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Honestly, it's a wonder this hasn't happened before tonight, which Brian's going to get plenty of mileage out of reminding Justin in the coming weeks. He's always been edgy about Justin and pretty little white pills, ever since he mentally cross-referenced Justin's long list of drug allergies with the realization that he really had no idea what he'd been putting in his own mouth—pharmaceutical-wise—throughout his illustrious club career. But Justin's a big boy, and if he wants to take risks, well, he's the one who's gonna end up covered in hives and breathing like a freight train at 2 AM on a Wednesday, not Brian.
The I-told-you-so's can wait.
Brian ghosts his hand up and down Justin's back, feeling his breathing hitch. Justin's a lump on the bed, curled up on his side with his arms around his head. Brian clears his throat. “I still think we should—”
“I'm not going to the hospital,” Justin says, his voice slurred from the gallon of Benadryl he's chugged since Brian dragged his wheezy ass home.
“If you die in my loft, my address will be in the papers,” Brian says reasonably. “Gay Pittsburgh will have a field day. I'll never get a moment's peace.”
Justin snorts, and Brian feels himself relax a little.
Still, he's restless. “Well, what can I do, then? You want some soup?”
“That's just what we need, you to set the loft on fire.”
“Hey.” Brian tugs on Justin's leg until he rolls onto his back. He pets his calf, absently. “I can heat up a can of soup. I've done it before.”
“HAVE you?”
He leans down and kisses the puffy skin next to Justin's eye. “I'm a man of many talents.”
Justin laughs softly and clings, his fingers dragging on Brian's shirt, when Brian gets up and heads to the kitchen. Brian digs through the cupboard until he finds a long-abandoned can of Campbell's—thank God, or else he'd be feeding Justin hot water and hoping he was still out-of-it enough to believe it was soup—and dumps it into a pot while Justin coughs from the bed.
"You can call Deb in the morning 'cause fuck if you're going in tomorrow,” Brian says. “You don't have any classes until the afternoon, right?” No answer, just more coughing. “You planning on breathing any time soon?”
“Any minute now.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Did you ever—” Another cough, and then he's done. “Pick up a present for Gus?”
Brian knows what Justin's doing—being aggressively normal, showing him he's fine—and he doesn't mind it. “Not yet."
“There's still time.”
“I'm just going to have Cynthia pick out something. She's better at this shit than I am. Who isn't.” Is he supposed to be stirring this?
“You're his dad. You're supposed to get it.”
“Best thing my dad ever got me was a day off,” Brian says. “What did Craig bestow you with, store credit on a flat screen?”
Justin laughs, and Brian smiles to himself. “You're not far off,” Justin says.
Brian goes back to the bedroom and puts his hands under Justin's elbows. “C'mon.”
Justin whines.
“You're not eating soup on my Egyptian cotton sheets,” Brian says. “I don't care how pathetic you look.”
He keeps whining, but he lets Brian set him on his feet and crowds himself under his arm on the way to the couch. “I'm really sorry about this,” he says, pulling the sheet he dragged with him around his shoulders. He's been shivery since the club.
The I-told-you-so's are begging to be let loose. “Yeah, well." Another time. "It's not your fault Leo gave you some fucked up shit,” Brian says. “We'll chew him out next time.” He pauses for effect. “And then we'll yell at him.”
Justin wrinkles his nose in mock-disgust, and Brian raises his hands in mock-innocence, and everything's good for a little until Justin starts scratching miserably. Brian knocks his hand off on the way to the kitchen for the soup. He tries not to hover while Justin eats—left-handed, his right hand always craps out on him when he's sick.
“Good?” he says.
Justin nods. “You're a better cook than I thought.”
“I heated up a can of soup.”
“Like I said,” Justin says.
Brian smiles.
**
Brian cancels his morning meeting and strides into the diner a little past eight. The three merry men are crammed in the booth closest to the door, and Brian steals a sip of Michael's coffee and makes a face at the amount of sugar.
“You look like shit,” Ted says.
“I was up all night,” Brian says. “What's your excuse.”
Michael snorts. “You'd think you and Justin would be mellowing out in your old age.”
Brian beckons Debbie over. “Egg white omelette and a coffee,” he says. “And some banana pancakes to go.”
She writes it down. “How's he feeling, poor Sunshine?”
So much for making a point of telling her privately. “He'll live,” Brian says. Justin doesn't want his business aired all over the diner any more than Brian wants to be the one airing it. But it's too late; Deb leaves, and Brian's met with raised eyebrows from three directions.
