Brian attempts suicide on the morning of the third Tuesday in May. He overdoses on painkillers. He doesn't leave a note – too sentimental, and he's had no suspicious behavior – because he's Brian Kinney and he doesn't do statistical shit.

Allegheny General calls Justin first – seeing as he's still Brian's POA, despite their breakup. They tell him he's still alive, but he's being closely monitored. He finds the next flight to Pittsburgh and buys a ticket with money he doesn't have and packs his backpack full of clothes Brian disapproves of and calls the seventy year old woman he's supposed to paint a portrait of that he can't make the appointment. She tells him you can never rely on a fag, anyway. He snorts and hangs up.

When he lands in Pittsburgh, he doesn't rush to the hospital. He goes to the Diner and finds Emmett and Michael having breakfast. As Mikey's about to sprout off some bullshit about "What the fuck are you doing here?", Justin tells them the news about Brian, and assigns Michael to tell Cynthia and Emmett to tell Debbie. As Michael's gaping like a fish, Justin briskly walks out of the obnoxious red door and into the street. He walks to Allegheny and calmly asks the receptionist for direction to Brian's room.

The doctor – Dr. Wilke – looks up from his spot outside of Brian's door and says, "I assume you're Justin?" The blond nods and the doctor puts his hands in his pocket. "He was found this morning by his cleaning lady. He was passed out and unresponsive in his living room. When the EMTs got to his loft, he had a heartbeat and a bottle of Vicodin in his pants pocket – it was empty and the prescription wasn't for him."

"Dr. Wilke, is Brian going to make it?"

The doctor sighs at being interrupted, "It's touch and go. Brian had been lying there for about an hour, which is a long time to have the drugs in his system."

Justin doesn't want to be upset. He tries to remember Brian's voice on the phone months ago, telling him "I just can't fucking do it anymore, Justin. I feel like I'm the only one trying anymore and I don't have the strength to be stretched in nineteen different directions just because you need to live out your fucking artist fantasy." He takes a deep breath. "I'm a grown man. I fucking gave you what you wanted, and it wasn't enough. I'm through acting like a fucking hetero saint while you do fuck knows what in New York. I'm tired and I'm bored and I'm done. It's not worth it. You aren't worth it anymore, Justin."

He remembers crying that night on the phone with Daphne, his closet-sized apartment seeming too big and too quiet as his sobs echoed on the walls. Fuck him. Fuck Brian for making him feel this way. Fuck this.

Justin waits in the waiting room with Ted and Emmett on either of his sides while Michael sits across from him and glares. Fuck Michael, too. He wonders if the bastard even knows what really happened. That two weeks after the break up, there was a moving van in front of his apartment building with all of his shit haphazardly thrown on a pile. Or that when he tried to call Brian's cell phone, he was informed that that number no longer existed. Or when he called Brian, Cynthia had to tell him she couldn't transfer his call in a hushed tone. Mother fucker.

Dr. Wilke walks into the waiting room, three hours of holding back the urge to knock Michael's teeth in later. Brian's fine, he was awake. Wilke asks Justin to go to his room first – POA special privileges, he supposes – and the blond follows Dr. Wilke to room 108, knocking before entering the room. Wilke's about to talk when Justin finally snaps.

"You sonofabitch. What the fuck do you think you're doing? You survive cancer to just kill yourself? You blame me for making you miserable, so I fucking let you go without protest and you down painkillers that weren't yours anyway? So then I have to fucking fly to Pittsburgh without any goddamned money and sit in a god damned waiting room while I'm supposed to be painting a picture of the fucking bitchiest lady I've ever met and let your best friend glare at me for three fucking hours?"

"Justin-" Dr. Wilke speaks as Brian stares at the ceiling.

"I want to be taken off as his POA. How can we get that done today?" He demands.

"That's not my specialty, Mr. Taylor." The graying man explains.

"Then who can I talk to who can get it done?"

"I can go figure that out for you. I'll leave you two alone." He closes the door behind him, his face flushed.

The two sit in silence for a few minutes, Justin pacing and Brian breathing in and out steadily. After minute eleven, Justin speaks. "Do you have anything to say for yourself? About your little stunt?"

"It wasn't supposed to be a stunt. It was supposed to be a final statement."

"And what was it supposed to state?"

"Do you remember when I brought you home that first night?" Brian asks suddenly. "How did you fall in love with me so fast? How did you do it so easily and not care? Why weren't you scared?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You loved me from that first night. You didn't know anything about me. And you still loved me enough to drive me batshit crazy."

"Because you gave a good rim job." Justin states sarcastically, rolling his eyes .


"What do you want me to say? It was like, six years ago. I was seventeen. Every seventeen year old wants to be in love. And to get laid. I got both. I was scared, though. You seem to forget that I was terrified."

The room is quiet for a while. The sun is shining through the big window, framed by green curtains. Justin's sitting on the windowsill and his hair is reflecting the rays of sunshine. Brain smiles. "I'm fucking scared, Justin." He croaks. "You're my one shot. I'm never gonna have anyone else. You're it. You're the twink who got into the Stud of Liberty Avenue's head. It's not gonna happen again. You're my only chance at proving I can do it. And I fucked it up. Because I was scared."

Justin sits and stares at him for a minute. "That's such pathetic bullshit."

And Brian nods and says, "I know," and his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is greasy and he needs to shave and the hospital gown makes his skin look bad and Justin has never wanted to hit him and kiss him at the same time more.

Because being in love with Brian Kinney's never gonna be easy. It's always going to be a hard thing. Because Brian doesn't know how love goes quite yet, and Justin's so young, and Brian doesn't care about that anymore. Because Justin says pretty things and shows Brian that he doesn't deserve him while proving to him that Brian needs him.

And Justin doesn't have the patience of a seventeen year old anymore, and it hurts every time Brian lets him slip through his fingers. And every time Brian knows he hurt Justin, he feels just as guilty for wounding him as Chris Hobbs should have And every time the guilt eats at him. But he wants this and he wants Justin.

"You can't do this to me anymore. You can't. I can't handle it. I can't keep coming back and I can't be as easy as that seventeen year old kid I was. I'm twenty-four. You're thirty-six. We're grown-ups, Brian. And I love you so fucking much and I can't let you hurt me."

And Brian just holds out his pinky with that fucking heartbreaking smirk that Justin prays Gus won't inherit and whispers, "Pinky promise," and Justin complies. Brian reaches up with a shaky hand and runs his fingers through wisps of blond locks and swears to himself to keep Justin around.