He rests his forehead briefly against the door, then takes a deep breath and heads inside.

Justin is perched on the edge of the sofa. He looks up anxiously as the door grates open, before trying -- unsuccessfully -- to hide his relief. Justin always did wear his emotions on his sleeve. They flit across his eyes, reveal themselves in the shape of his lips and the set of his shoulders. Brian doesn’t remember it being so painful.

Justin doesn’t remember things that are a hell of a lot worse.

“Hey.” Brian tosses his keys on the counter and detours to the couch to press a kiss to Justin’s upturned face. He’s not sure when this ritual started. Hello kisses and goodbye kisses and I’m going to take a shower kisses and let‘s get takeout kisses. But Justin relaxes slightly under the press of his lips, and Brian’s hand snakes down to the nape of Justin’s neck. He runs his fingers through the glossy blond hair. “Have a good night?”

Justin’s shrug is lost to him as he turns away, heading toward the fridge and a beer. A beer is definitely what he needs, despite the fact that he had several at Woody’s, downed quickly on an empty stomach. He feels slightly unsteady on his feet, in fact, which is not like him. Not like him at all. But his searching hand lights on a bottle and he twists off the top, not caring that he’s drinking some domestic shit, a twist top christ, because it’s cold and it’s beer and frankly that’s all he needs right now. He takes a deep swallow before holding up a second bottle, gesturing toward Justin on the couch.

Justin shakes his head and crinkles his nose, and Brian wonders exactly when he began to find that endearing. He could probably pinpoint time and place, he thinks as he crosses to the couch, but instead he flops down beside Justin and stretches out his legs and stares aimlessly at the blank TV screen and takes another swig of his beer. Thinks that he’s going to need another soon.

He shifts on the sofa to get more comfortable and hears the crinkle of the paper beneath his thigh.

“What’s this?” he says, at the same time that Justin mutters a curse, and says ‘don’t look’ and makes a grab for the paper. And Justin must truly be feeling out of sorts, because telling Brian not to look -- or not to touch, or not to act -- is simply the easiest way to get Brian to do exactly that.

Brian looks at the sketch.

“It’s... interesting,” he gets out, schooling his face into an agreeable mask, not quite sure what he is looking at, wondering where the bold determined lines of Justin’s earlier work have gone. It’s not his fault that he expects brilliance from the boy, and is shocked when he doesn’t see it. But the hesitation has been noted and processed and Justin grabs again for the paper, crumpling it in his fist.

“It’s not, it’s complete shit! The doctors were right. I’m never going to be able to draw again!”

Justin is trembling, and Brian’s eyes flick to the paper crushed in his hand, to the still-silent television, to the beer he’s placed on the edge of the table next to a bowl of popcorn. A dozen different responses flit through his head even as he wonders if Justin was watching a movie, and what inspired him to pick up the pencil, as Justin sits coiled beside him, a snake ready to spring. He settles on an indictment of the medical profession, because physiotherapy is all well and good, and Justin works harder than anyone he’s ever seen... but he’s never been one to make empty promises.

“Doctors say whatever the fuck they want to say. They want you to keep making appointments, and seeing specialists, so they can keep running up the charges to the insurance company. They just want--”

“That’s fucked, Brian!” And now Justin does spring, bounding up from the sofa, arms flailing. “You don’t know anything! This whole thing is bullshit! Chris Hobbes fucked me over, and now I’ll never draw again! I have nothing!”

“Justin--”

“Nothing!”

Brian has reached out his arm, unsure of exactly what he’s going to do, but it seems like he’s moving in slow motion, the air thick as clotted cream, cutting off his breath. And as always Justin is too far away, and moving too fast, the heavy air not affecting him at all. Before Brian can rise, Justin has smashed the beer bottle to the floor, upended the popcorn bowl, sent a cushion flying to the wall, and stands, palms pressed to his face, chest heaving.

For a long moment Brian cannot speak. When he does, his voice is harsh. “Clean it up.”

Justin’s “Fuck you” is muffled but understandable.

And now Brian can move. He crosses the distance between them in two long strides, and his hand grips Justin’s bicep tightly. “Fucking clean it up,” he grits out.

“No.”

“Christ! If you’re going to act like a petulant child--” Brian would go on, wants to go on, because the loft is his home, his sanctuary, and no one, not even Justin, has the right to act like this... But he closes his eyes and remembers, remembers crimson staining concrete, remembers pale flesh on only slightly paler sheets, remembers stroking fair hair and whispering soothing platitudes in the night. Every night.

And he backs away, backs away until the press of the counter stops his retreat, and then turns to clutch the countertop so tightly that his fingers turn white.

He stares at the pristine countertop. Releases a hand to scrub over his face. Wishes again for selective amnesia, because everything else is just too fucking hard. When he can trust his voice, he turns and speaks. “Justin.”

“I’m not crying,” Justin says. He’s slumped down onto the sofa, hands still pressed against his face, and Brian crosses the room, trying to ignore the twisting coil in his gut and his chest and his head that screams it’s all your fault, it’s always your fault. “I’m not some scared--”

“Little faggot,” Brian finishes, and manages a sad grin when Justin removes his hands from his face to smile wryly up at him. He reaches out to pull Justin up from the couch, and runs a palm over the dampness of his cheek, before continuing with his line. “No, you’re not.”

“It’s just,” Justin begins, his voice muffled in the cotton of Brian’s shirt, “I can’t do anything. I can’t draw. I keep hearing weird noises when I’m alone. I can’t even walk down the fucking street without freaking out! My life is so fucked. You have no idea what it feels like.”

Brian squints his eyes closed and tries to remember how to breathe and lets himself clutch Justin just a little bit tighter.

“We’re going to fix that,” he says, finally, reluctantly moving back to look into Justin’s eyes. “Starting tomorrow. We’ll book some extra sessions with the therapist.”

“Brian--”

“And we’ll go out for a few practices walks, just around the block. Get your confidence back.”

“Brian?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know if I can do it. I think I am just a scared little faggot.”