Brian's sitting on his bathroom floor, tile cold under his ass, trying to remember some queen-y thing Justin said about art and beauty and truth. It was at lunch more than a week ago and Brian can't remember exactly what it was, because it was before he knew about the cancer so it wasn't supposed to mean anything. Back then, stupid shit Justin babbled under the clatter of plates at the diner was meant to be forgotten.

But then Brian went and got fucking cancer and suddenly everything might mean something, might be some hint as to the how and why of it all. So, Brian's been sitting on his bathroom floor for something like twenty minutes trying to remember what Justin said. Brian gives up when he glances at his watch, realizes Justin will probably be here soon and thinks about the way his mother used to hide her empty bottles under the sink just before Jack came home at night.

Two hours later, Brian's on the floor again, this time next to the bed and he's thinking he'll probably climb up into it soon. It's a lot less appealing when it's empty-- not something he's used to thinking. Brian maneuvers his limbs under the sheets and wrinkles his nose at the stale smell of sweat. It's barely evening, but Brian knows he'll be asleep in minutes and he also knows that when he does, it'll be the end of the fifteenth day with cancer and of the first day that Justin isn't coming back.

*

Every time Brian sees Ted these days, he's wearing another new suit. Brian approves, thinks that at least the cancer seems to have an upside for someone. And, really, knowing that he looks like he's been on a week-long crystal bender while seeing Theodore in Armani every day, isn't depressing at all. Not even a little.

"And he said it's not that anything's changed, I really sealed the account, but he thinks we should have one more meeting." Ted smirks. "The clothes optional kind, I suspect."

"Well, Theodore, you always were good at putting two and two together." Brian slides further down in his chair, but he is not going home before lunch. At least once this week he's going to make it through the morning before slinking home to his empty bed. Brian blinks up at Ted.

Ted tips his head to the side, smiles crookedly and brings Brian another can of ginger-ale without being asked and even wipes the top with a tissue before opening it. The liquid's warm and slightly flat like cheap champagne at some shitty fundraiser.

"Cynthia called you a car for lunchtime," Ted says.

Brian congratulates himself on seeing the potential in what the rest of the world deemed useless and feels generous enough to forgive Ted for the way he looks like he might pat Brian on the head before he leaves the room.

*

One threatened restraining order and Justin doesn't call again and he doesn't come back and if Brian wasn't too busy vomiting and sleeping and vomiting again, he'd take some time to think about how he always was good at predicting the endings. He doesn't have to think about how he's always good at predicting Justin.

Instead, he huddles under his blankets, jeans twisted halfway off because it wasn't worth forcing them the rest of the way down his legs and listens to Michael's voice on the answering machine. He thinks if he survives cancer, he'll switch to voice mail. But then, if he survives cancer, he won't be trying to sleep in the middle of the day, so it won't matter if Michael's loud five minute messages about soup and Hollywood wake Brian up.

Michael says, "Love you," and the machine beeps twice.

*

The doctor is calm, never phased by Brian's brittle attitude or the way his hand shakes when he reaches for his coat. Probably because as much as Brian is something different everywhere outside, here he's just another guy with a fake ball and radiation poisoning. It's comforting in a way Brian wouldn't expect, in a way that reminds him of Michael.

Brian knows he has two hours or so before he starts to feel like death and he's already decided not to bother to go to Kinnetik, so he drives over to Les-ville, picking up donuts on the way. The air is cold against his lips and he runs his gloved fingertips across his mouth as he waits for someone to answer the door.

Mel raises her eyebrows and then blinks, forces a smile. Brian sighs, hard rush of air against the leather of his gloves. Fucking Mel is not going to be part of this. He wonders who told her, drops his hand and sneers. Mel's smile falters just a little.

"Brian," Mel rests her hands on her stomach, looks just past Brian's head at the sky behind. "What a surprise!" She sounds more like Lindsay than herself, vowels careful and words clipped. "You look--"

Brian's not waiting around to be lied to. He thrusts the donuts out, shaking them on purpose so his hand doesn't betray him. "Fuck off."

