Fever is stifling. The combination of a warm summer night and several hundred densely packed bodies tends to do that, I suppose.  I absently brush my sweat-soaked bangs away from my forehead before taking another prolonged swallow of my beer.  I resolve not to look off through the crowded dance floor.  Not to search out Brian, fawning conquest in tow.  Brian, who is no doubt parting the teeming masses with little more than a swagger and an arrogant sneer.  Instead, my finger traces loops and spikes in the condensation pooling on the dark wooden bar, turning the puddle into an op-art masterpiece, and my hand itches for ink and sketchpad, charcoal, paint and canvas, deep lines and smooth surfaces.  Any way to release the energy that slithers beneath my skin.

Three minutes. 

Damp fingers on the nape of my neck bring some relief from the growing heat.  I rotate my head slowly, easing away surface tension while impassively checking out the guys at the bar.  Grouped in twos and threes, mostly.  Engrossed in conversation, mostly.  Ignoring me, mostly.  A flash of fuchsia and the theatrical wave of an arm draws my gaze, and I quickly stifle a pang of homesickness.  At Babylon, I could track down Emmett.  Share a dance, share a hit, share a laugh, share some gossip.  But I’m not at Babylon. 

Four minutes.

I drain the rest of my San Miguel and have a brief internal debate -- another beer, or a shot of Raaz Pees?  The Raaz Pees might taste like vegetable flavoured paint thinner, but it packs a hell of a punch.  Then again, the gnomes in my stomach are finally quiet, so I decide to stick with the beer. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” 

The voice comes from somewhere to my right, but I finish ordering my drink before turning to eyeball the guy.  I have to blink slowly before I can bring him into focus, a little warning sign that I choose to ignore.  Brown hair, brown eyes, nice tan, so generally he fits in with the rest of the clientele.  But he can’t hide the twinge of the south in his voice, even though he’s giving it his best shot.  Georgia maybe, or South Carolina. 

“Good,” I say, giving him a tight-lipped smile and a completely neutral look.  The thing with being attractive is that I never know if a guy is chatting me up because he just wants to be friendly, or because he’s hoping to get my lips on his cock within the hour.  Honestly, it’s pretty hard to judge based on a “hello”.  And I really hate having to be an asshole when somebody is just trying to be friendly, so I hope that he gets the point.  You’re cute, but I’m taken. 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

South Carolina, definitely.  Cruising for a blowjob, definitely.  I’m actually kind of glad that he’s not from Georgia, because I have a rather irrational dislike of men from that State.  Especially if they’re from Atlanta. 

I hold up my full bottle as I shake my head.  “Thanks, but I’m not interested.” 

He leans back, elbows on the bar, hip thrust out, in that “look at how hot I am” body language that is so obvious it’s laughable.  Well, except when Brian does it.  And the guy’s got a nice body, but he really should work this action on somebody who gives a shit. 

Despite my best intentions, my eyes flick involuntarily toward the dance floor and the route that Brian took.  A wall of gyrating bodies fills the space, blocking everything beyond a five foot radius.  Each swaying body seems to leave a trail of vibrant light in its wake, blue and red and green, the colours of shirts and trousers bleeding into the very air. 

“I’m Tyler,” he says.

“Justin,” I mumble distractedly. 

He lays his hand against my forearm, fingers digging lightly into the flesh.  His nails press against my skin, little half-moons of pressure, and I shake my head in an attempt to clear it before pulling my arm away.  Tyler seems unfazed by the reaction.  He licks his lips as his gaze flits across my body appraisingly. 

So much for trying to be nice.  “Fuck off.” 

Tyler raises his hands in an ‘I surrender’ gesture and grins, but the easy smile never reaches his eyes.  “Look Justin, your ‘friend’ has ditched you.  So what’s wrong with you and me having a little one-on-one time?” 

“He’s my--” I begin before abruptly closing my trap.  Am I really going to explain my relationship with Brian to a complete stranger, and a creepy stranger at that?  And even if I wanted to, how could I explain something that I can’t even put into words myself?   It’s like… if we all exist on a colour wheel, then most peoples lives are made up of the primary colours.  But like the best art, Brian and I use the entire spectrum. 

All I know is how I feel when I’m with him.  All I know is that the darkest day with Brian is better than the brightest day with anyone else.  All I know is that I own a part of him that no one else will ever touch.  So he can fuck and suck whoever he wants whenever he wants, but he belongs to me.  Nothing can change that. 

It all seems pretty simple, but somehow nobody else seems to get it.  Luckily I’ve realized that nobody else needs to get it.  Just me. 

