the list. I needed to talk to you first.”

“You came to me before Brian?” Ben asked, seeming shocked.

“Well, yeah,” Michael said. “You’re my life partner. We have a… we have Hunter together, and Buffy too. We’re family.”

This time he was at the end of the sidewalk when he heard, “Michael, wait.”

*

Brian had always liked Ben. Not only was he perfect for Mikey, who needed someone to take care of him, he was also a really great guy (steroid abuse notwithstanding), which wasn’t a quality Brian applied to many people. However, they didn’t tend to spend a lot of time together, so when Ben asked him over he couldn’t help but worry a little. Perhaps there was more to the Gus situation than Michael had let on.

Which is how he found himself on Ben’s couch with a cup of herbel tea.

“You wanted to talk?” Brian asked. He set his tea on the coffee table without drinking.

Ben held up a finger, signaling him to wait. Brian stared as he turned to the surround sound stereo and fiddled with some buttons. Immediately pipe music and moaning floated through out the room. The little Buddhas on the mantle trembled.

“We can chat now,” Ben said.

“What the shit is this?” Brian asked.

Another long moan pierced the woodwind melody.

“Whale songs,” Ben said casually.

“I see,” Brian said.

“I need to talk to you about Michael,” Ben started. He put his hand on Brian’s knee and sent him a very concerned look. The whales continued to sing. “I think you should forgive him.”

Brian wondered if Ben was trying to drive him insane. “And why should I?” he asked.

“He’s behaving very maturely about this.”

“If he had been behaving maturely this wouldn’t have happened,” Brian pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

“Brian,” Ben said, exasperated, “these last few weeks Michael’s been trying to get me to talk to him. Yesterday was the first time I listened to what he had to say. He told me he came to me first, because we’re a family– he came to me, Brian, not you.” Brian bit his lip thoughtfully. “I believe what he did was just a mistake, and I believe he won’t do it again.”

Brian looked around the room. Next to the little Buddhas were framed photos of Michael and Ben, Michael and Ben and Hunter, Michael and the whole family, and, on the very end, Michael and Brian. He did miss his best friend. Biting his lip, he said, “If I forgive him you have to promise me one thing.”

“What?” Ben asked.

“Burn this CD.”

The whales moaned.

*

No matter how many ups and downs Michael’s life went through, Liberty Avenue would never change. Michael hummed to himself as he walked through the busy street. He was going to get take away from the diner and head home — his real home with Ben, not his mom’s. Things were looking up; having Ben back in his life made his lack of friends a bit more bearable. As much as he wanted them for forgive him, he knew he’d be able to live if they didn’t.

Brian and Justin walked out of the diner just as Michael arrived. The three of them stood there looking at each other until Brian cleared his throat. “Going to Woodys tonight?”

“No,” Michael said slowly, “I need to spend some time with Ben.”

To his surprise, Brian smiled. “We’ll see you later then.”

He and Justin started to leave. Michael stared at Brian’s back, wondering if this meant their fight was over.

“Wait,” he called. “I need to say I’m sorry again.”

“Sorry’s bullshit,” Brian replied, but he didn’t sound mad.

“Are we friends again?” Michael asked. “You can sleep with Buffy when she gets older.”

“Okay then,” Brian said sarcastically.

“I’m really beginning to worry about your parental skills,” Justin said.

*

A week later he was invited to the weekly family lunch at the munchers’. His arrival prompted hugs from Emmett, Ted, and even Em’s new boyfriend John, who he’d actually never met before. Debbie had greeted him with her usual cheeriness, which made him think she’d been talking to Ben. He didn’t really care, as long as she wasn’t angry with him anymore. The whole lot of them sat at the table, and Michael was filled with a warmth at just how typical it all was.

“It’s nice to be together again,” Michael said cheerfully.

Mel nodded, tight-lipped. Lindsay played with her fork threateningly.

“Pass the mustard,” Hunter said.

Michael sat between Ben and Brian. Across from him, Gus avoided meeting his gaze. Buffy was distracted by Francois, Hunter’s boyfriend, making a puppet out of bread and olives, while Justin rolled his eyes. Michael felt ready to burst with joy.

“This is nice,” Debbie said. “Gus, how are you, honey?”

Gus muttered something inaudible.

“What was that?” Mel asked.

“I have a girlfriend,” Gus announced loudly. The whole room became silent. Brian dropped his fork. “Her name’s Meredith.”

“A girlfriend?” Brian demanded.

“A girlfriend!” Debbie cried. She beamed like this was the funniest thing she’d heard all year. “Isn’t that something?”

“Brian Kinney’s son a breeder,” Emmett mused.

“Who saw that one coming?” Michael said.

“Watch your filthy mouth,” Brian snapped at Em.

“She’d better be your age,” Mel warned Gus. Gus gulped.

“That’s it,” Brian said, slamming his hands on the table. “Justin, we’re not having any more kids.”

Justin’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh gosh, now what am I going to do with the booties I knitted?”

“Your next sperm donation’s coming from Em,” Brian told Lindsay.

Emmett beamed. “Really?”

“No,” Mel and Linds said quickly.

And they lived happily ever after.

*

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Cowlip Productions and the Showtime Network. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Kudos to Anna, Erinface, Cait, Sam, Tink, and Rachel Anton for their comments, suggestions, beta reading, and listening to my whinging.

Summary: After Stockwell’s defeat, Brian has to vanquish evil, survive mysterious hardships, and sort out his love life. It’s like Brian Kinney, Vampire Slayer, only without the vampires or the cool superpowers. Brian/Justin, Michael/Ben. Spoilers for Seasons One through Three.
One, Dreamt a Mile.

It all started the day Gardner Vance walked into the Liberty Diner wearing a long black trenchcoat and black sunglasses that Sydney Bristow would have killed for.

No, it had actually started the day Deekins won the election, but Brian didn’t know that. All he knew was that Stockwell had lost, that Deekins, the ungrateful bastard, had won, and that being unemployed sucked. There was no other word for it: it just sucked. Justin probably would have used the multi-syllabic vocabulary his brain had packed away for the SATs back in high school, but for Brian the word ’sucked’ worked nicely. Unable to find a job, he had settled on a daily routine that involved sleeping late, bugging Justin at work, smoking cheap pot, annoying Michael at work, avoiding Hunter the hustler, and sex. It was like someone had extended the two-day weekend to six long, boring, empty weeks.

He was trying to figure out if he could use his spoon as a slingshot and bombard Justin’s ass with peas when Vance slid into the booth across from him. He was so startled he dropped the spoon onto the table, and several of the patrons turned to look at them.

“Nothing to see here, folks,” Vance said loudly. “Just two, uh, homosexuals sitting together eating lunch. Go back to your business.”

“That was really smooth,” Brian said.

He noticed Justin set his serving tray down and look over at them worriedly. Brian shook his head slightly. It wasn’t like Vance could do anything to him in a public place, especially not in one that obviously rattled him.

“Can we talk? Alone? I need to speak with you about your job.” Vance pushed his sunglasses up onto his bald scalp and glanced around nervously.

“You couldn’t have called me?” Brian demanded.

“I can’t let anyone know we’re speaking,” Vance hissed, leaning forward. His face was very serious. “It’s important, Brian.”

With a sigh, Brian led him out onto the noisy street. He shielded his eyes from the sun, and Vance scrambled to pull his sunglasses down. Despite the crisp winter day the Avenue was still as crowded as ever, and people made their way down, shopping and laughing. Brian shoved his hands into his coat pockets as Vance cautiously studied the other pedestrians, as if making sure he didn’t recognise anyone. Somehow Brian doubted Vance’s social circle hung out on Liberty Avenue, but never let it be said he didn’t appreciate a good bout of paranoia.

Finally, Vance finished his examination and turned back to Brian, who coolly raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” Brian began, “what’s–?”

Vance reached out and plucked a hair from Brian’s head.

