I will never hear the end of it if I’m sick.

I keep these thoughts in mind as I cling to the door handle of the taxi as it careens at light speed around yet another corner.  The driver taps his horn at the pedestrians who have the audacity to actually cross on the green, before zooming through the light and making a sharp turn down an alley.  I pray that he knows what he’s doing.  I mean, I literally pray.  I wasn’t aware that I even knew the Lord’s Prayer until this very moment. 

My stomach is lurching in synchronized time with the ancient vehicle.  After nine beers, the curbside equivalent of the Wild Mouse is really not what it needs right now.  Finally I crank down the window and stick my head outside.  The cool breeze dishevels my hair as I do my best border collie impression, letting my mouth hang open and taking in huge cleansing gulps of humid, smoggy air.  Barcelona smells like Pittsburgh. 

The pavement really flies by at an alarming rate when you’re looking at it from this point of view.  Border collies must feel sick all the time.  I close my eyes, and then it’s better.  It would almost feel like I’m not in the car at all, would almost feel like I was floating along on a cloud… except for the warmth of Brian’s hand resting lightly on my thigh.  Keeping me grounded.  At least the buzzing in my ears is drowning out Pablo’s pathetic attempts to get into Brian’s pants. 

By the time we come to a screeching halt at our destination, I‘m feeling much improved. A little hiatus from drinking can be a good thing, provided one has suppressed the urge to vomit profusely and at length during said hiatus.  In fact, I feel good enough to, oh, have another beer.  Or nine. 

We pile out of the car and it’s then that I get a good look at the club.  A roped off area holds back a crowd of at least seventy-five guys, all waiting restlessly to get inside.  I can feel my face falling, and I honestly don’t know whether it’s because I’m disappointed that we probably won’t get in, or because I really can’t face a return trip in the Taxi From Hell right now.  Brian, on the other hand, drapes his arm around my shoulder and regards the throng in line with a disdainful look befitting the plebes they are.  To him, anyway.   Make way for King Kinney. 

Pablo leads us confidently past the waiting masses to the door, where he exchanges a few words in Spanish with the exaggeratedly muscled doorman.  Steroids, definitely.   Brian adds a handful of Euros to the mix.  I don’t even want to think about what denominations he just passed over.  But the combination works, and we’re in. 

Brian and I pause just inside the doorway to get a feel for the place.  Fever is pretty much what I expected it to be -- Babylon in Barcelona.  It’s bigger, though, with marble columns interspersed throughout the massive room.  They stretch like reaching hands toward the domed ceiling and its array of disco balls and tracking lights.  A trio of archways painted in garish flames lead into smaller chambers, the purpose of which I don’t really want to think about right now.  Murals line all the walls.  It looks like the designers were going for some kind of Munch meets Chagall theme, with a bit of Grunewald tossed in for good measure.  The end result is more like Munch meets Gus’s finger paints, but I guess I’ll give them an E for effort. 

I pull myself away from subconscious art assessment when I feel Brian’s fingers press against my wrist.  I look up to find him grinning down at me.  He’s practically dancing a jig in anticipation. 

“You look like you’ve found paradise,” I shout over the atrocious Madonna remix we’re being subjected to.

His grin merely widens into a leer.  He motions toward one of the bars at the other end of the room, tugs at my hand, and I let him lead me inside. 

Shit.  This place is fucking huge!  And packed.  It’s wall-to-wall men, dancing or standing or walking or jumping up and down.  Gyrating to the music.  Huddled in small groups, talking loudly.  Paired off and nestled into dark corners, gawking into each others eyes like newlyweds.  Singly and in packs, feet pounding in time with the beat.  We thread our way slowly through the crowd, with Brian encouraging and me ignoring the wolf whistles and propositions tossed our way.  I can’t even see where the fuck we’re going, so I just try to keep my gaze focused on Brian’s back.  We’ve got to be halfway to the bar by now.  More than halfway.  Fucking crowds.  I need a drink.  I need several drinks.  And a cigarette.  Fuck the herbal shit.  I need one of Brian’s Marlboros. 

I narrow my focus to Brian‘s shoulder blades, reminding myself that I am with Brian and that I am here to have fun and to do a little dancing and… and… fun.  Yes.  Concentrate on the fun.   Fun to come.  Much fun on the horizon. 

So when a group of boisterous guys doing some kind of punk-ass version of the Macarena push their way between us and I lose my grip on Brian’s hand, I do not panic. 

