"Was he cuter than me?" you'll ask, sometimes, as you brush past him in the diner before school and note the slow, sensual, just-got-laid smirk on his full lips.
"What are we?" you'll shout, sometimes, over the din of the gyrating crowd at Babylon, as you link your arms around his neck and he licks your throat.
"Do you even give a shit?" you'll whisper, sometimes, as you move back against him and shudder and come hard.
He never really answers.
They all ask you why you stay. Deb, Vic, the boys. Even Michael--who would probably jump for joy if you left because he'd finally have Brian all to himself again. They ask you why you keep letting the heartless shit fuck you and fuck you over.
You never really answer.
How do you tell them that it's the things they never see? The things even *you* don't see most of the time? The way he lets you kiss the side of his face and his neck and he even arches up against your lips...the way he slings an arm around you as you walk up Liberty Avenue and kisses *your* face, *your* neck, no matter who's watching...the way he groans your name when he's fucking you so deep that you don't know whether to live or die from the joy of it...
And the way he looks when he thinks you're not paying attention.
A little lost. A little sad. A lot terrified.
You can't leave him alone. You won't. You know he needs you.
Maybe even more than you need him.
And, every day, you struggle. You fight to keep him. You battle that raw ugly demon that lives under his beautiful face and try to reach the man that remembers how you defiantly said "I'm going with *him*!" the night you met. The man that stepped between you and Chris Hobbs without even thinking. The man that holds Gus with so much awe and tenderness that it makes you cry and blame your allergies. That man is buried beneath so much anger...so much hatred...so much sex and sweat and X...but you know you can get to him. You can dig him out.
You can save him from himself.
And you know that's a stupid, idealistic, arrogant thing to think. But that's just the price of privilege. The silver spoon your parents shoved into your mouth prepared your gag reflex better than they could ever imagine.
He was your first. Really your only. The only person who has done everything, been everything, been everywhere inside you. He owns a piece of you. A piece he can't give back even though he probably wants to.
You've had other people since then. Tricks. A quick jerk in the bathroom of the art museum...Kip's sweaty hands all over you when you blackmailed him...the most famous handjob in the history of Pittsburgh...that guy Sean. Sean was the only guy you've ever topped...and ever time you slid into him, it was a hoarse 'fuck you' to someone else. You knew you weren't the King of Babylon...just the king of crazy love.
Because none of those tricks could even remotely touch that empty place in the Justin puzzle...the place that Brian Kinney got to first.
You know every line of his body because you've drawn it. And you know what the skin on the underside of his thigh tastes like. You know that he sometimes has nightmares that he can't talk about but he forgets the pain when you put your mouth on him. You know that, sometimes, he needs you to hold onto him even when he's told you to get out, to fuck off. And so you'll hold onto him forever.
Sometimes, you think you're his first, too.
The first one who loved him. The first one who loves him.
The first one who loves him *enough*.
And that is why you stay.
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