Brian startled. “What the fuck?”

Vance gingerly wrapped the hair in a tissue. “Well, I’ve got what I need. See you later.” He spun around and began walking down the sidewalk.

Brian stared. His mouth finally caught up with him, and he shouted at Vance’s back: “W-what about my job?”

Vance glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Oh, right. You’re still fired.”

He wasn’t sure if he should chase after Vance and demand his hair back, or what; it wasn’t like this sort of thing had happened to him before. People had stolen his underwear, his socks, and some fucker had once even taken a loofa from his shower, but no one had ever taken something that was still attached to his body. But he lost his chance when Vance’s figure was swallowed by the crowd, leaving Brian alone on the sidewalk.

Dazed, he walked back into the diner and took his seat. Debbie bumbled over, eagerly waving her coffee pot. “What’s wrong, honey? Did he offer you your job back?”

“No, he took some of my hair,” Brian said.

Debbie popped her gum noisily, blinking. She finished pouring his coffee and pushed the mug in front of him. “Jesus, people’s kinks just keep getting weirder and weirder.”

*

“Did you hear me? He took some of my hair.”

Justin lowered the book he was reading. “Maybe he’s making a voodoo doll,” he said sarcastically.

It wasn’t until the afterglow of dinner (take-away Chinese) and sex (on the plastic lawn chair they had stolen from Ted) that Brian had mentioned Vance’s eerie visit. Justin didn’t seem particularly perturbed; Brian was beginning to suspect he was the only person weirded out by the whole situation. Maybe Vance just had very odd sexual habits. Who knew how straight men got off.

“Why the fuck are you reading?” he asked, nudging Justin with his elbow. It wasn’t like Justin to read in bed.

“I’m expanding my mind.” Cheeky little twat. Justin sighed. “I don’t want to be behind when they finally let me back into PIFA.”

Brian didn’t know quite what to say to that. Luckily, he was saved by the phone ringing. He snatched it up as Justin turned back to his book. “Yeah?”

“Brian.” It was Vance.

“What, do you want a sperm sample next?” Brian demanded.

There was a pause, and Brian thought he heard papers shuffling in the background. “Actually… Is Mr Taylor there?”

“You want to talk to Justin?” Brian asked, incredulous. Justin’s head snapped up.

“I was told by his flatmate to call you. He’s there, isn’t he?”

Justin looked at Brian, eyebrows raised, but Brian couldn’t do anything more than pass the phone to him. “Hello?” Justin asked Vance hesitantly. His expression became unreadable as he listened to Vance. Brian strained to hear what was being said. “If I recall correctly, I was fired for fucking the boss. Oh, and that whole Stockwell thing, but who’s keeping track?” There was another long silence, and finally Justin said coolly, “I’ll think about it,” and he hit the ‘off’ button.

“What did he want?” Brian asked.

Justin cringed. “He asked me back. To Vanguard. Full time.”

“Oh,” Brian said.

“I’m not going to take it,” Justin added quickly.

Brian placed the phone back in its cradle, grabbed the bottle of vodka on the nightstand, and sat heavily on the steps in front of the bedroom. He didn’t know whether to be proud Vance had liked Justin’s work enough to ask him back, or horrified at the idea of being passed over for his boyfriend at his own job.

“Maybe you should,” he said slowly.

Justin trotted down to the lower level, the sheet wrapped around his waist. “No, it’s obvious he only asked me back to hurt you.”

Brian took a swing of the vodka, wincing at the familiar burn. “It’s a job,” he choked.

Justin stubbornly shook his head. “It’s not what I want. I can work somewhere else. So can you,” he added.

A pessimistic, “Hmm,” was all Brian could manage.

*

The next morning his car was stolen.

Brian stood in the middle of the garage, staring at his now-empty parking space. Normally, he would have just assumed Justin had borrowed it without asking, walked to the diner and snuck the keys out of Justin’s pocket during a nice groping session, and driven the ‘vette home, waiting for Justin to get back and complain about having to walk five whole blocks. But since he had the keys in his hand, he was pretty sure it had been nicked, which was just fantastic.

Pissed off, he pulled out his cell phone and dialled a familiar number.

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Red Cape Comics! We’re super, thanks for asking! How can I help you today, citizen?”

“Oh my God,” Brian said. “Did you come up with that on your own?”

“Hunter helped. We had this really cool idea between, like, Ohio and Iowa–”

That last thing he wanted to hear was another tale of Mikey and Hunter on the road. They all had suffered through enough of those when the two had arrived back from running from the law, and once more when Hunter had explained to the courts why living with Michael and Ben was better than living with his hell beast of a mother. “That’s great, but three guesses whose car’s been stolen, and the first two don’t count,” Brian cut in.

There was a burst of static, then a high-pitched, “Someone stole your car? You’re fucking kidding! Are you sure Justin didn’t take it again?”

He noisily dangled his keys in front of the mouthpiece. “It’s definitely stolen.”

“Are you going to go to the police?”

“I don’t really have much of a choice, do I,” he muttered. “Goddamn it, I have a fucking interview tomorrow.”

He managed to find enough change in his pockets to take the bus down to the police station. Naturally, some old perv leered at him and some teenager tried to pick his pockets. The second he stepped off the bus the clouds parted and it started pouring rain. Things weren’t looking up.

“My car was stolen,” he told the officer at the desk. “I need to file a report.”

The man reached under the desk and brought out a blank form on a clipboard. He uncapped his pen and shoved everything at Brian. “Fill this out and bring it back,” he said blandly.

It took Brian about ten minutes to complete, then he had to wait behind a wailing prostitute for an hour before the officer would see him again.

“Your name’s Kinney?” the cop asked sharply.

“Yeah,” Brian said slowly.

“Ah.”

He didn’t like that “ah.” That was definitely a bad “ah.” The officer met his gaze evenly. “You can go now. We’ll take care of it.”

Brian knew he’d never see his ‘vette again.

*

A man knows when to ask for help, he had told Justin last year. He stared at the phone, trying to work up the courage to pick it up and dial. This was absurd; he was an adult, and he needed help. He had no car, no money, and no furniture. His friends wouldn’t look down on him. They might mock him until the end of his days, but they’d never look down on him. Squaring his shoulders, he hit the speed dial before he changed his mind.

A chipper, “Hello!” answered.

“Emmett,” Brian said with some difficulty.

“Brian? Why… you never call me. Is something wrong?”

“Someone stole the ‘vette.”

Emmett gasped. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. You loved that car.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder.” Irritated, Brian rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have a job interview this afternoon. Can you drive me?”

“Of course I can, honey. I’ll be right over.”

That had proved to be a bad idea when Em decided to spend the entire trip lamenting on his failed relationship with Ted, and something about Ted’s new boyfriend, who happened to be his old boyfriend, and when Em got to the part about their sex lives Brian wanted to just throw himself from the car.

“So how are you and Justin?” Emmett asked him knowingly. Brian really should have asked Lindsey to drive him.

“Oh, look, we’re here,” Brian said, relieved.

The first interview Brian had in weeks was at an agency called Impressionist Pictures. It was a small business that did above average printing work, and while it wasn’t the first, second, or even third place Brian would have thought of, he was feeling somewhat desperate. Soon he would to start having to look for jobs outside of the Pitts. He left Emmett in front of the small office building and went inside, where he was ushered into an empty office.

When Craig Taylor walked into the room Brian decided in his past life he must have been a serial killer, because there was just no other explanation.

“I didn’t know you were in advertising,” Brian said weakly.

Craig looked at him sourly. “I recently changed fields.”

He sat down at the large desk, pulling out a heavy binder. Brian wasn’t sure if he should make a run for it. Craig flipped to a page at the back, and said, “So you’re here about the executive position?”

“You’re going to interview me?” Brian asked, shocked.