His fingers slip from my grasp and though I snap around as soon as contact is broken, he’s already lost in the crowd.  I’m pushed back another twenty feet before I can even take a breath. 

“Fuck!”

I drag a hand over my face, ignoring the brazen look of appraisal tossed my way.  It’s not an invitation, asshole.

Fuck!

Justin’s not an idiot.  He’ll have the presence of mind to stay put until I get back to him.  Because if he moves, I’ll never fucking find him in this crowd.  Fuck fuck fuck! 

It takes two minutes to push my way through the conga-line of sweaty fags.  It feels like twenty.  I scan the crowd, doing my best to disregard the rapid thump of my heart.  I finally spot his blond head, motionless amongst a group of bodies swaying erratically to the techno beat.   His body is stiff, his hands clenched at his sides.  Waxy, pale flesh covered in a sheen of sweat.  Even from this distance I can see his lips moving, but I can’t tell what he’s saying.  He probably doesn’t even know. 

Fuck, it never gets any easier.  For him, or for me. 

I make my way to his side.  Reach out a hand.  Stroke his arm. 

He jerks at my touch. 

“Justin.”  Soft.  Careful.   Can he even hear me over this fucking music?

Then he launches himself against my chest.  I hold him close as a shiver racks his body. 

“Breathe,” I remind him, and he takes in a shaking lungful of air.  Exhales hotly against my neck.  He smells of chocolate and malt and fear.

He tucks his head beneath my chin, and I wish there was something I could say to make it better, to make it all go away, but I used up my quota of empty platitudes today with Mikey.  So I just stroke his hair, and breathe his name, and wait for the stuttering pulse of his heart to ease back to normal. 

After a few minutes, his death grip on my waist relaxes.   He rubs his cheek against my chest before raising his face to mine.  He gives me a somewhat watery smile, and I know he’s going to be okay. 

“It’s such a little thing,” he says.

“But you always forget to breathe,” I finish. 

He grins sheepishly, and squeezes my waist, and I return the smile, and I hate that this is something we have a routine for, I hate that I know just what to do, I hate that I have to know just what to do.  And I think again that if there truly was a god, he would wipe that fucker Hobbes off the face of the earth and whistle a happy fucking tune while he was doing it.

I brush my lips against the hair, his temple.  Then I grimace.  “I don’t know about you, but I need a fucking drink.” 

“I need a keg and a long straw.” 

I bark out a laugh.  “I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him, before slinging my arm firmly around his waist.  He’s not getting away from me this time. 

If I’m holding on to Brian a little more tightly than usual as we make our way through the crowd, he doesn’t say a thing about it.  But he releases his hold on my waist when we get to the bar, resting his forearms on the counter and leaning his head toward me so he can be heard over the music.  “Apparently in all the excitement, we lost Pedro.” 

“Pablo,” I correct him with a laugh. 

He shrugs.  “Whatever.” 

And that’s it.  He won’t mention this episode ever again.  It’s done, it’s over, we dealt with it, we move on. 

Because unlike all the other well-meaning but often incredibly irritating people in my life, Brian won’t waste his breath telling me that my anxieties are irrational, or that I should see a therapist to work it all out.  I already know the former, and I’d never agree to the latter.  But Brian… well, he just knows to stick by my side for a bit whenever we go to a new place, or when Babylon is really crammed with guys because they’re having Molten Buns night, or whatever.  He just understands that I don’t like to ride in the elevator by myself, even though I know the lobby door has locked behind me and I’ve checked the stairwell and there’s nobody there.  And when we take the elevator together, he always stands real close, or presses his body against mine, and we can get all the way to his floor without me even once thinking about how there’s nowhere to run.  Brian always gets off the elevator first.

Brian won’t pyschobabble me to death.  He’s just there for me.  And he never makes me feel like less than a man because I need him to be there for me. 

The clunk of bottles being set down on the bar draws me out of my reverie.  Apparently Brian has seen fit to order for both of us.  It’s not a keg, but it’ll do for now. 

“Good.”  I shake my head when he indicates the beer with an arched brow.  “Not the beer.  Good that Pablo’s gotten lost.  He just wanted you to fuck him.” 

“Doesn’t everyone?” 

He’s got a good point.  And suddenly the fact that we’re surrounded by hundreds of hot horny guys, all of them dark-haired and built and bronzed by the sun, all of them the exact opposite of Justin Taylor, is starting to make me just a little uneasy. 

