All I wanted was fucking dinner.
Michael finally stopped following me home every night, after two fucking months. It’s going to be my first night alone, and it’s about fucking time. I’m going to have dinner. I went to the grocery store after work, and bought myself a huge fucking steak, the best cut they had, and I’m going to cook it. It’s going to be the best fucking steak I’ve ever had. I don’t need anyone to cook for me. I don’t need anyone bothering me, or worrying about me, and I definitely don’t need any more fucking pity.
Better have a shot of Beam first. Michael wouldn’t let me have much to drink. Fucking annoying Mikey and his fucking annoying stalking. I’m glad he’s not here. I’m glad he’s at home. I don’t miss having him around at all.
Better have another shot.
Something’s making a weird noise. Is it the refrigerator? Did it always make that noise?
I should turn the stereo on. It’s too fucking quiet in here.
Shit. Since when do I mind it being quiet? I love quiet. I love being alone.
Better have another shot.
Shit, where the fuck are my CDs? Where’s the fucking remote?
Fuck.
Fine. I don’t need music. I like quiet.
Better have another shot. I’m thinking like a lesbian. Must be Mikey’s stupid influence. I should never have let him come over every night.
Not that I let him. He just did it. Fucking annoying Mikey.
Better have…
Fuck. The bottle’s empty.
Good thing I got two.
Now, where’s the cutting board?
No, really. Where’s the cutting board? It’s supposed to be in THIS fucking cupboard.
“Where the fuck is it?!”
Shit. I’m talking to myself.
Better have another shot.
So where the fuck is it? I always put it right-
Oh. Right. I wasn’t the last one to use it.
Damn, I haven’t had that much to drink, have I?
Now, the steak is in the refrigerator.
…Where’s the steak?
Oh. On the counter, where I put it. Right. Of course.
One more shot can’t hurt.
Okay, I’m ready. Now I can cook. Now where’s the big knife?
…Why the fuck is my silverware drawer empty?
…Are they all dirty?
No, they’re not in the dishwasher.
“Where the fuck is the silverware?”
Shit. I’m talking to myself again.
One more shot. That’ll help.
Much better.
Why the fuck is my fucking cutlery missing? I need a fucking knife. I’m hungry, and I want my fucking steak.
Michael should know. He’s over every fucking night. Not that I miss him. I don’t mind being alone. Fucking annoying Michael. He probably put everything in the wrong place. No wonder I can’t find anything.
Where’s the phone? Oh, there it is.
“Michael?”
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey? Just hey? Where the fuck did you put my knife?” I ask him. I might be slurring a little. I can’t tell. Oh, well.
“Brian? Are you drunk?” He sounds worried. Fucking annoying Mikey.
“No, I just want my fucking knife. Where is it?”
“Why the fuck would I know where your knife is?” He sounds defensive.
“Because you used it last, and it’s not here. Neither are my forks. Or my spoons. Or my other knives. Where the fuck is my cutlery?”
Cutlery is a weird word. Cut-ler-y. Hard to say.
Maybe I am a little drunk.
“Brian… um…” He’s stammering.
“Did you steal my fucking cutlery?”
“Um.”
“You did! You took my fucking culter… cul… knife!”
Stupid hard word. Stupid Michael.
“Brian, you’re drunk. Just order something.”
“I don’t want to order something! I want my steak!”
Oh, great. Now he’s going to be upset. “You’re drunk, and I’m not driving over there just so I can bring you a knife so you can try cooking under the influence!”
And now he sounds bitchy. “Fucking lesbian.”
“Why does that make me a lesbian?!”
Uh. “Because it does! I want my fucking knife!”
“No! You know why I took your silverware!”
“Michael. What the fuck are you talking about?!” He’s confusing. Why is he so fucking confusing?
“Because you’ll kill yourself!”
“What. The fuck. Are you talking about?!” I ask him.
“I know you, Brian! Justin’s gone, and you’re going to try to kill yourself the minute someone isn’t there to stop you! And I can’t keep coming over and babysitting you! I have a life, too! So I… took everything sharp you own. And all your medicine and drugs.”
“Fuck you, Michael!” Fucking asshole. “I just want a fucking steak! I’m not gonna do something stupid like that!”
“Yeah?! You’ve tried in the past!” he says.
Stupid asshole. “Stupid asshole!” I yell. Stupid asshole. “You took my spoons, too! What am I going to do, scoop my eyes out?!”
“Look, just order food, I’m not giving your shit back until I know you’re mentally stable!”
…Did he just hang up on me?! ASSHOLE.