I push my index finger into Tyler’s chest, deliberately removing him from my personal space.  I turn my back on both him and the dance floor, and eliminate him from my thoughts just as easily. 

A new song comes over the speakers.  A new song, or the same song.  They all blend together.  My fingers tap to the beat and I rock on the balls of my feet and the flames painted on the walls seem to dance.

Eight minutes. 

I finish my beer.  Ditch the gum that’s gone stale and that I don’t need anymore anyway. Order another beer.  The bartender, who’s semi-hot in an Enrique Iglesias kind of way, gives me a disdainful look, but he doesn’t argue.  He’s just jealous that I can handle my liquor so much better than he can.  When he hands me the drink, I grin cheekily and pluck one of the straws from a glass on the counter. A red straw, nestled amongst dozens of other red straws.  Nothing special about this red straw.  And I realize… anonymity is liberating.  Yeah, I miss Emmett’s stories, told over a Cosmo and always lovingly catty.  I miss the coat check guy that never charges me and the bartender that gives me double shots for the price of singles.  I even miss that little head-bop thing that Michael does when he dances.  But Fever is not Babylon.  I’m not the kid who got bashed in the head, or the guy from the diner, or Brian’s boyfriend.  I’m nobody.  Which means I’m everybody.  Anybody. 

Fuck, I’m drunk.

Which definitely means that I should have another drink.  ‘Cause shit, I’m already loaded.  What’s one more, right?

I feel around on the counter for my beer until my fingers light on the cold bottle.  Success!  But before I can get it more than halfway to my lips, it’s snatched from my grip. 

I feel like I should be spinning around, hotly challenging the usurper of my San Miguel and demanding reparation, but the best I can manage is a sort of languid swivel and a raised eyebrow.  And it’s Brian, of course it’s Brian, already draining the last of the dregs from the bottle and raising his hand for another. 

I concentrate on the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck.  I lick at my lips, subliminally tasting lotion and sweat and the tangy sweetness of shampoo that costs more than I earn in a single diner shift.  My eyes feel heavy and my knees feel weak and I have to take a deep breath before my mouth remembers how to work. 

“That was quick.” 

He whips his head around to glare at me, but my eyes are drawn to the flash of orange at his hand, and fuck if he hasn’t appropriated the entire bottle of Raaz Pees from Pseudo Enrique.  I watch, transfixed by the bobbing of his adams apple as he uplifts the bottle and drinks, and it seems to me that I should put a stop to this, but god knows the best way to get Brian Kinney to do something is to tell him that he can’t, or shouldn’t, or absolutely must not. So I press my lips together and watch his throat convulse and the contents of the bottle rapidly dwindle. 

“We’re going,” Brian says brusquely. 

“But--” 

He slams the bottle down, throws some money on the bar, shoots some more daggers in my general direction, then stalks off toward the door.  Well, I know that he intends for it to be stalking.  It’s more like weaving, but I’ll give him bonus points for effort.

Somehow I manage to manoeuvre us out of the elevator, Brian’s right arm draped heavily across my shoulders.  He fucking weighs a ton, and he’s not making much of an attempt to assist with the whole walking thing.  We stumble a little across the carpeting, which realistically I know is a soothing nondescript beige but which right now seems to be glittering with tiny diamonds.  Sparkling diamonds, even.

“’The French are glad to diiiiiie for love’,” I singsong, trying hard to stifle my laughter.  Brian lifts his arm from my shoulder long enough to cuff me in the back of the head while muttering something about trashing my DVD when we get home.  Over my dead body. 

I furrow my brow and try to focus on simply moving one foot in front of the other, even though Nicole Kidman is finishing the song in my head.  I’m doing pretty good until the burgundy sofa in the hallway bumps against my thigh.  For a long moment we sway in place, as I consider just dumping us both on the sofa and Brian grumbles under his breath.  Nice, plush, soft sofa.  But management would probably frown on that when they found us in the morning, especially since Brian tends to drool when he’s wasted. 

“Fuck!  Shit!  Fuck!” 

Brian pushes away from me, grabbing at his throat.  I lunge toward him, feet tangling together and heart beating a mile a minute.  I finally manage to grab his arm, loudly and likely incoherently demanding to know what’s wrong.

With a final inarticulate curse he tells me. 

“I think I swallowed my gum.  Fuck!” 

Jesus Christ. 

Brian lets me lead him inside the suite, but once the door is bolted he shoves me away. 

“Don’t,” he mumbles.