“We are going to conduct this as if it’s any normal job application,” Craig said stiffly. He folded his hands in front of him. Brian started to relax; he wouldn’t get the job, but he wasn’t in any danger. Justin would have probably been upset if either his father or his boyfriend died at the hands of the other. “First question, Mr Kinney: Are you still seeing my son?”

Well, so much for that. “Well, uh, yeah, but–”

“Second question: Is it true that from him you stole his virginity, his youth, his innocence, and his soul?”

“Don’t be silly,” Brian said. “I have no use for souls.”

Craig stared at him for a long moment. “I’m going to put that down as a ‘yes.’”

*

Justin was already at the loft when Brian arrived home from the interview from hell. He was just sitting on the floor, staring at the blank walls, as Brian tugged up his shirtsleeves and tossed his tie in the direction of the bedroom. He nudged Justin with his foot, and Justin tilted his head and glared fiercely.

“Get naked. You won’t believe what happened to me today.”

“I don’t care,” said Justin.

“Your father just interviewed me for a job,” he said anyway. He grabbed the last beer from the refrigerator. “For some odd reason he wanted details of our sex life. He also wanted to let me know that I’m the biggest shit who ever lived.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Justin muttered darkly.

Brian took a gulp of lager. “What’s your problem, Sunshine?”

Justin looked away hastily. “Nothing,” he grumbled.

The lights flickered and died.

“I-I should probably mention I couldn’t pay the bills this month,” Brian said dryly.

Justin threw his hands in the air. “That’s it. I have to get the fuck out of here.”

He marched into the bedroom. Brian could hear the wardrobe’s drawers slamming, and the sound of things being shoved into a bag. Worried, he peeked in. “Uh, what’re you doing?”

Even in the dim evening light he could tell Justin’s face was flushed with anger. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he snapped.

“It looks like you’re taking all your shit.”

He pulled a pair of shoes out from the under the bed Brian had never realised were there. It really bothered him to know that they had been. Shoes were meant for the closet. “Brilliant observation,” Justin sneered.

Brian tried to grab his arm, but he wrenched away frantically. “What the fuck? Justin?”

“You have no direction, Brian. You have no job, no money, no sense of responsibility, no nothing. You’re blaming all your own mistakes on bad luck, which is bullshit.” Brian opened and closed his mouth a few times, speechless. Justin pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, hard. His voice was muffled. “I don’t know why I’m even here anymore. I just need to get out.”

But instead of moving, he just sat heavily on the bed, still rubbing his eyes. Instincts Brian had developed last year after the bashing kicked in, and he went to the kitchen and grabbed some pills and a glass of water. Justin took them easily. “My head hurts,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” Brian asked quietly. Blurry eyed, Justin nodded. A few minutes later, he was asleep, leaving Brian to sit there and wonder what the hell was going on.

*

Justin only dozed for about half an hour. Brian was still sitting on the bed when he turned and nuzzled his cheek against Brian’s thigh, smiling up at him like nothing had happened. If you want to leave me I’ll understand, he wanted to say. Except he couldn’t, because it was a lie, and he didn’t want to lose Justin like he had the last time. He had thought after the fiddler things were fine — no, better than fine, great — between them. He hadn’t expected Justin to completely lose it like he had. Of course, he also hadn’t expected Craig to be his interviewer, his car to be stolen, or Vance to offer his job to Justin, but Justin, at least, was not usually prone to irrational behaviour.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Justin asked, chuckling.

Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t remember?”

“No…” He raised his head. “What the hell happened to my stuff?” His eyes widened, and Brian knew he wasn’t feigning shock. “Are you… are you breaking up with me?”

Brian needed a cigarette. “No, you fucktard, you tried to break up with me.”

“I think I would remember… Hey, I haven’t seen those shoes in forever.”

“You said I had no direction,” Brian told him.

“Since when do I care about direction?” Justin asked, pushing himself up to a seated position. “No, really, where were those shoes? Because I could’ve sworn I lost them.”

“You found them. They were under the bed.”

“Did you hide them from me?”

“Why would you think I’d hide your clothes from you?” Brian scoffed.

Justin raised one blond brow. “Do I really have to answer that, Brian?”

“So about the dumping thing,” he said quickly.

“Well, we can’t break up if we’re not in a relationship,” Justin pointed out, batting his eyes.

Brian cringed. He patted his pockets for a cigarette, and scowled when he came up empty. He shuffled his feet. “We’re… in a… relationship,” he bit out. Justin beamed, as if this was some new revelation. “And… maybe you were right about my life going nowhere. Maybe I’m cursed. Maybe I just have bad karma. Maybe I really did steal your soul. But… My life might be shitty right now, but it would be a hundred times worse without you. So if you left now I’d be really…” He struggled for the right word. “Annoyed.” He studied his nails, not daring to look up. “And your dad says hi, by the way.”

Justin touched his shoulder gingerly. “Brian, that was very sweet, but what the fuck are you talking about?”

Brian scowled. He was trying to make a verbal declaration of his feelings and Justin was lost. Typical. “I’m trying to grow as a person here.”

“Oh. Continue then.”

“Now I don’t want to,” he said sullenly.

Justin’s eyes narrowed. Then he blinked and looked around the darkened loft. “Why are all the lights off?”

*

Woodys, as usual, hummed with chatter and techno music. Brian leered at the pool table, the toilets, and the usual tables, but no one even glanced in his direction. Which was strange, because he knew he looked very hot tonight.

He slid into the seat next to a hot guy at the bar. The man made an exaggerated eyeroll and looked away. Bemused, Brian started, “Hey, why don’t we–”

Before he could finish, the guy simply got up and walked away, leaving Brian gaping behind him. Confused, he spotted his friends drinking at their own table, and he pulled up a chair. “Am I invisible?” he asked them.

“Unfortunately not,” Emmett said cheerfully.

“Why, did someone just turn you down?” Ted asked dryly. When Brian didn’t answer, he exclaimed, “Someone did! Is the all-mighty Kinney losing his touch?”

Brian eyed him. “When the hell did you get out of rehab?”

“Last week, asshole,” Ted replied.

“Hmm,” Brian grunted. He grinned at Michael. “Where’s the professor?”

“Punishing Hunter for skipping class, and if you make that into a sex joke I swear to God I’ll kill you,” Michael said.

“Where’s Justin?” Em asked.

“He and Daphne are having a girl’s night,” Brian replied.

In the end, someone bought Emmett a drink, Michael spoke eagerly about the next chapter of Rage, Ted glowered into his gin and tonic, and no one hit on Brian. Naturally, he pretended like he wasn’t looking for a trick, but his friends probably knew better. After a few hours of nothing they decided to head home. Brian was ready to catch the bus over to Daphne’s and talk Justin into a quick fuck when Michael stopped them on the stairwell and pointed.

“Hey, isn’t that your car?”

Brian craned his neck, and, sure enough, it was his car parked on the street. A man was climbing–

“Holy shit,” Brian said, “I fucked that guy a few months ago. After the Carnival. He was admiring the ‘vette.”

“Mm, that’s sure ironic,” Emmett drawled, as Ted cackled.

“I’m going to kill that fucker,” Brian seethed.

Michael grabbed his shoulder before he could move. “Wait, did you fuck him at the loft?”

“No, I fucked him at– shit! He’s getting away.”

“Do you remember where he lives?”

Brian frowned, thinking. It had been some skeevy place near the end of the gay ghetto. Pretty close to Michael’s and Ben’s, actually. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, I do.”

*

It was a good thing he owned a lot of black, or else the rescue mission could have ended horribly. It did end horribly, in fact, but at least his clothing wasn’t to blame.

Brian peered around the corner. The fucker had parked the Corvette on the side of the street, like it was some ordinary car. He might as well have spray painted ’steal me’ on the hood. If someone had to have stolen his car, it could have at least been someone who appreciated it. He checked to make sure the street was empty before jogging over, pulling from his coat a clothes hanger he had bent into a long hook.