Fine. I don’t need a knife. Fuck knives. People cooked without knives all the time before…
Before knives were invented.
Something like that.
I’ll just cook with my hands. Where’s the pan?
Right. On the stove. Right. Okay.
I’ll just turn the oven on to… high. Wait, not the oven. The stove top. The burner. Which one is it? The front left one. Okay.
Is it hot yet? Fuck, this takes forever.
Better have another shot while I wait.
It’s hot I guess. Good enough.
So I drop the steak in the pan, and… yeah, it’s sizzling. That’s good. Smells great. Steak is great.
…How do I tell when it’s done? Fuck. Something about the color.
I used to know how to cook. When did I forget how to cook?!
This is all Justin’s fault. Fucking brat cooking for me all the time. I never asked him to do that. Fucking Justin. Fucking Michael.
…….I need another shot. This is bullshit.
“Are you done yet?! Hurry the fuck up!”
Now I’m talking to the steak.
Well, maybe it’ll help.
I’m fucking hungry.
Good enough. Now to just turn it over…
“OW! FUCK!!!”
Shit. Shit, shit shit. My fucking hand… FUCK!
“FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
That HURT. Why the fuck did that hurt?!
Oh. I burned my hand.
“FUCK.”
Fucking steak! This is bullshit! Fucking Michael!! Why the fuck did he take my fucking cutlery?!
Fuck this. I’m hungry. Where’s the phone? This is all Michael’s fault.
No. It’s Justin’s fault. Fucking Justin. If he hadn’t… fuck.
“Oh, there it is.”
Shit. Talking out loud. That’s bad. I’m going to tell him what I think of him. He can fucking fix this mess because I’m hungry and my knives are gone and I want my fucking steak. Justin can just… fix it!
“Hello?”
“My fucking culterly is gone.”
“…Brian?”
“Of course, Brian. My fucking cul… knives are gone!”
“Brian, what the fuck?!”
“Michael took them!”
“What the fuck?!”
He sounds pissed. Why the fuck is he pissed?! He’s not the one with a half-cooked steak!
“I’m telling you, Mikey took my culterly!”
Fucking word. Fucking hard word. Where’s the Beam?
“Brian, you’re drunk.”
“I am not!”
Well, maybe I am.
Just one more shot. One more can’t hurt. Maybe it’ll keep me full until my fucking steak is cooked.
“You don’t call me for two fucking months, and now drunk-dial me?!”
He sounds really, really mad.
“You’re not the one without steak!” I tell him.
“What?!”
“I want my steak! And Mikey took my cutlery!”
AHA. I said it right that time. See? I’m not drunk.
“I’m not drunk,” I explain.
“Oh, my god. Is this really happening?” he asks.
“And my steak is just sitting here and I can’t cook and Mikey won’t give it back!”
“Wait, Michael took your steak?” he asks.
Why the fuck can’t he follow this?
“Why the fuck can’t you follow this?” I ask him. Good question.
“Let me get this straight. You don’t call me for two fucking months. You don’t pick up when I call. You don’t reply to my emails. Then Michael steals your knives, and you can’t cook a steak, so you call me drunk to… what exactly do you want me to do about it?!”
“Fix it!” I shout. What the fuck is his problem?! Can’t he see this is his fault?!
“How the fuck am I supposed to fix it, Brian?! I’m in fucking ml:namespace prefix = st1 />
“Obviously,” I start. Wait. What was I saying? Oh. Right. “Come cook my dinner!”
“WHAT?!”
Why the fuck is he shouting? Why does he have to be so loud? It’s not so hard to understand. Maybe I should say it slower. “Come… cook… dinner!”
“Brian, you’re fucking drunk. I’m not going to just pick up all my shit and fly to fucking
“I’m hungry,” I explain. I’m having to explain things a lot to him. Isn’t he supposed to be smart?
“Brian, go to bed. Just… go to bed, and sleep off the Beam, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”
He sounds really annoyed, now.
“I’m hungry,” I say again.
“Then order some fucking Thai food! And call me when you’re not drunk next time! Fuck!”
…Did he just hang up on me?!
Asshole. Little fucking prick.
Fine. Whatever. I don’t need food. I can just drunk the rest of this Beam. Drink, I mean. Drink the Beam. I’ll just drink this Beam. Fuck food. I don’t need to eat. Fuck it.
Fucking Michael. Fucking Justin.
Fuck this.
***
I must be out of my fucking mind.
That’s all I could think as I made my way through security of JFK for the last flight of the night to
I should have left it alone and left his drunken ass there to pass out like he always does.
