Fandom: Queer As Folk
Rating: R (language)
Word Count: 654
Summary: Justin's thoughts on learning Brian has syphilis. 505 gapfiller
Disclaimer: Showtime and Cowlip and Russell T. Davies own the rights. I write for fun and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: Just a little something that occurred to me when I was watching this episode again. I'm not sure I like this, but I thought I'd throw it out there. Don't expect brilliance. (Or much of anything, really. LOL)
He looks at me, and he shrugs it off, tells me it’s no big deal. Just something that happened, and with a few more drugs—ones that aren’t anything at all, really, because they don’t even get you high—it’s over and done. On to the next day.
And I can’t help but wonder if he even understands that it’s not that simple for me. That he might have done this to me, might have actually given me something worse than that hustler all wrapped up in a big red bow, and that yes, it is a big deal. It’s not just another part of my day. If I have this, if Brian gave me this, it’s not so simple for me.
Has he forgotten that I’m allergic to penicillin and all those other lovely drugs in the penicillin family? Above and beyond and underneath all the other reasons that I hate that this happened, that it was ever a possibility, lies this one fact.
I can’t just take the easy way out, get the easy answer, the easy solution to the problem.
And that’s really what this is all about. I have no idea what they would give me, could give me, instead, if I do have it, but that’s not the point. Things are more complicated for me, with me, and I know he doesn’t even consider that, hasn’t as much as let it cross his mind. Then again, I’ve always been a complication he’s never allowed for, never asked for, and I suppose it shouldn’t bother me as much as it does that he isn’t thinking about me, in this, at all.
And that makes me one of the crowd, I guess, merely one of the many who have worshipped at the altar of Brian Kinney.
No one special. No one important.
No one different. Just another piece of ass he’s had and has to notify, but it’s no big deal, because all I have to do if I have it is get a shot of something and it’s over. Nothing more to think about.
But it’s not that fucking simple. None of this, of us, has ever been that simple, and why can’t Brian fucking understand that? I can’t seem to make him understand that. It makes me want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until he fucking notices me. Looks at me. At me. At who I am and how this affects me, and what it does to me every single time.
This isn’t as straightforward as Brian wants it to be.
Except that to Brian, it is that simple. We’re that simple. That uncomplicated and unambiguous… and unremarkable. That black and white. It’s what he wants and the way he wants it, or it’s out the fucking door, the one with no locks on it, and I hate that part of me thinks the second option is beginning to look a lot more appealing.
I don’t want it to.
I love him. I’ve loved him for years, and I know I’ll never stop. But I’m not so sure I like him, anymore. I’m not so sure he’s the face of god, anymore. He has feet of clay; I’ve seen them—he loves walking barefoot in the loft—and that’s not a medium I’ve ever worked in.
I’m no sculptor, and I’m no parishioner, and I’m sure as fuck no random trick just passing through.
Either Brian doesn’t see that, or he won’t admit it, but it amounts to the same thing, in the end.
I think I want out, and that terrifies me in ways that thunderstorms and spiders and Chris Hobbes and even fucking cancer don’t.
I think I want out.