He slipped the wire under the hood, popping it open successfully. He reached inside to cross the–

The alarm went off. Headlights began flashing. “STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE,” a booming voice called.

“Shit!” Brian hissed. He shoved the wire under his coat and ran for his life.

*

Two, He Fed Me Fine Food.

“Maybe you’re cursed,” Justin said as they were walking back to the loft after a leisurely breakfast at the diner. Brian had spent an uncomfortable night on Michael’s and Ben’s couch after he had decided it took too much effort to walk all the way home, and instead of sleeping he had mostly worried about Hunter sneaking up on him. Four cups of coffee and an orange later, he still felt slightly ill.

“People don’t get cursed in real life, Justin,” he snapped tiredly.

“How do you explain Melanie’s and Lindsey’s wedding? Mercury was in retrograde, or whatever the fuck.”

“That was just bad luck,” Brian said.

“Well, I think it’s possible,” Justin muttered, pushing his hands into his pockets like a petulant child.

Brian sighed heavily. “You watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and read Michael’s comics and talk about how cool it would be to be an Elf from Lord of the Rings.”

“Come on, they’re cool,” Justin insisted. “They’ve got, like, pointed ears and live forever. And you’re avoiding the subject. If this is just bad luck, how come it’s been one disaster after another? How come I don’t remember trying to break up with you?”

“Fine,” Brian said. He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. “If I really am cursed, then Ian Gold–”

“Ethan” Justin amended.

“–Is going to walk around the corner.”

They both waited.

Ethan Gold came walking around the corner.

Brian closed his eyes, resigned. “Okay. Okay, I’m cursed. How do I become un-cursed?”

“Well, in Harry Potter you perform a counter-spell,” Justin offered. Brian opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow. Justin coughed. “Not that I would know.”

Ethan looked like he was going to head in their direction, so Brian shoved Justin into the comic shop. “I don’t even know how to lift this thing,” he admitted, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the store. “Do I just go the library and check out all the books on voodoo?”

Justin frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe we can find Mysterious Marilyn. She can do tarot, but I don’t know about witchcraft.”

“Did I hear someone say witchcraft?” Hunter asked from the counter. He held a duster in one hand and a Superman action figure in the other.

“No,” Brian replied, just as Justin said, “Someone put a curse on Brian.”

The kid’s face brightened. “Yeah? Dude, I can fix that.”

“You’ve been reading too many of Mikey’s comics,” Brian said.

“I’ve done some magic in my time,” Hunter sniffed.

Justin’s brow furrowed. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Magic is nothing to joke about,” Hunter said seriously.

“You’re a sixteen year-old rentboy,” Justin said. “What the fuck do you know about magic?”

“Excuse you, I have a library card. And not fucking old pervs has totally freed up my evenings.”

“How exactly can you help me?” Brian cut in, rubbing his pounding forehead.

Hunter propped his chin up on one hand. “First I need to know what you can do for me,” he leered.

“I won’t fuck your shit up, that’s what,” Justin said prickily.

He was about as threatening as a kitten, but it seemed to work. Brian pretended not to be amused when Hunter backed down. “Fine,” Hunter said dejectedly. “You need to find out what kind of spell he’s doing. Then we can do a counter spell.”

“See, a counter spell,” Justin exclaimed. “And you doubted me.”

Down to his last option, Brian pulled out his phone.

*

With a few well-placed calls Brian eventually got an appointment with Gardner Vance, under an assumed name. Vance’s secretary had always thought he was hot, so she had been pleased to see him, and she even brought him a coffee. “I was so upset when I heard what happened,” she gushed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I mean, who would believe you’d sabotage your own client?”

“I did,” Brian said, smiling thinly.

Her mouth dropped open. “Er. Um.” She tensely shuffled a few papers. “Mr Vance will see you now.”

“Oh, it’s you,” Vance acknowledged coldly as he stepped into the office.

“Hey, Gardner,” Brian said casually, shutting the door. “Remember that day you plucked a hair from my head?”

“Hmm, the day I plucked a hair from your head…” Vance rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, making a big show of thinking back. Brian gritted his teeth. “Why, yes, I vaguely recall that.”

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck you did with it?”

“I gave it to Jim Stockwell.”

Brian blinked. “To Stockwell. You gave my hair to Stockwell.”

“Yes. I daresay he hasn’t been taking this failure well. He promised to give me the names of his backers if I got a bit of your DNA, for some sort of experiment.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Brian questioned suspiciously.

Vance leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. It was a familiar scene, and for a second Brian’s chest ached. But Vance’s smirk was downright evil, and Brian wondered why he had never noticed that before. “Why not?” Vance said airily. “I’ve got his supporters, and by now Stockwell’s done whatever he was going to do to you. I think I came out pretty well, don’t you think?”

“If I live through this I am so going to turn you into a frog,” Brian hissed.

“You know,” said Vance thoughtfully, “I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

*

Brian dramatically pushed open both doors and once and stepped into Stockwell’s office. Everything was still the same, from the encyclopaedias on the wall bookshelf to the sturdy oak desk to Stockwell in his bland blue suit and tie. The only thing new was the cloth doll sitting at Stockwell’s right hand. It had a note that said ‘Brian Kinney’ held to its chest with a long pin.

“Oh, you fucker,” Brian muttered.

Stockwell smiled. He reached over and petted the doll’s head. Brian felt like someone had just stuck a cap on him. He resisted the urge to scratch his own head. “Hello, Brian. How are you?”

“Cursed,” Brian drawled. “You?”

“Just peachy.”

“I wouldn’t have bet on you being the kind for magic,” said Brian. He gestured to the doll.

Still smiling, Stockwell replied, “It runs in the family. Actually, my uncle Marty — well, he’s actually now my aunt Marilyn — is a gypsy, and he– er, she–”

Brian’s head hurt. “Great. So I cost you the election and you decide to pull voodoo on me?”

“What?” Stockwell stared at him stonily. “No, no, this isn’t voodoo. I won’t touch that stuff. It’s much too powerful. This is just simple magic.”

“And yet my life is a living hell,” Brian said hotly.

Stockwell seemed pleased. He stood and sat on the corner of his desk. “It’s a great spell, isn’t it. It projects my hatred into a single, controlling force. In this case, the force is extremely bad luck.”

Rage bubbled up inside Brian, and he looked away, jaw working. It was because of this asshole he couldn’t get a job. It was because of Stockwell Justin had almost left again.

“Does anyone ever ask why you carry a doll around?” he managed.

“No, my staff pretty much thinks I’m insane,” Stockwell replied.

Brian smiled thinly. “I can’t imagine why.”

*

Brian slammed the comic shop’s door, scaring the three skinny geeks drooling over a Catwoman life-size cutout. Pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead, he glared at them until they hurried out. Michael whined, “Brian! They were going to buy that!” Emmett and Ted were also behind the counter, and Ben and Justin were busy arranging the shelves.

“Why the fuck is everyone here?” He held up a hand. “No, no, on second thought, I don’t want to know.”

Hunter poked his head out from the storage room. “Brian?”

Brian spun on his heel. Hunter’s expression changed from earnest to uneasy in a matter of seconds. “Stockwell has a fucking doll of me,” he spat.

Justin gaped. “I so called it! Didn’t I tell you it was for a voodoo doll?”

“He has a doll of you?” Ted asked.

“He said it– it forces his hate into bad luck for me,” Brian continued. “That’s why everything’s been happening one after another.”

Hunter disappeared for a second, then came out with a huge hardback book. He slammed it on the counter and flipped to a marked page. “That’s what I thought it was,” he murmured. “It’s called a infelicitas spell. First there’s a series of events to break your spirit. Then the wizard, ah, ‘ascends to the next level,’ whatever the fuck that means, and then you die.”

There was a long silence. Brian felt cold.