Mel blinks fast, her cheeks draining of color the way they do when she's about to tell him off. The smile's still there, though.

Brian rolls his eyes. "Don't try to be nice, it makes you even less attractive than usual." He's still holding the white wax bag forward. It hangs in the air between them. "I came to have breakfast with my son. Is he up?"

Mel steps back, gesturing Brian inside. "He's in the kitchen." Brian brushes past her, glad for the warmth of the house. "And I'm not being nice." She says the word like there's something unpleasant in her mouth. There's a joke there, but Brian's only got about an hour before he needs to head home, so he lets it go.

He hands her his coat. "Just because I've got one less ball doesn't mean we've got anything more in common. So just-- Don't."

She looks at Brian's coat, shakes her head and drops it unceremoniously over a chair, thousand dollar cashmere trailing in the dust on the floor. "Fine, fuck off yourself," she says and Brian ignores the way it feels like she's doing him a favor.

*

He gets home, Justin's there and it takes Brian a few beats to understand that that's wrong. He doesn't have time for this, thought this was a problem already solved and he can't, won't, shouldn't have to deal with it. Aren't people supposed to respect his fucking wishes now? Isn't that the only goddamned perk of terminal illness? Apparently the answer's no and Justin manages a convincing argument as usual, so-- also as usual-- Brian lets him have his way.

The soup tastes like winter afternoons at the Novotnys', but Brian thinks the paprika's a new touch and he might even be sad he's just going to throw it all up in fifteen minutes.

Brian wakes up now and then, in and out of fading dreams and he can't quite figure out if Justin sitting on the end of the bed, head bent over a sketch pad, is one of them or not. When he wakes up enough to decide that it doesn't matter, Justin looks up and smiles.

"So, all you do is sleep now?" Justin's pad rustles as he closes it. "Kind of boring."

Brian nods, rolls onto his back. "'Cancer -- surprisingly less interesting than you thought!'" He stretches a little, rubs at his neck. "I'm thinking of starting a campaign. Thoughts?"

"Hmmm..." Justin makes his way across the bed, sits carefully next to Brian's hip. He shrugs. "It's good, of course, but I don't think it'd sell."

Brian nods in agreement and stares at the ceiling. He wonders how school's going, about the status of the movie, whether Daphne's date with the soccer player went well. But the room is too warm and Brian's throat is dry enough that he doesn't try to talk.

Justin rests his hand over the hem of Brian's t-shirt and Brian just stares straight ahead until he falls asleep again.

*

Brian's leaning against the counter waiting for his order and watching the dinner crowd trail in, buzzing with gossip and chatter. He sighs, closes his eyes and takes two deep breaths. When he opens them again, Deb is watching him, eyes wide and lips folded into a frown.

"Shouldn't you be in bed? Where's Sunshine?" She's talking in that way she has where she clearly thinks she's being discreet, but Brian's sure the rest of the customers at the counter can hear every word. "He can't pick up his own dinner?"

"He's staying after school clapping erasers or something, so I said I'd grab food." Brian holds out his hand for the bag and after scowling for a few seconds, Deb gives it to him.

Deb lets herself smile a little. "I'm glad he's back in school." Brian makes a noise that Deb decides is a sign to blather away about how talented Justin is and how smart and how Jennifer's so excited he's starting school again. She stops there and cocks her head, eyes narrowing. "She's a good mom."

Brian shakes his head. Deb is terribly predictable and he's amazed he didn't see this conversation coming. He's clearly off his game. "Someone has to be."

"Brian--" Deb's frown is back and Brian notices that in the center the lipstick has faded away.

"Deb." Brian holds her gaze for a second and then gives in. "I thought you learned to stop running to tell my mother things when I was fifteen?"

