"Cry, 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war."
William Shakespeare (from "Julius Caesar")
Michael closed his eyes as he entered the apartment and heard Ben retching in the bathroom. Brian's words echoed in his head like the sound of a bell being rung, signaling the beginning of Holy Mass - all at once haunting, beautiful, and annoying as hell. He'd tried to convince himself that what he'd told Brian was the truth. That Ben needed to do this thing to himself. He needed to take the steroids in order to make himself healthy. There was some sort of twisted logic in it, or so he'd thought at the time. It had all made sense when Ben had explained it. It just sounded hollow now.
Who the hell was Brian, anyway, to give him advice about relationships? Brian loved Justin, but walked around like nothing that kid did phased him, all the while trying to compensate for his loss. Brian had no idea what Ben was going through, let alone what Michael was going through. Brian had no fucking concept of the very fine line his best friend walked every goddamned day. It was like tap dancing on a razor blade - one false move and you cut your fucking throat, watching the blood pool around you as you slowly bleed to death.
Michael had tried to convince himself while he was talking to Brian that everything was going to be all right. But now, as he stood here listening to his lover in the bathroom, he knew without question he'd been lying to himself. Ben was out of control; he'd taken this thing too damned far. His drug use could cost him everything.
Michael slowly walked into the bathroom, looking down at his doubled over, half-dressed lover, and took a deep, painful breath in. At that moment, as he stood there, he felt an anger creeping up on him that threatened to devour him whole. It was an anger so intense he could feel it taking over, and yet he stayed in control. He swallowed it whole without choking on it, as he always did when his anger was about to overtake his other senses.
You all right?
I'm fine.
Really? 'Cause you look like shit.
It must have been something I ate.
Sure. It could be that. Or it could be the massive amounts of steroids you shot into your ass at the gym after you slammed Brian into a locker.
That was quick. He couldn't wait to tell you, could he?
What did you expect him to do?
Mind his own fucking business.
Baby, how can he mind his own fucking business when you're buying the shit in a public locker room?
I have it under control, Michael.
Oh yeah, I can see that.
He didn't have to go run and tell you.
He didn't. We were supposed to go out tonight. Remember? I saw your handy work on his back.
I didn't push him that hard.
Hard enough.
Oh. What? Now you're gonna lecture me?
No. I just want to know what the fuck you think you're doing.
I'm trying take care of myself.
By jamming mind-altering drugs into your body? By becoming a fucking lunatic?
There's no way you can ever understand this.
Understand what? That you're slowly destroying yourself? That you're killing yourself a little bit quicker? Tell me what I'm not getting about this. Please.
You don't get the shit I have to live with every fucking day.
You have got to be kidding me!
You can walk away from this shit any time you want to, Michael. I can't. It's a part of me.
Wait, wait, wait. I'm not supposed to understand this? And you seriously think I can just up and walk away from this any time I want to?
No. You can't understand. You're healthy. Your body hasn't betrayed you. You don't have to worry about every cough turning into pneumonia. Or every rash turning into the shingles. I look into your eyes sometimes and I swear to God...
What?
Sometimes I think it'd be easier to be with someone who's positive.
The words tore at Michael's flesh like daggers piercing the skin. He felt them digging their pointed teeth into the very marrow of his bones. He wanted to scream; he wanted to run away. But all that happened was a single silent tear rolled down his face. Slowly he turned and walked out of the apartment. Somewhere in the fog that had engulfed him, he heard Ben calling to him, apologizing to him for what he'd just said. But it was too late; the words had been flung out into the atmosphere. They had hit their intended target with the accuracy of a skilled marksmen. They were meant to wound, to draw blood. And they had. Michael was internally bleeding, uncontrollably. He could feel the slow moving fluid rising from the bowels of his soul, first filling his lungs so that his breath came in exhausted gasps. Then it flooded his mouth with its metallic taste. He felt himself on the verge of vomiting several times, but again he swallowed it whole and walked on.
Michael walked drudgingly, in what seemed like an oceanic haze. He had no idea where he was going or what the fuck he was going to do once he got there. All he knew for sure was that he had to escape the words chasing him with relentless speed. The words clawing at him, embedding themselves into his brain, the words tearing at his heart. When he finally looked up, he was standing outside of Brian's building. He took the stairs two at a time, not willing to wait on the elevator. When he reached the door, he held his hand up as if he would knock, then brought it mechanically back down to his side. He couldn't bring himself to knock on it. Brian had probably decided to go out after all. Or maybe he had a trick inside. Whatever the reason, Michael just couldn't bring himself to do it, to go in there and hear Brian go on and on about how he was right about Ben all along. The way he'd been right about David, the way he was right about every fucking thing he talked about. Right about relationships, and love, and fucking, and, and, and, ad nauseum, ad infinitum.
Michael stood out there, for what seemed like an eternity, but in actual time was closer to two hours. He stood there, not moving, barely breathing; it was almost as if he moved he'd shatter into a thousand unfixable pieces. Then the door slid open and Brian stood there, putting his jacket on. Before he could say anything, Michael collapsed into his arms and started weeping uncontrollably. It was the kind of sobbing that spoke of the soul being torn asunder. Brian half-carried Michael into the loft.