“What’s going on?” Michael demanded shrilly.

“Stockwell’s put a curse on Brian,” Justin said briskly. He looked at Hunter like this was his fault. “How can we stop Brian from dying?”

“You’re a wizard?” Michael asked Hunter, incredulous.

“The term is warlock,” Hunter said curtly.

Everyone started talking at once. Ben and Michael yelled at Hunter, Justin shouted at Brian, Ted cracked a joke, and Emmett insisted he be told everything from the beginning.

“Does anyone have a cauldron?” Hunter asked loudly.

The room fell silent. Everyone just stopped and shuffled about nervously, glancing at each other. Finally, Michael timidly raised his hand. “Actually, I think I might.”

“You have a cauldron,” Brian repeatedly flatly.

“Why?” Ben asked. “Why would you have a cauldron?”

“In case of emergencies,” Michael admitted.

“What sort of emergency constitutes a cauldron?”

“I’m just a little bit cursed,” Brian pointed out.

Ben frowned. “Well– yes. But this sort of thing doesn’t usually happen.” He paused, then looked at them suspiciously. “It doesn’t usually happen to you guys, right?”

“All the time,” Ted said.

“It does not,” Michael snapped. “Ben, you haven’t been cursed once since you met me.”

Brian made a dramatic gesture in Hunter’s direction. Ben’s frown deepened.

“Hey,” Hunter scoffed, “I am wonderful.” He turned back to his book. “I need to make a potion and say some words, and then you need to get it on Stockwell somehow. Then, poof, the spell is broken and Stockwell’s magic is gone. The world is once more safe for ordinary citizens. Piece of cake.”

“This is not Buffy,” Brian growled.

Hunter glared. “Fuck you, of course this isn’t Buffy. I’m hotter than Angel, for one thing.”

“Whatever, no one’s hotter than Angel,” Justin piped up.

“Dude, he got fat.”

“He’s not fat, he just built more muscle,” Justin sputtered angrily.

“I actually prefer Xander,” Ben said from the corner. When the room fell silent, he asked, “What, I’m not allowed to have hobbies?”

“I’m still cursed,” Brian shouted.

*

He gave Hunter a day to find everything he needed and put it together. If he couldn’t, then Brian had claimed he would find a real wizard — not like he knew where to look for one, but it seemed to work on the kid, because the next morning Michael ushered everyone back to the shop, claiming Hunter was nearly there. If Brian didn’t know any better he’d swear Michael was actually proud of his hustler-cum-son’s new hobby.

“He knew all the right herbs and stuff,” Michael told him, clearly chuffed. “We had to go to all these natural food stores. Ben thinks maybe Hunter has a future as one of those natural herb doctors, or whatever.”

A bright light and a puff of smoke came from Hunter’s direction. The kid whooped. “Alright! Finished! Let’s go kick some bad guy ass!”

Relieved, Brian drawled, “Swell, now I can find a way to accidentally dump it on Stockwell.”

“There might be a problem with that,” Ted said. He smoothed out the newspaper and held it up for everyone to see. “Stockwell’s dead.”

“Dead?” Emmett asked, as Michael and Justin gasped.

The headline read, ‘Former Police Chief Stockwell Commits Suicide.’ Brian’s stomach dropped. He snatched the paper from Ted’s hands and read: ‘Chief Jim Stockwell was found in his garage last night at 8:03pm. His death is ruled a suicide, due to carbon monoxide poisoning. The note that accompanied him stated he could not handle his defeat in the recent local election…’

Blood thundered in his ears. Stockwell had done it last night, after they had spoken. Distantly, he heard Justin ask, “Does this mean the curse is lifted?”

“Maybe,” Hunter said. “But I might have to run some tests.”

Brian couldn’t be bothered to be disgusted by Hunter’s leer. “Hey,” Michael said, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said dully.

*

Three, He Gave Me Shiny Things.

The funeral announcement had been in the local papers. Justin had slipped the clipping over to him at breakfast, and that evening, before the actual event, they snuck in through the back doors.

Brian gazed down at Stockwell’s body, curling his fingers over the rim of the coffin. It didn’t seem right somehow, for him to be dead. He had a wife and kids and a career, and he liked to build bottle ships and play raquetball– Brian looked away, swallowing thickly.

Justin rubbed his arm. “It’s not your fault,” he said softly.

Reikert had killed himself too.

“He wasn’t a good person, but I’m sorry he’s dead,” Justin said.

“He wasn’t all bad,” said Brian slowly, remembering the way Stockwell had trusted him so implicitly. “He just got a little… lost somewhere.”

“He was a fag-bashing homophobe who put a curse on you and carried a doll of you around,” Justin reminded him.

He frowned. “Well, no man is perfect.”

The door rattled. Brian tapped Justin’s arm, and they crept back out into the hall. Brian tossed one last glance over his shoulder before he left, gazing at the unsettling stillness of Stockwell’s chest.

*

Eight days after Stockwell’s funeral the curse still hadn’t lifted. Since then Brian hadn’t been able to pick up a trick — some fucker had even thrown his drink in Brian’s face — and someone kept stealing his mail. He was still unemployed. At this rate he was going to be homeless and living on Lindsey’s and Mel’s couch, or worse, Michael’s. Perhaps he should just resign himself to being molested by Hunter. Even Justin had gotten tired of his depression; Stockwell’s death rested like a weight on his chest, and he couldn’t shake it off.

He was about to light a joint when the door slid open. Michael stood there, frowning at a piece of paper in his hand. “Um, Brian?”

“Mikey?” Brian asked sarcastically. He slouched in the plastic armchair.

Michael still seemed perplexed. “Hypothetically, if Justin was, say, kidnapped by someone we thought was dead, would you freak out?”

Brian stared at him. “Well, hypothetically, I’d have to say… huh?”

Michael walked over and handed him the paper. It was an ordinary blank page covered in a messy scrawl. ‘If you want Taylor back, meet me at 11pm in the Old Memorial Cemetery,’ it read. It was Stockwell’s handwriting; Brian recognised it from his advertising days. But instead of frightened or frantic, Brian just felt very, very pissed off.

“Can you go to the police?” Michael asked worriedly.

“A dead guy kidnapped my boyfriend,” Brian sneered. He grabbed Michael’s arm in one hand and his coat in another, dragging his friend out the door. “We’re making a call to your kid.”

*

“Maybe he’s a mutant,” Hunter said excitedly. “Like on Smallville.”

“Is this what you do instead of your homework, watch TV?” Ben asked, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“I also have cybersex.”

“After you defeat evil you are so grounded,” Ben said. He shook his head slowly, then turned away, muttering to himself, “That still sounds weird.”

“So Stockwell’s a zombie?” Michael asked.

“No, zombies eat brains,” Hunter said. “Duh.”

“Yeah, Michael, keep up,” Brian said.

The four of them conducted a pow-wow in Michael’s and Ben’s living room. Michael was starting to panic, which was, frankly, starting to eat away at Brian’s nerves. Justin had been taken by a dead guy, who was no doubt disgusting and starting to rot, and Justin had really bad allergies. Not to mention he would probably be scarred for life. Brian felt sick at the thought of Justin being alone and frightened in some underground crypt. If they made it out alive he swore not to yell at him for at least a week.

“So what do we do?” Ben asked hopefully.

Brian bit his lip. “I need to get the potion on Stockwell.”

“I’ll go with you,” Hunter offered.

“No,” the three adults said simultaneously.

“Why the hell not?” Hunter yelled. “I’ll be okay.”

“No, you won’t,” said Michael sternly. “Have you learned nothing? The kid sidekicks are always caught.”

“Plus it’s a school night,” Ben said.

*

That night Brian found himself walking through the freezing Old Memorial Cemetery, searching for an undead Stockwell and a hopefully unhurt Justin. This was the weirdest situation he had ever been in. His life had never been normal, but this was outrageous even for him. He could have been anywhere, getting a fabulous blowjob, but no, he was freezing his balls off in a cemetery in the dead of night.