Like I’m sure he’s done for the past 2 months.
Without me.
Like I had done a lot of nights in
Without him.
FUCK.
This is bullshit.
The asshole doesn’t call me for 2 FUCKING months.
Doesn’t return MY fucking calls or emails.
So when I saw his name flash across my caller ID tonight, I thought, FINALLY. He’s going to talk to me. He’s come to his senses.
But no.
Of course not.
He’s dunk. And wants me to cook him DINNER. Because Michael stole his cutlery.
FUCK.
Who the fuck calls it cutlery? Its called fucking silverware.
Who talks like that?
Lindsay does.
Fuck Lindsay.
FUCK THIS.
I must be out of my fucking mind.
I pull the loft door open and immediately smell smoke.
Fuck.
And I hear the smoke alarm.
FUCK. FUCK.
“Brian?” I call out.
Just the fucking smoke alarm.
I practically run to the kitchen.
This steak he had been talking so much about how SOMEHOW made it to a plate, and it actually looked done, but the pan was still on the stove and the stove was still ON.
Hence the smoke and the alarm going off.
Doesn’t he have an alarm company?
Why didn’t they call the fire department?
Where the fuck is Brian?
I must be out of my fucking mind.
I turn the stove off and turn toward the rest of the loft.
“Brian?” I call out again.
I walk to the windows, unlatch them and throw them open.
I can’t remember another time I had ever opened the windows.
Oh, wait. Yes I can. That one day when I was painting and he said the fumes were getting to him so he taught me how to open the windows. And then we fucked as the breeze….
Wait.
No.
Stop.
Snap out of it.
That’s not what this is about.
Just fucking make sure he is alive and get the fuck out of here.
FUCK.
Fuck Brian. Fuck this loft.
Fuck the windows and the breeze.
Fuck LOVE.
Fuck….
I see him.
Passed out across the couch, his bare feet hung over the side.
God, even drunk and disheveled he’s beautiful.
Wait.
No.
Task at hand.
“Brian?” I shake his foot with my leg.
Don’t touch him. It will only make it worse.
He stirs.
“Brian!”
“Huh? What?” He wakes a little and looks around, eyes half closed. “Oh, Sunshine! Are you here to make me my steak?”
I sigh.
“First of all, don’t call me sunshine. Secondly, I’m here to make sure you’re o-….to make sure….” Why the fuck AM I here?
“Why can’t I call you sunshine?” He slurs. “That’s your NAME.”
I shake my head. “No. My name is Justin.”
He smiles drunkenly and attempts to sit up.
Bad idea.
On the floor he falls.
“Well, you’re sunshine to me,” he mumbles as he uses the couch to pull himself up.
Did he…that may have been one of the sweetest things he’s ever….
No, wait.
Task at hand.
“How long has the fire alarm been going off?” I ask him.
“What fire alarm?”
Oh Jesus fucking Christ.
“How much did you have to drink?” Let’s try another question.
“Not much.”
Fucking liar.
“Fucking liar,” I mumble and make my way back to the kitchen.
I take out the fork and knife I had smuggled into my bag and onto the plane. How the hell would I have explained THAT to airport security?
‘Well you see Sir, my fian…my boy….my ex….THIS GUY had all his cutler…fuck…silverware taken from his apartment because apparently he’s suicidal because see we were supposed to get married but then he told me I should go to New York to be an artist and I got this phone call from him….’
Fuck.
I must be out of my fucking mind.
I cut the steak up on the plate, because there was no way in HELL I was going to let him USE a KNIFE in this condition, and walk back over to the couch. I found him sitting on the floor.
“Come on. Up on the couch Brian. You need to eat.” I set the plate down on the coffee table and help him up onto the couch.
“You made me my steak?!” He asks excitedly.
“Yeah, sure.” I hand him the plate and fork and sit down on the other end of the couch from him.
He stares at the plate for a long time then shoves it back toward me.
“I don’t want it.”
WHAT???
“What?”
“I SAID I don’t WANT it.” He forces me to take the plate back and I drop it onto the coffee table.
“I fucking took a plane at 9 o’clock at NIGHT to come here to make you…to help you…to bring you…” Fuck. Why the hell DID I come here???
“It’s cold,” he says, frowning.
What a fucking princess.
“Brian, you need to eat.” I stab a piece of the steak onto the fork and hold it in front of his mouth. “I’m sure you haven’t eaten in days. Just please….” I push it onto his closed lips.
“Mmmmff.” He shakes his head.
Oh my god. What has my fucking life come to?