Looking at his friend, he knew not to ask any questions. He led Michael to the bedroom and slowly undressed him before putting his friend to bed. He climbed in behind Michael and held him as he wept. Brian closed his eyes against the tears stinging his own eyes. He'd seen Michael upset before, but nothing like this. It scared Brian. It was a desperate fear. It wrapped itself around his hear, making his chest hurt. But still he said nothing as he held his friend's trembling body, which was, every now and then, wracked with earth shattering sobs. It was only after Michael fell asleep some three hours later, that Brian finally allowed himself to sleep. When he woke up the next morning, Michael was gone. He had left a very simple note on the pillow.
Thank You.Love,
MikeyBrian moved over to where Michael had been sleeping and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply, catching the scent of his friend's shampoo. His breath caught in his throat as the tears he'd suppressed last night came flooding over him. He wept silently for a few minutes before he was strong enough to regain control of himself.
Son of a bitch.
The comment was said under his breath and escaped through clenched teeth. It was directed at both Ben and Michael. At Ben for putting Mikey through all this shit. And at Michael for going back. He knew Michael had gone home to take care of this in the only way he could. He just needed last night to get himself together. Brian didn't know what had happened last night between them, but it had to have been bad. It had to have been beyond bad for Michael to completely collapse like that. Holding his friend, he realized for the first time, perhaps, how much and how deeply Michael loved Ben. And where he had been worried before, now Brian was afraid for his friend. But he was also proud of him because Michael had enough love in him to get past all the hurt and enough strength to deal with it head on. Ben was a lucky bastard in deed.
~~~~~~~
Michael unlocked the door to the apartment, not knowing what he'd find once he was inside. But whatever he found, he assured himself he was ready for it. When he finally got inside, he walked directly to the bedroom, and found Ben lying there with Michael's pillow clutched in his arms as he slept. Michael cleared his throat loudly and Ben woke with a bit of a start.
Michael, I...
You all right?
I feel like shit.
You look like shit.
Thanks.
You're more then welcome.
Just let me explain.
Don't. You said more then enough last night.
I'm sorry...I didn't mean...
I know you are. And you did mean it. So do you have someone particular in mind, or should I just lie down and let you fuck me raw so that we can finally be over this fucking part?
Michael, that's...
I'm sure it's not what you meant, but that's how I took it. I couldn't walk away from you if my life depended on it. And with you taking steroids, it fucking might. I'm afraid for you. I'm afraid of you. I'm afraid I'm going to say the wrong thing and you'll snap and beat the shit living outta me. And I still came back.
Baby, I...
Am I?
What?
Your baby. See, 'cause when you call me that, to me it means I'm precious to you.
You are, Michael.
And yet you can do this to yourself, and say what you said last night.
I was angry.
So...was...I.
Michael, what do you want me to say? You want me to say I'm sorry? I am. You have no idea how sorry. I heard myself say it and I couldn't stop myself. When I saw the look on your face, I wanted to die. I never wanted to hurt you. Michael. Ever. But what am I supposed to do?
I just want you to listen. I love you. You have no idea now much. You could live forever and still not understand how much. I knew what I was getting into when I decided to come after you. See, I've been living with this thing for a long time now - longer than you have. I was eighteen when Vic was diagnosed. Over the years, he's been nearly dead more times then I can count and he's been clinically dead three times. I've lived through the trials and errors of his medication. I've held his head while he puked. I've wiped his ass. I've cleaned his sheets. I've made his meals. I've fed him, changed his fucking diapers, and held his hand when there was nothing else for me to do. I held my mother together when all she wanted to do was lie in a bed somewhere with the covers pulled up over her head because she couldn't help her baby brother. Because she still can't. I may not be positive, but I know in graphic detail what's coming... and I'm still here. You're being an asshole and I'm still here. You're destroying yourself in inches and I'm still here. You wanna know why? Because there's nothing in your life that doesn't affect me - not a goddamned thing. This thing is a part of you, and you're a part of me. That makes it a part of me, too. There's nothing you go through - no pain, no fear - that I don't feel. There's no anger or resentment that you have bottled up inside you that I don't understand. So I'll wipe your ass and hold your head when you puke. I'll change your diapers and clean your sheets. I'll feed you, take care of your medicine schedule, and hold your hand when I can't do anything else for you. So go on and destroy yourself, but remember that it's not just you anymore. 'Cause everything you do to yourself, you do to me. If I'm precious to you, then you have to remember that when you do these things to yourself.
Michael...
Don't. I'm going into the kitchen and I'm gonna make you one of your protein shakes. When you're done, you're going to get up and I'm going help you take a shower. Then we're going to go to sleep. 'Cause I'm tired.
I love you, Michael.
I love you, too. I'm just not that happy with you right now. But I'll get over it.
End of "Wreak Havoc" by LadyArmand -- email