“This could only happen to me,” he muttered.

Something cracked behind him: a branch being stepped on. He waited until the sounds came closer before whipping out his homemade stake and swinging around, arm poised. He had almost aimed for his target when he realised it was Hunter, dressed head to toe in black.

“Shit!” he exclaimed, staggering backwards.

“Dude, you’re carrying a stake,” Hunter said.

Brian tucked it back into the waistline of his jeans. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Helping you,” Hunter intoned. He tapped his forehead. “I’ve got the spell all up here.”

“I’m doomed,” Brian sighed.

Hunter looked like he was going to protest, but instead he nodded over Brian’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

When Brian turned he saw a fire against one of the sepulchres in the distance. His stomach tightened. “You stay here,” he warned.

“No fucking way,” Hunter sputtered.

He didn’t have time for this. “Then stay the fuck out of sight,” he hissed.

They both made their way silently to the tomb. Brian ducked behind a gravestone; it was definitely Stockwell standing here, gazing out into the blackened cemetery. He didn’t look dead, exactly, just odd; his skin was grey and rather shiny, and his cheekbones were more hollow than they had been two weeks ago. The suit he had been wearing at the funeral was torn in a few places. Vaguely, Brian wondered if he had climbed out of his grave.

“So, Jim,” Brian said, stepping out into the circle. “What’s it like being dead?”

He got a perverse glee when Stockwell startled. “Brian,” he called, spreading his hands. “Being dead is, well… I have ascended to a higher plane, you understand.”

“You’re dead.”

“Yes, a higher plane,” Stockwell said, as if it was obvious.

Brian took a good look around. Justin was sitting on the ground, wide-eyed, a long red scratch on his cheek. Brian bit his lip, then nodded. He’d have to kill Stockwell for that. Again. “This is a little elaborate for revenge,” he drawled.

“I’ve always been something of an over-achiever,” Stockwell admitted.

Then he did something Brian wasn’t prepared for: Stockwell punched him in the stomach.

He fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Stockwell leaned over him, fists balled, but then he hesitated. Brian rolled onto his side, struggling to breathe. They always aimed for the ribs. He saw Stockwell slowly stand up tall, then peer over the grave behind him.

“Fuck,” Brian choked. He struggled to stand.

Before Brian could stop him, Stockwell reached out and dragged Hunter out by the collar of his jacket. “What do we have here?” he growled.

“Oh, shit,” Hunter moaned.

Brian launched himself at Stockwell, who raised an arm to block him. But Brian went underhand and aimed upwards, and then there was a sickening crunching noise, and he was shoved away.

Stockwell looked at the piece of wood sticking out of his chest. “You just staked me,” he said flatly.

Brian gasped, open-mouthed. “My bad?”

“The potion,” Hunter screeched.

Hands shaking, Brian pulled the test tube out of his pocket and tossed the formula in Stockwell’s face, who screamed and raised his hands to his eyes. Hunter squirmed out of his grasp and crawled backwards, chanting, “Discedat pestem, discedat pestem, discedat pestem…”

Without seeing what was happening to Stockwell, Brian ran over to Justin. He tugged the binds off Justin’s wrists and ripped the gag from his mouth. “You okay?” he whispered.

Justin clutched his arms and gazed up at him adoringly. “Oh Brian, you’re way cooler than Angel.”

“I’m throwing away all your DVDs,” Brian said seriously. Then he kissed him, hard.

“Whoa,” he heard Hunter say behind them, “Stockwell’s, like, goo. That’s so gross.”

*

Somehow Brian couldn’t make himself grieve for Stockwell’s real death. That might have had something to do with Justin’s broken arm (“I fell off my bike,” Justin had told the hospital) and his own bruised ribs. It might have had something to do with the fact Ben was no longer speaking to him, on account of Hunter being attacked. Or it might have just been that Brian really hadn’t been impressed with Stockwell trying to kill him. Whatever the case, he was just finally glad it was over. It meant he could get back to his usual life of sucking and fucking. After his ribs healed, of course.

At the Liberty Diner he cautiously eased himself into one of the booths, leaning against the cool wall.

“So what does it feel like to be a real superhero?” Michael asked, grinning. He slid into the seat across from Brian.

“Pretty much like regular Brian Kinney, only with a few more broken ribs,” Brian replied.

Debbie wandered over, popped her gum. “So what’s this I hear about you vanquishing evil?” she asked Brian, waggling her eyebrows.

He glared at Michael. “What?” Mike said. “It wasn’t me this time.”

Shaking her head, Debbie poured them both coffee. “Hunter and Sunshine seemed to be convinced you’re some sort of superhero. Those boys need to lay off the hard drugs.”

“Kids these days,” Brian said dryly. Debbie playfully slapped his cheek and moved onto the next table.

“So what happens now?” Michael asked. “You defeated a super villain. Does life just go back to normal for Rage?”

Brian slowly stirred his coffee, wondering the same thing. Getting rid of Stockwell hadn’t instantly improved his life, and he was pretty sure becoming a superhero involved a major lifestyle change that he just wasn’t prepared to undertake. But when his cell went off he honestly wasn’t surprised at the name on the display.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Kinney,” said Vance. The man hesitated. “I was thinking… How would you like your old job back?”

Brian smiled.

*

Disclaimer: None of the magic in here is meant to be real. I made it all up in my own head. Also, this story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Cowlip Productions and the Showtime Network. Buffy, Smallville, Lord of the Rings, and anything else mentioned belongs to their respective owners. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Chapter titles from PJ Harvey’s ‘Paper Bag.’

Kudos to Tinkerbell for the beta, Anna for the encouragement, and my sister for the Latin.

Spoilers: Season Three.

Summary: “So we’re setting aside a day to revolve around Lord Kinney again. How is this news?” (Brian/Justin, Michael/Ben)

Chinese translation: here, by mori307

“We should get married,” Justin said one day out of the blue, causing Brian to briefly contemplate getting off the floor and either throttling him or moving to another country.

Perhaps the marriage question wasn’t entirely random. Mel’s and Linds’s anniversary was coming up again, and the two women had been filling Justin’s head with ridiculous, and, dare he say it, almost heterosexual tales of romance. The last time Justin had been in this mood the Fiddler had sauntered into the picture. But they had an unconventionally real relationship now, and he was certain Justin wouldn’t leave him again just because he didn’t want to become a lesbian. At least, he was pretty sure.

“No,” Brian replied shortly.

Justin sighed dramatically. Brian refused to budge. He heard Justin pad over to the kitchen, and he called accusingly, “You just like to piss me off, don’t you.”

“That’s right,” Justin said dryly. “You’ve discovered my evil plan.”

“I’m on to you, Sunshine,” Brian called in a mocking falsetto.

“But if we did get married,” Justin continued, in that voice that told Brian he had been thinking long and hard about this, “you could plan the entire thing. Every last detail, from the clothes to the food. It would be like… Brian Kinney Day.”

Brian reconsidered.

***

14 Days

Justin had decided several hours ago (“Phase one,” Brian had said seriously) that none of this was really happening. He wasn’t handing out beers to their friends in Brian’s furniture-less loft. They weren’t brimming with curiosity to see what was going on. And Brian was most definitely not going to announce their engagement. Their engagement. His engagement. To Brian. Either all his nagging had paid off, or the universe was laughing at him. He had a strong feeling this would end in disaster.

“What the fuck are we just sitting around here for?” Hunter asked.

Justin smiled and handed him a box of juice. Hunter scowled.

“You know Brian,” Ted said, “always has to make an entrance.”

Justin started, “That’s not–

But then the bedroom panels snapped open. Brian looked down at everyone as if they were lucky to be breathing the same oxygen as him. Justin subtly adjusted his pants.