“Fine.” This was fucking ridiculous. I go into the kitchen, plate of steak and all, and start to clean up the mess he had made. He stumbles his way to me, halfway through me loading the dishwasher.
“Why the fuck are you here?” He asks me angrily.
I stop mid load and look up at him.
“Excuse me?”
“I ASKED what the FUCK you’re DOING here.”
“You asked me to come make you steak, which of COURSE you didn’t even eat.” I begin to load the dishwasher again.
“Well you can go now. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. I’m FINE.” He stumbles back toward the couch again and falls face first onto it.
I sigh heavily and go to him.
“Brian. What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing the hell is going on. I’m FINE.” He mumbles into the cushion.
“Yes, obviously. I’ve never seen you more FINE than I do RIGHT NOW.” I kneel next to the couch. I want to touch him. Brush the hair out of his face, just to see him. But I don’t. I need to remember the task at hand. Make sure he’s ok. Get him to bed and be on my way back home.
Home.
Fuck.
Where the hell IS my home?
He turns his head to the side and looks at me, eyes half closed.
“I don’t need Michael watching over me and following me home me every night. I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t need Debbie with her fucking tuna macaroni crap and telling me how everything is going to be alright. And I especially don’t need YOU here to taking care of me. So get the fuck out.” He closes his eyes and buries his face into the cushion again.
God, I’ve never seen him so lost.
“Brian, why did you call me tonight?” I ask him.
Silence.
“Brian!” I grab his shoulder and his head quickly turns to look at me. He has fire in his eyes.
“Why did you call me? Why ME?” I needed to know. I needed to know why after 2 months he would do this. I was JUST starting to get used to the idea of not hearing his voice everyday. There was no way this was easy. God, I barely slept. I could barely paint, but that wasn’t the point.
His face softens and he sighs. “Because no one cooks me dinner like you do. Michael doesn’t make anything the same. And…and…you know I’m a horrible cook. And…and….I just wanted you to make me dinner like you used to. I mean LOOK!” He holds his hand out to me and I see a HUGE red swollen blister on his hand. “I burnt myself!!!”
Oh.
My.
God.
I must be out of my fucking mind.
“Alright. Come on.” I lift him up by his arms and drag him into the bathroom. I make him sit on the lid of the toilet and I run the cold water in the sink. I stick his burnt hand under the flow of water.
“Now leave it there for a minute.”
I rummage through the medicine cabinet and find the Neosporin and gauze. When I close the cabinet I look to find him staring up at me.
“What?” I ask him.
Silence. He is just STARING at me.
“Stop that.”
Silence.
I shut the water off and kneel in front of him and gently rub the Neosporin onto his burn.
“How did you do this Brian?”
“I told you. Michael took all my cutlery. How did you expect me to turn the steak over?” This all made perfect sense to him. I shake my head and begin to wrap his hand in the gauze.
He is doing it again. I’m not even looking at him and I know he is doing it again.
“Stop it.” I tell him.
I feel his other hand go to my hair and he is petting me. He’s fucking PETTING me.
I shake his hand off my head and look up at him.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You hair got longer.” His voice is low.
“It’s only been 2 months,” I mumble and finish wrapping his hand.
“Now I know why Debbie calls you Sunshine.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why?” He looks so confused. “That’s your NAME.” He is right in my face now.
“No, its not.” I feel like I’m repeating myself a lot tonight.
“I missed you.”
I freeze.
Fuck. This.
“I didn’t even know where the pans were,” he continues.
I sigh and stand up. I was NOT doing this. Not now. And not like this.
“Let’s go.” I grab his arm and pull him off the toilet and into the bedroom.
I stand him up as straight as I could and pull his t-shirt up over his head. He wobbles but holds onto my shoulders for support. His hands are as warm as I remember them being.
Ok. Task at hand. Get him undressed and get him to bed and then you can be on your way.
FUCK. I must be out of my fucking mind.
I unbutton his jeans and slide them down over his hips. He kicks them off, his eyes never leaving my face. I finally look up at him and that’s when it happens.
Blue meets Hazel.
All bets are off.
He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into him, our mouths crushed together.
I try to struggle, but its no use. I could never fight those kind of kisses from Brian.
Never.
I finally regain enough strength and push him off me and he falls onto the bed.
“You need to go to sleep Brian. You need to sleep this off. Things will be different in the morning.”
He groans. “No. They won’t. They’re ALWAYS the same. I wake up and things are exactly the same. The same damn hangover. The same damn silence. The same damn pain in my chest. The same damn empty side of the bed.”