“Justin's sick?” Ted says.
Emmett sips his coffee, looking irritatingly smug. “He pulled him out of Babylon last night like he was on fire. Never seen Our Fair Kinney look so worried.”
Michael, who has absolutely seen Our Fair Kinney look infinitely more worried, still manages to look at Brian like the idea of him being concerned is entirely without precedent. “Is he...okay?”
Brian taps his fingers on the table until some of his irritation is drummed out. “He's fine. He had a reaction to some drug he took and spent the night puking and wheezing.”
“Wow.” Michael pauses, fork over his waffles. “And you took care of him through all that?”
“Yeah, he refused to go to the hospital. He's annoying.”
“No, I just mean...”
“What?” Brian says, and Michael busies himself with his waffles. Debbie comes by with his order, which he's beginning to wish he'd gotten entirely to-go.
“You were worried,” Emmett says, with a hint of a smile, and why the fuck is that there? We're smiling over Justin getting sick, now? We're smiling over Brian not getting a minute of sleep, over canceling meetings, over spending eight hours watching Justin breathe? That's not cute, or romantic, or whatever it is Emmett—God, all three of them—have prancing around in their heads. It's fucking shit, and it was scary. Justin could have died. That's something adorable, just because they think he's an asshole?
It's infuriating. It's infuriating that every time Brian has the nerve to express an ounce of sympathy for the boy—or, in this case, not to, what, throw him out on the street during an allergic reaction—they think they've stumbled across something. Justin hasn't been that seventeen-year-old following him—following them—around in a very long time. This isn't news.
He puts some money on the table and picks up the bag with Justin's pancakes. “I'll pass on your get well wishes,” he says, and they fall over themselves to offer them as he leaves.
**
Justin's sitting at the counter with the paper when Brian flings the box of pancakes at him. “Jesus,” Justin says. “What's with you?”
“You're giving me half of those. More than half.”
“I thought you were eating there.”
“Yeah, so did I.”
Justin raises an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation, but Brian's not in the mood to talk, not yet. He kills time pouring guava juice and stealing bites of Justin's pancakes and giving him the once-over. He still has a few hives on the insides of his wrists, but nothing compared to last night, and his breathing's finally back to normal. He'll live.
“They think I haven't changed,” Brian says eventually.
Justin takes a sip of his juice, waits.
“Just because I don't go getting some fucking...skywriter to write our names across the...”
“Sky,” Justin says helpfully.
“Thank you.”
“Mmm.”
“Doesn't mean I'm going around pretending like I don't...” Brian sighs. “They think the fact that I was worried about you last night is something...”
“They were teasing you about it,” Justin says.
Brian waves his fork dismissively. “It's not that. It's that they think they...caught me, or something. I say one thing to imply I might prefer you weren't dead, and they're practically popping up and shouting AHA!”
“To be fair,” Justin says, his mouth full. “You did used to pretend you didn't give a shit.”
“That was a long time ago,” Brian says. “That's what I'm saying. I've changed. And they're all fucking...it's like they go to sleep and hit a Reset Brian button every night. Put me back to normal.”
“Normal?”
“Square one,” he amends.
“Question,” Justin says, and if this is some shit about 'why isn't being with me normal,' Brian's walking into the sea. “Why do you care?”
Brian pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Why do you care if they think it's weird that you care about me?”
“Because...” Brian grapples. “They're not giving me credit. I've called you my partner. You practically live here. I don't know what the fuck else I have to do to get credit for...you know, for growing, or whatever.”
Justin studies him, and Brian can tell he's not buying this.
“I like credit,” Brian says defensively.
“Mmmhmm.”
“It's a good reason.”
Justin rolls his eyes. “You want to know what I think?”
“Not really,” Brian says, and Justin slaps his hand away when he goes in for more pancakes.
“I think you're afraid it'll get back to me,” Justin says. “That they'll say something about how unbelievable it is that Brian Kinney could possibly be worried about his poor indisposed partner and I'll start to think huh, that DOES sound unbelievable, I guess he must not love me?”
It's so quiet Brian hears his watch ticking. He can barely look at Justin, but Justin won't stop looking at him.
“It's happened before,” Brian says eventually.
“Yeah, well.” Justin smiles. “I've changed. Give me some credit.” He feeds Brian a bite.
Brian can't stand him looking that cocky, so he takes a deep breath and says, “So, let's talk about how you're not taking E anymore,” and doesn't quit lecturing until Justin shoves his tongue down his throat.