Brian waited for the room to quiet down. Then, with a bored expression on his face, said, “We–”

“He,” Justin whispered loudly, pointing at Brian.

“We have something to announce.”

“Wait, wait,” Mel interrupted, smirking. She pulled out her wallet. “Give us a chance to guess first. Five bucks says their breaking up again.” Even Brian looked annoyed at that.

“Oh,” Emmet gasped, “I’ll put five on Brian moving into Justin’s flat on the wrong side the tracks. You know he wouldn’t last a day. I think even the drug addicts avoid his building.”

Ted slapped down a ten. “One — or both — has an STD. It was only a matter of time.”

“Join the club,” Hunter beamed. Ben looked concerned.

“You people suck,” Justin said. “My flat rules.”

“It’s none of the above,” Brian drawled. He gave Mel a particularly fierce look, and Justin tried not to gloat. Maybe things would be okay.

“Just tell us already!” Michael shouted.

“Justin and I are getting married,” Brian said calmly.

“Oh, thank God– WHAT?”

The room went horribly still. Most of them goggled at Brian, but both Hunter and Michael sent Justin withering glares, as if he had committed some terrible crime. But Brian was his, dammit, and if they wanted to do romantic shit it was entirely their own business.

“Who the fuck cares?” Hunter snarked.

“Married?” Debbie shrieked. She jumped up and pulled Brian into a hug. “My baby’s getting married!”

“Ma, I thought I was your baby,” Michael whined.

Debbie just smiled, patting Brian’s cheek. “Shush, honey, this is about Brian.”

Brian smirked. “That’s right. It’s all about me.”

“So we’re setting aside a day to revolve around Lord Kinney again,” Ted muttered. “How is this news?”

Ben put an arm over Justin’s shoulders. “Well, I, for one, think it’s great. I love weddings.”

Soon Lindsey, Emmet, and Vic were hugging them and chattering excitedly, and maybe Justin shouldn’t had felt so nervous after all, until Michael’s voice cut through: “You’re getting MARRIED? What the fuck, Brian? I thought you said it was some stupid breeder ritual!”

“Justin made some very good points,” Brian said.

“Like what? ‘Marry me or I’ll kill you in your sleep’?”

“That’s it,” Justin said. “You’ve just been downgraded to usher.”

“Can I be best man?” Ben asked. Michael goggled. “What? I told you I love weddings.”

Brian pushed past everyone and took a file from the bar counter. “I’ve already assigned everyone duties.” He passed around printed instructions and schedules. “I’ll be over-seeing the entire event.”

Everyone looked at Justin. Embarrassed, he murmured, “I sort of, uh, promised it would be his day.”

“Why does mine say, ‘Four PM, do not take drugs’?” Ted demanded.

“I’m only doing this once,” Brian warned, “so it’s going to be perfect.”

***

13 Days

“This is going to be a disaster. Brian should know better!” Michael wailed, loud enough for Justin to hear him across the diner. He noticed Michael alternating between glaring at him and staring at the schedule in horror.

“Either way, it provides entertainment for the unemployed, like me,” said Ted, cackling. “We don’t get cable at rehab.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Emmet cleared his throat and looked over at Justin for support. “Well, I think it’s sweet. He said he was only getting married once.”

“Probably because after this he’ll go back to his no-dating policy,” Michael sneered.

Justin calmly walked into the kitchen and spat in Michael’s breakfast.

Only, the first thing Justin saw when he arrived at Brian’s loft after work was Brian studying two identical heads of lettuce as if they held the secrets to the universe. Maybe he should have asked Brian to marry him when Brian was employed.

“Do I want to know?” Justin asked.

Brian didn’t even look up as Justin shed his coat and shoes. “I’m planning the dinner.”

“Why don’t we just ask Emmet?”

Brian simply looked at him in disgust.

A horrible realisation struck him. “Shit, does this mean we’re not having a cake?” Brian didn’t answer. Justin grabbed his shoulder and shook, hard. “Brian! We have to have a cake! It’s, like, the entire point!”

Brian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re marrying me for a cake?”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “Yes, Brian, it’s not you I love, it’s baked goods. I have been deceiving you all along.”

“You can have a small cake,” Brian said slowly. He bit the edge of his pen. “But no one else,” he added quickly. “I want a calorie-free event.”

He was completely, utterly serious.

“You know, you’re not going to have any friends after this,” Justin warned.

“Who needs friends when you have a husband?” Brian said in mock sweetness. But then he paled. “Husband. Christ. Next thing you know we’ll be exchanging rings.”

“Uh–“

“I-I need to lie down.”

***

8 Days

Brian was surveying wine prices when a former fuck tapped him on the shoulder.

“What?” he asked flatly.

The other guy sneered. “I just wanted to know if the rumours are true. Word on the street is that big, bad Brian Kinney is making an honest man out of his twink.”

“It’s true,” Brian said. The guy sniggered until Brian started checking him from head to toe. “You probably photograph well,” he observed.

“I– what?” the man stammered.

Brian pulled an invitation out of his coat pocket. “RSVP by the end of the week.”

He left the guy gaping behind him.

Brian: One, Pittsburgh: Zero.

***

Daphne decided Brian was her new best friend after he had picked out a sexy black dress for her to wear as ring-bearer. “I’m totally going to be the hottest one in the room,” she gushed, holding it up to the mirror for the fifth time in two days. “After Brian, of course.”

Justin sat on the edge of her bed. “You can marry him then,” he said tensely.

She was still admiring herself. “If only! Oh. Oh. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…” He sighed. “Brian’s so fucking weird. Get this, for the reception dinner there is salad and booze. Lots and lots of booze. He made the guest list, and he invited random hot guys so the photos will be good. He’s picked out everyone’s clothes. I think he’s even doing the makeup. He won’t let Ted get near so much as a bottle of aspirin. He had to blackmail Michael into coming. And I can’t find any of my formal clothes.”

Daphne sat down next to him. “Wow. But… Come on, it’s Brian. How normal did you expect this to be?”

“I wanted my damn cake,” he muttered.

***

5 Days

Melanie gleefully handed them a huge stack of paper. “You just need to sign some forms,” she said sweetly.

“What the hell?” Justin sputtered. He flipped through the documents. “I don’t even know what this stuff means.”

“Insurance, power of attorney, ecetera, ecetera, ecetera,” she said. “By the way, are either of you planning on changing your name?”

“Does it involve more paperwork?” Brian asked.

She gestured to another high stack behind her.

“Then no.”

Justin grinned. “You should change your name. Brian Taylor.” Brian was unamused. “My dad would fucking freak.”

That alone was almost enough for Brian to do it, but his remaining dignity that held him back.

“How much life insurance does Brian have?” Justin asked eagerly.

Brian eyed him suspiciously.

***

1 Day

“So tomorrow,” Daphne said.

Justin pressed the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed the milk from the fridge. “Tomorrow,” he repeated nervously, “I’ll be a married man.”

“Oh my God! Are you scared? Everyone’s eyes are going to be on you…”

Justin’s mind filled with a white, blank panic. “Scared? Of course not.”

“I wonder what Brian’s doing,” she mused.

Justin snorted darkly. “Probably fucking as many guys as he possibly can.”

***

Brian shoved Justin’s light blue jumper into the incinerator. He’d be damned if Justin was going to try to wear that tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

“I’m not having a mental breakdown,” he said out loud.

***

Daphne sighed. “You know Brian. Cool as a cucumber.”

***

“I can’t believe you’re not having a bachelor party,” Michael called from the kitchen. He walked out carrying a huge bowl of butterless, saltless popcorn. “I can’t believe any of this is happening in the first place. I mean, who would have thought you would be getting married? And why aren’t you doing the usual Kinney thing and fucking everyone in sight?”

“Photos,” Brian replied, as Michael hopped on the couch next to him. “Going in an album. I need to be as hot as possible.”

Michael shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I forget how strange you are.”