Fuck.
My chest tightens.
Be strong. Don’t fall for this. This is what he does. He doesn’t really miss you. This is all just…for show. He TOLD you to go. HE chose this.
I take his legs and swing them around so he is laying the right way on the bed. I pull the duvet up and lay it over him. His eyes are closed and I think he is finally falling asleep. I watch him for a while, taking in the sight. This may be the last time I ever see him.
I lean down and kiss his forehead. “Goodbye, Brian.”
I go to stand back up and I feel his hand grab my arm.
“No. Please. Just…stay.”
My heart races and I try to think coherent thoughts. Well, it was late and I couldn’t even catch a plane back to
“Ok, but I’m sleeping on the couch.” I tell him.
“No.” He hasn’t let go of my arm yet. With his bandaged hand he lifts the duvet down on the other side of the bed. My side of the bed. My old side of the bed.
FUCK.
I know what he wants. And for once it’s not sex. He wants me. Just me. And then it finally dawns on me. That’s what this was all about. The phone call. The drunken mess I found him in. The failed and disastrous attempt to make dinner.
Me. It was all about me. He didn’t know where the pans were. Michael took his silverware away.
He needed me.
Brian Kinney needed me.
“Brian…..” I touch his face and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“Tell me.” I beg him. His eyes open slowly.
“Tell you what?” Oh, there they are. The defenses. The walls.
I just look at him, never changing my expression. If he needed me, he needed to tell me.
He doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again.
I get up, remove my sweater and jeans and climb into bed with him.
On my old side.
My side.
Fuck.
I lay there on my back a long time. I wanted to make sure he was ok and asleep before I fell asleep.
Wasn’t that what this was all about?
I slowly start to doze off when I feel him shift closer to me and I feel his head on my bare shoulder.
I hold my breath.
“Come home.” I barely hear it in the darkness. I wasn’t even sure he had actually said it.
It could have been just a dream. Something I subconsciously wanted him to say.
I must be out of my fucking mind.
***
“Michael,” I say, swallowing down two asprin and holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder.
“Feeling better today?” Michael asks, and I hear the sound of the cash register. He must have been at work for a couple of hours already. Of course, we slept in. We’d been up late.
“Yeah,” I say. “I need my cutlery, though.”
“Brian,” he responds, sounding tired and annoyed. “I’m not going to give you anything sharp until I know you’re not going to do something stupid.”
I roll my eyes. “I do plenty of stupid things, sharp objects or none. Anyway, I need them.”
“Why? You never cook. I don’t know why the fuck you wanted to cook last night, but you never do!” Ooh, he sounds pissed.
“You don’t even have any eggs, how am I supposed to make breakfast?” Justin asks, and I turn to look at him. He’s standing behind me, peering into the fridge. I lean against the counter and watch him.
“Cook whatever I’ve got, I’m not picky,” I say.
“Brian?” Michael asks. “Brian, is that…”
“All we’ve got are poppers, Jack, and that fucking burnt steak,” Justin says.
I smile and wrap an arm around his waist, tugging him to myself. “We’ll go out.”
“Brian!” Michael shouts.
I turn my attention back to the phone, nuzzling my face against the back of Justin’s neck. He smells good. “What?”
“Is that Justin?!” he asks.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Tell him to bring the silverware back,” Justin says, glancing over his shoulder at me and grinning.
“He says to bring the cutlery back,” I tell Michael, grinning back at Justin.
“I heard what he said, but… but… what the fuck happened?!” Michael is practically shouting.
Justin turns and grabs the phone from me, pressing against me and putting his face in mine. “Michael,” he says. “Bring the fucking silverware back.”
I can’t hear Michael anymore, but Justin laughs.
“Well, if he can’t even cook himself dinner without maiming himself, I guess I’ll just have to cope with painting in
I would say something, but he’s right.
“Yes, I promise. Uh huh. Bye.” Justin hangs up and sets the phone aside and presses a light kiss to my lips. “He says he’ll bring it all back tonight, but only if I promise to stay.”
“And you promised?” I ask, kissing him back.
“I promised,” Justin replies, smirking at me. “You know, you could have just told me not to go, or called me and asked me to come back.”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you missed me. Because you can’t survive without me. Because you’re so pathetic that your best friend doesn’t even trust you with spoons when I’m not around.” He pauses, then gives me one of his sunshine smiles. “Because you looooooove me.”
I kiss him, deep and hungry and with lots of tongue. Little brat. He’ll be cooking me amazing dinners from now on, if I’m going to put up with this kind of crap.
Even if he is right.