When Brian was fifteen and Michael was fourteen, they got a little drunk on some cheap whiskey and crashed Alex Jensen's bike into a dumpster at the bottom of a hill. Michael broke his arm and Deb flipped her shit, called the Kinneys and made sure they knew exactly what kind of influence their son was. Jack took the call to heart, realized his whiskey was missing and left a bruise the exact size of his fist on Brian's jaw. Brian let Deb get him an icepack and told Michael that at least they could have complementary injuries.

Clearly, Deb remembers because she looks like she's decided that cancer might be better than anything Brian's parents ever did to him. Brian's not sure she's wrong.

"Oh, that fucking cold-hearted--"

Brian interrupts. "It's fine. It worked out for the best, actually." Deb looks confused and Brian grins. "In fact, I really need to get back." He leaves a twenty on the counter and glances at his watch on the way out of the diner. Justin should be home by the time Brian gets there.

*

Brian's moving some of Justin's school stuff, trying to find some notes for a proposal for breakfast cereal, when he remembers the thing Justin said about beauty. There's an art book open on the desk to a picture of some ugly art installation, a piece of fruit with a light bulb in it and the thing's clearly been wherever it is for a while because the entire side is blue with mold. Brian didn't realize he was still trying to recall it, but he sees the picture and instantly remembers.

They were looking at it in the diner and Brian told Justin to close the damn thing because he was fucking eating. Justin had sighed, put upon drama queen surrounded by dilettantes that he is, and said that the piece was about beauty and time and decay and it was important because-- Brian doesn't remember the rest, just that he said he didn't care and he was still fucking eating, "so shut the damn book."

It's still gross and Brian's not eating now, but his stomach rolls and he shuts the book anyway. He's staring into space, trying not to think about rotting apples, when the phone rings. He picks it up just before the machine can.

"What?"

"Oooooh, we're cheery," it's only three words, but Emmett's voice is full of exclamation points.

"Always." Brian shifts his weight. "Have you ever called me before?"

Emmett laughs, "I'm sure I have. Well, maybe I've called Justin at this number? It's in my phone, anyway."

"So what's the occasion?" Brian looks around the loft, wonders if maybe he left the notes at the office.

"Just checking in to see if you're going to be at Babylon tonight." Emmett's never sounded so perfectly casual in his entire campy life. "Bodyshot Olympics! I'm going for the gold this year."

"You've definitely never called me to see if I'm going out to Babylon. Possibly because we're not teenage girls." Brian wonders if he has to fire Ted now or if he can just pretend he doesn't know that Emmett knows.

"But I think we can both agree that Orlando Bloom is dreamy." Emmett laughs into the phone and Brian groans. "Fine, don't say I didn't try. If you show, the first shot's on me. Literally."

Brian stares at the phone, somewhere between amused and annoyed, the dial tone beeping until he hangs up. At least this is probably the most fucked-up it's going to get.

He gives up on finding his notes and heads toward the shower. When Justin gets home, they'll go out. Maybe Brian will tell him that spending more time with the people who consider him a friend was on the list of things to do if he survived cancer. He'd probably buy it.

*

"Hunter, come help with the dishes," Michael shouts from the kitchen and Hunter doesn't move off the couch.

Brian raises his eyebrow. "I think your mother's calling."

"You go help," Hunter answers, slumping further down and staring at the tv in some fit of teenage mood. "Being positive totally beats cancer."

"Classy," Brian mutters, pulling himself out of the chair.

Behind him Michael says, "Don't hit him. And Hunter, shut up."

"I'm not going to touch your precious little delinquent." Hunter flips him off without turning around and Brian heads into the kitchen. "Is there anyone you didn't tell? Just for the record?"

Michael hands him a plate and Brian stares at it for a minute before reaching for a towel. "Linds." Michael frowns. "But I told Mel, so. Ted already knew. And you told my mom?"

"We had a moment." Brian shrugs. "Weirder things have happened." Like getting cancer, for example.

"Not many," Michael swirls his hands around in the water and flicks drops onto Brian's face. "I was emotional. I'm not good at keeping secrets. It shouldn't be a secret." He stares into the sink. "Are you pissed?"