***

0 Days

It was less than an hour until the ceremony and already Justin was freaking out. Brian hadn’t told him what to wear, so he was searching everywhere for his blue jumper, but it wasn’t anywhere around the loft. He was going to end up wearing a t-shirt, and then Brian would leave him at the alter and fuck an usher, and all their friends would hate them–

“What the fuck are you doing?” Brian’s voice asked from behind him.

Justin spun around. “What are you doing here?”

Brian wasn’t even dressed yet, which calmed Justin down a bit. His jeans were faded at the knees and something green stained his white wife-beater. “I just finished supervising the women’s makeup,” he explained. “Everyone’s ready but us.”

Justin swallowed thickly. “I– I have nothing to wear.”

“Sure you do,” Brian said. “Your tux is in the closet.”

“My tux?”

Sure enough, a white tuxedo in his size was there. A matching one, in Brian’s size, rested beside it.

“I was going for dramatic irony,” Brian said.

“I think I’m going to faint,” Justin replied.

Brian grabbed his elbow and directed him to the bed. “You can’t. It’s not on the schedule.”

Justin pressed his fingers against his temples. His head was spinning. Brian slipped an arm around his shoulders, and holy shit, they were getting married. “Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly.

“I’m actually trying to figure out if we can have a quick fuck and still make it to the hall in time.”

“I mean,” he whispered, “why are you marrying me?”

Brian simply smiled. “I like showing off what I have.”

***

“By the way,” Brian begun as they were pulling up to the reception hall, “I wrote your vows. They’re in my pocket. Stray so much as a word and I’m leaving you.”

***

“Do you, Brian Kinney, take this man as your husband?”

The entire audience held their breaths.

Brian shrugged. “I guess.”

Justin wondered what he ever did to deserve this.
.
***

The wedding was a surprising success. The decorations — all hand-picked by Brian — were minimalistic but beautiful. There were tears (mostly from Emmet) and laughter at all the right moments (although Justin suspected Brian had had someone hold up signs that said, ‘Cry Now’). Even their vows hadn’t been too appalling, although Justin felt his had mused on Brian’s beauty a bit too much.

Brian had, of course, videotaped the entire thing from various angles. Suddenly it all became clear why he had all the latest video-editing software. Maybe he would let Justin tinker with it later.

“I don’t think Ted and Hunter appreciate being stuck at the ‘ugly’ table,” Justin whispered between bites of the single slice of ice-cream cake Brian had gotten him.

“It’s not the ‘ugly’ table,” Brian countered. “It’s the– okay, it is the ‘ugly’ table.”

The ’senior citizen’ table consisted of Debbie, Vic, and Jennfier. Standing beside his mother was a life-size cut-out of Craig. Jennifer was holding her head and clutching a bottle of wine tightly.

By some insane but very skilled planning, Brian had put all the attractive men near the front, towards their table. That had meant splitting Ben and Michael up, but Justin was pretty sure Michael hadn’t noticed he was sitting with the lesbians while his boyfriend was surrounded by hot men. Daphne, incidentally, was also at that table, and she was obviously having too much fun pretending to be a lesbian.

Hunter appeared at Brian’s shoulder. Surprisingly, he looked straight at Justin. “When you’re done stuffing your face, you wanna dance?” He paused. “Asshole.”

Brian and Justin exchanged glances. “Uh, okay,” Justin replied slowly.

They moved to the dance floor. Brian had insisted on nothing but techno, and the couples were, naturally, mostly same-sex. Hunter was a frighteningly bad dancer; he put his hand on Justin’s shoulder, and for a terrifying moment he thought Hunter was going to hit on him. But instead the boy threatened, “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but when you two break up, I’m so going to tap that ass.”

Justin cracked up. “Okay,” he managed to choke. “You do that.”

“What did he want?” Brian demanded as soon as Justin returned.

“Hunter just reminded me why I love you,” he said, snorting.

Just then the cardboard Craig caught on fire. Jennifer started to cry. Ted leaned over and lit up his pipe. Across the room, Ben got down to one knee and proposed to Michael.

“Hey!” Brian shouted. “That isn’t on the schedule! Which part of my day do you not get?”

Justin dug into his cake with renewed vigor.

“So Sunshine, what are you doing this time next year?” Brian whispered seductively.

“I don’t know, why?” Justin asked suspiciously.

“Good, then we’re renewing our vows.”

*

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Cowlip Productions and the Showtime Network. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Go West

Spoilers: Season 3 finale
Summary: Hunter, Michael and the long road ahead.

They stopped at a McDonald’s in some town called Muddy Ridge, Pennsylvania. Population: One-hundred forty-seven. Plus two, Michael added mentally, as Hunter slurped loudly on his Coke. Brian’s borrowed corvette caught the stares of many of locals, and Michael was pretty sure they were gazing inside and wondering about the two lunatics eating Big Macs in the parking lot in a car that probably cost more than these people made in their entire lives.

“You figure out where we’re going yet?” Hunter asked. His cheeks were still flushed from the quick dash to the car from the restaurant, and he had a smear of mayonaise on the tip of his nose. Brian was going to kill them both if his car got messy. The stench of fast food alone was enough to send Brian into heart palpatations; Michael could already hear the lecture: “What sort of drug were you on that made you go to MCDONALD’S in my ‘VETTE?” Well, it wasn’t like Brian really needed his boyfriend-replacement car any more, with the boyfriend being back and all, and besides, they’d probably be caught as soon as they crossed the border into — what state was next to Pennsylvania? he knew he should have paid more attention in high school — wherever it was they were going.

“We’re going…” Michael squinted back out at the highway. “West. We’ll keep going until–”

“Until we drive into the Great Lakes?” Hunter said dryly. He threw himself back against the seat, rattling the ice in his drink. “Great! Super! Fan-fucking-tastic!”

So that’s what bordered Pennsylvania. Michael needed a map, and he needed a plan even more. He glared at the kid. “Listen, smart ass, I’m keeping your sorry butt from getting stuck in a state home. Or worse, with your mother. Remember?” Hunter frowned sweetly, and Michael was reminded just why he was throwing his life away for some street kid, some hustler, he had almost given up on a few weeks ago. “If you’re so great at geography, you tell me where to drive.”

Hunter gaped. “I knew you didn’t know where we were going!”

“I know exactly where we’re going: we’re getting away from Pittsburgh.”

He snorted. “The devil is in the details, huh, Mikey?”

Michael stuffed his mouth full of fries before he smacked the boy. This had been a bad idea from step one; Ben had been right. Either they would be caught, or Michael would push Hunter out of the car while speeding down the highway, and he’d really didn’t want to explain to Ben why their kid was dead.

“We should’ve just hid at Brian’s until the cops went away,” Hunter muttered. He rolled down the window and threw his empty soda on the ground.

Michael blinked. They should’ve– fucking hell, they should have. “Oh my God,” he said loudly, and Hunter looked at him funny. He cleared his throat. “We’d have to hear Brian and Justin fucking though.”

“Mmm,” Hunter said. “I could live with that.”

Maybe, but Michael wasn’t quite sure he could. Brian naked, sure, but Justin? He had to draw the line at voyeurism somewhere. Not that Justin wasn’t a good-looking kid, but Michael already had enough Brian issues. “Brian never has any food.”

“Ben could bring us left-overs from dinner.”

Hunter smiled thoughtfully, and their eyes met.

“Where to, Flash?” Michael asked, putting the corvette into gear. He wanted to see Ben. He wanted to see Brian. He wanted to go home, to his comics and his DVDs and his warm bed, and Hunter did too, but they couldn’t. And Hunter knew it just as well as he did.

Hunter fastened his seatbelt and turned up the heater. He pointed to the highway. “West.”

*

Disclaimer: Not mine. Everything belongs to Cowlip.

Sidenote: There really is a Muddy Gap, Wyoming, and I’ve been there several times.