Fine. Whatever.  I stagger toward the chair, because I have to take off my shoes.  Everyone knows you don’t go to bed with shoes on, but my laces never seemed this hard to untie before.  I narrow my eyes, concentrating on the bow.  I bet Ewan McGregor has a nice bow.  I snort out a laugh as I give up on the laces.  Going to bed with shoes on won‘t be so bad. 

“You,” Brian barks out, and the harshness in his voice curbs my amusement.  I look up to find him still swaying in the middle of the room, his mouth hanging open and his unwavering gaze fixed on me. 

“I,” he slaps a hand loudly on his chest, increasing the sway to a stumble, “don’t need your help.” 

This from the man who couldn‘t remember the name of our hotel and was going to pay the taxi driver with a dry cleaning token.  I sigh.  “Look, Brian, just--” 

“You know why I don’t need your help, Sunshine?”  He lurches a few steps toward me, his index finger pointed accusingly. “Because I’m the lighthouse.  I‘m the fucking lighthouse.” 

The words are slurred.  His eyes flicker once, twice, then dart away.  He lurches another few steps, curses under his breath.  Crawls onto the bed, on top of the covers, face pale and drawn.  Closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and I barely hear the whispered refrain.  “I’m the fucking lighthouse.” 

And I sit and stare and wonder what the hell I’m supposed to say to that. 

In the end I say nothing at all.  I untie my shoes, which really isn’t that difficult to do.  I pull off my shirt, dropping it on the floor.  I work Brian’s shoes off, and he lays unmoving and lets me do it.  Then the room dips and spins and I can do no more than flop onto my back beside Brian and hope that my head doesn’t explode. 

After a long moment I feel Brian’s arm raise above his head, so I take that as a sign that it’s okay to snuggle closer, and I carefully shift my body to rest my head on Brian’s chest.  His heart drums a too-fast rhythm, rapid pounding against my ear, and I shift again and try to ignore the way the ceiling is pulsing to the same tempo as Brian’s heartbeat. 

“I didn’t fuck him.”

His voice is soft, almost inaudible over the quiet hum of the air conditioner.  I raise up onto my elbow to look at him.  This proves to be a very bad idea, and I’m forced to squint in order to get the three Brian’s I see to coalesce into one. 

“It wouldn’t matter to me if you did.”  I try to speak as clearly as possible, so that Brian can hear the truth in the words.  Umpteen glasses of Raaz-whatever-the-fuck are making articulate speech kind of difficult, but I‘m pretty sure my slurring is being kept to a minimum.  I hold his gaze, watching his eyes flicker as he searches my face, and I think I see comprehension there.  Finally I flop down again, closing my eyes.

Blessed darkness.  If I ignore the flashes of light darting around behind my eyelids and the way the bed seems to be levitating, I might even be able to sleep. 

“He shhhtarted suckin’ my dick--” 

Fuck!  There was a time when we shared war stories.  When the details of what Brian got up to when I wasn’t around made me hot.  When we recreated his extracurricular activities down to the last lick and tweak, and I’m not too proud to say that part of the reason I did it was to prove to him that I was better than any one-time-only trick.  But that time is long gone.  He knows that.  And now… Fuck!  I pull myself back up, glaring at him.  “Listen.  You can do what you want.  You can do who you want.  I don’t care.  But I don’t want to hear the details.” 

Brian pushes his hand against my shoulder, pressing me back down onto my own pillow.  He leans over me, his eyes glazed yet still so intense, and I have to close my eyes against the ferocity in that look. 

“Made ‘im shtop.” 

What?  My eyes fly open and I squint up at Brian’s face, hazy and unfocused in the shadows of the room.  Suddenly it’s hard to see any one thing clearly.  I can see Brian’s upper lip… his eyebrow… the curve of his ear… but the whole won’t come into focus.  I pull in a breath and try to concentrate. 

Brian sighs, letting his head fall forward.  “Felt funny,” he mumbles against my chest.

My throat is dry.  My tongue feels like sandpaper.  I know I should let it go at this, know that I should take what I am being given and be happy.  I know that the only reason it ‘felt funny’ was because the trick had a pierced tongue or a cleft palate or some such bullshit.  Because it can’t be what I’m thinking.  Can’t be.  Will never be. 

But I guess I’m a glutton for punishment, because I open my mouth and rasp out a single word.  “Why?” 

A shrug against my chest, barely noticeable.  Words, murmured on the cusp of sleep.  “Wasn’t you.” 

Brian shifts slightly, settling into his usual position, draped over my body like I’m his personal pillow.  Within moments he’s asleep.   I lay motionless beneath him, not caring that the room is spinning, feeling numb and light-headed and giddy and rather queasy, and this time it’s not from the liquor.