“You are tourists?” 

Speaking of hot horny guys…

Brian swivels his head to take in the newcomer, eyes flitting from face to chest to groin, and back again.  I don’t think he’s even aware that he checks out every guy he sees.  It’s just instinctual, like breathing. 

“What was your first clue?” 

The stranger ignores the snub, or maybe he just isn’t aware it’s a snub.  Nuances of sarcasm are probably lost when he’s internally translating into Spanish.  He just gestures at the bottles of San Miguel.  “Nobody but tourists drink that.” 

“Oh?” Brian cocks his head, side-glancing me.  I shrug, so he turns back to the stranger.  “And what does the local suggest?”

The guy leans forward, eyes darting back and forth between us and the other guys standing nearby, who are completely oblivious to the conversation anyway.  But he’s in secret agent mode, and obviously loving it.  He drapes an arm loosely around Brian’s shoulder, and I admit that my hackles rise a little.  Then he stage-whispers.  “Raaazzz Peeees.” 

Brian and I exchange puzzled looks.  Brian sums up our incomprehension quite succinctly. 

“What the fuck?” 

The stranger looks a little peeved. Apparently our reaction was not what he had hoped for. He sighs, pressing a little closer to Brian as he repeats, slowly and carefully,  “Raaaaazzzz Peeeeesss.” 

Brian’s eyebrows raise.  I start to grin.  He starts to grin.  His grin makes me laugh.  He laughs because I laugh.  Fuck, I love Barcelona. 

“Rat’s Piss?” Brian finally manages to get out between snorts.  “You want us to drink Rat’s Piss?”

“Raaz Pees,” the stranger agrees.  “Not for the faint of heart.  80 proof.  A drink for a real man.”

Brian leans back, knocking the stranger’s arm off his shoulder and turning from him without a backward glance.  He looks at me speculatively.  Over his shoulder, I see that the guy is giving him a dirty look.  Guess this didn’t work out the way he planned.  Sucks to be you, buddy. 

Before Brian can open his mouth, I nod.  Vigorously.  Perhaps too vigorously, because I don‘t think my head is supposed to bobble on my shoulders like that.  But whatever. The night is young.  “I’m in.” 

Brian studies me for a moment before nodding his head.  He signals the bartender and starts laughing again when he places our order.  Urine de Rodent.  Sounds tasty. 

Within minutes the bartender has placed one tumbler in front of Brian, one in front of me, and we consider our glasses with matching dubious expressions.  I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a drink that was this shade of orange.  In fact, I’d go so far to say that I’ve never seen this shade of orange, full stop. 

“Well?” Brian nudges my tumbler a little closer to my hand. 

I shake my head.  “Age before beauty.” 

“You’re the one that wanted to try it,” he points out in a very reasonable tone. 

“Chicken,” I respond.  He can be reasonable all he wants.  I know how to get my way.  So there.

Brian presses his lips together and looks at his glass.  Picks it up and swirls the liquor around.  Glances at me.  Then abruptly he raises the tumbler to his lips and downs the bright orange liquid in one swallow. 

The last time I saw that particular expression on his face, he had been left alone with Gus and had to deal with an exceptionally noxious toilet-training “incident”. 

I push my tumbler away just slightly. 

“It’s not that bad,” he finally manages to choke out between gasps. 

Oh shit. 

He wipes at his mouth with his hand, then turns to me.  And he’s smiling. 

Oh.  Shit. 

“Well, sunshine?  Bottoms up!” 

I gulp audibly as I pick up the tumbler, my mind too busy trying to deal with the fact that in thirty seconds I may keel over dead in some foreign land to even bother making the very obvious and certainly anticipated comeback to his remark.  Instead I lift the glass to my nose, sniffing at the orange liquid.  It even smells like shit.  Or piss, as the case may be. 

“Chicken?” 

I stick out my tongue, and Brian snorts in response. 

Okay… bottoms up. 

I take a deep breath, squint my eyes, and knock back the drink in one gulp. 

“Fuuuuuck!” I slam the glass down on the counter, coughing, yet thankful that I can still feel my lips.  “It tastes like spinach flavoured turpentine!” 

“Yup.” Brian leans against me, eyes sparkling with mischief.  “Another round?” 

“Definitely.” 

Neitzche said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”  I hope that sentiment also applies to 80-proof Spanish liquor.