Brian runs the towel across his cheek, considering. "Nah, I'll let it go. You gotta give the terminally pathetic a break now and then, right?"

"I'll be forever in your debt," Michael says, kissing him as he passes on the way back to the next room, leaving Brian with a stack of pots to dry. Brian watches him go and then scoffs at the dishes before dropping the towel on the counter.

At the door, Michael's already holding out Brian's coat. "You sure you don't need a cab?"

Brian puts the coat on and shakes his head. "I'm good. Really." He pats his pocket for his keys. "Thanks."

*

Brian's waking up, slowly regaining consciousness and he blinks at the light. He turns his head and Justin is sitting up, skin glowing under Brian's half-focused gaze. Brian's not sure what time it is-- he's not sleeping as much anymore, but still more than he'd like, so he wouldn't be surprised if it was mid-afternoon already.

"You thought that?" Justin's nose is wrinkled and he looks like he's been waiting for Brian to wake up for a while now.

Brian sighs, frowning and tries to force himself back to sleep. But Justin's staring at him and besides looking confused, he looks worried and Brian can't sleep when Justin's fretting-- he moves around and the mattress shudders and keeps Brian awake. It's Brian's fault anyway, because he was thinking about that stupid installation again and how Justin had been on about the way beauty dies over time and Brian said some of it aloud, but only because he thought Justin was asleep already. He forgot that somehow Justin always manages to hear what he's saying, even when no one should.

So Brian opens his eyes, just a little and looks up at Justin. "I have no fucking idea what you're talking about."

"You just said, about what I was talking about when we-- The art? And--" Justin stops, deciding that Brian really doesn't know what he means. "Were you talking in your sleep?"

Brian knows a way out when he sees one and shrugs, shoulders sliding over the warm sheets. "If I was, I wouldn't know since I was sleeping, right?"

"Huh." Justin settles back down on his side, head propped on one hand. "I don't think you usually do that."

"You'd be the authority on that one." Brian shifts, readjusting the pillow. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"Sorry, yeah." Justin reaches out and turns out the light. It's pretty dark, so Brian thinks it's not day yet. Next to him, Justin pulls at the bedding, doing his best to tuck Brian in without him noticing and then shifts into three different positions in under a minute.

Brian rolls his eyes. "Okay, Sunshine, tell me. What did I say?"

"No, I just--" Justin lies down and presses his head against Brian's shoulder. "I think you were talking about that installation-- with the apple?"

Brian keeps his face blank, even though Justin probably can't see. "The disgusting decaying one?"

"Uh-huh." Justin's hair tickles Brian's skin when he nods. "That's why you thought I'd leave." It's not a question.

"It's about the process, you know. You think it's gross, but it's not. It's art and it changes, and that's the thing that matters." Justin's breathing is louder than any other sound in the loft. "Just because you don't get it doesn't mean I don't."

"It's mold. It's old and it's rotting."

Justin slides his hand under the blanket and over Brian's stomach, lower and then hesitates. Brian doesn't breathe in.

"It's just something that happens." His hand presses against Brian's body and moves purposefully, over ruined skin, pausing for only a second before going on to glide lightly over Brian's dick. Justin makes a fist that doesn't quite touch anything until his fingers flicker across and Brian shivers in the warm room. "It's part of beauty. The kind that's worth anything, anyway."

Brian thinks Justin's still so earnest and no one else could make Brian laugh with this shit, but he does, a soft chuckle as he rolls his eyes and runs a hand through Justin's hair. Justin makes real contact and Brian pushes up against his hand.

Brian breathes out loudly, staccato, and says, "Okay, fine, mold is the new black, ugly's the new fabulous-- whatever you say, just keep doing that."

Justin laughs too and nods again, this time against Brian's chest. "I've got no plans to stop."

Justin doesn't wait for another response, just leans over to kiss Brian until he has no choice but to believe it.