Personal Space
Title: Personal Space
Author: vamphile
Timeline: Post 507 AU
Beta(s): xie_xie_xie
AN: Written for this request by iwant_todance
Rating PG (I'm as surprised as you)

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Personal Space

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I’m halfway up the stairs when I feel the handle on my grocery bag start to give. I’m not surprised. It’s been that kind of day. Michael and I couldn’t seem to come to an agreement on the next cover for Rage. The laundromat’s dryer ate one of my favorite shirts. The market was out of crunchy peanut butter, and it’s fucking freezing out. It’s April; at some point, even in Pittsburgh, it’s supposed to get warmer, right?

I wrap the remaining good handle of my biodegradable, reusable, renewable-resource shopping bag around my palm, and move a little more quickly up the rest of the flights of stairs. I ignore the greetings of my neighbors. I learned quickly enough that conversations with them go nowhere and end in a plea to borrow a couple of dollars. I’m not in the mood.

When I get to my place I start reaching for my key but apparently don’t need it. The door is slightly open. I push the door open slowly and end up dropping everything I was carrying. I stare, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, but I can’t. I don’t know how long it takes for my brain to actually process what’s happened enough to take action, but it finally does, and I do. I call Carl.

Soon after, at least I think it’s soon, two uniforms are there, asking me questions I can’t answer. Carl is standing beside me, and I didn’t notice how much better that felt until he walked away. Shit, he’s calling Debbie. I’m not really in the mood to be mothered.



Brian walks in just as the cops are leaving. I'm surprised, but I guess I shouldn’t be. “Debbie called you?”

He nods. “Any clue what happened?”

“It was a bitch of a day before this.”

I stand up again and grab a couple of burlap bags and then turn in a circle. “Fuck. They stole my fridge.” I stand there, the bags hanging limply from my fingers and I look, really look at the place. It’s trashed. The loveseat is crooked. The armchair is knocked over. A tin can holding some paintbrushes is lying on the floor. Apparently there’s no street value on good sable brushes. A lot of my paint is gone. I grit my teeth against either anger or tears, I’m not really sure which. “My laptop.” I run a hand through my hair. “I had a few new projects laid out on that.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, but somehow it feels better saying it, admitting the loss.

“You backed them up, though, right?”

Well, it did feel better, until Brian opened his mouth.

“Yes, Brian, I backed them up onto my external drive, which conveniently was right next to the laptop.” I motion towards the empty space on the plywood-over-sawhorses that serves as workspace.

Brian looks like he wants to say something, but he sits silently as I take in the damage done to my canvases. I wiggle my fingers through a shredded section. It was close to finished. “Think I can convince anyone this is supposed to be distressed?”

Brian doesn’t seem amused. “The locksmith should be here in another hour. Once the place is locked up…I can book a hotel room for you, or you can stay with Ben and Michael, or with me. I don’t think you should stay here tonight.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure what will happen if I let myself talk. Instead I sit next to him on the loveseat. I rest my head in my hands and feel the soft reassuring press of his hand on the small of my back. I know I should probably push it away, push him away, but I don’t. I just let myself want him to be here.

I usually don’t let myself feel like that. He’s been here exactly twice in the three months since I moved in. Once to tell me what a dump it was, and once because Debbie made him bring me a care package of lemon squares and turkey meatloaf. He mentioned what a dump it was then, too, but it wasn’t his primary purpose for the visit.

The locksmith comes, and I ignore the look he seems to share with Brian, some sort of patronizing, “Is there really a point to locking any of this shit up, especially with these neighbors,” kind of thing. Of course, it’s been a rough day, and I could be reading way too much into the locksmith’s raised eyebrow at the triple lock request.

He drills and reinforces, and all the while I’m trying to figure out how to calm myself down enough to sleep here tonight. Brian’s hand moves to my shoulder and I realize that I don’t want to. I wait to see if the feeling passes.

Once the locksmith’s gone and I have two shiny sets of new keys, I put them in my pocket and look over to Brian. “I think I’d like to stay at the loft tonight, if the offer still stands.”

Brian doesn’t make the bad innuendo I expect. He just nods and waits while I lock all three of the locks. I turn to him, trying to smile. “Barn doors and horses, huh?”

He smiles too, and we drive back to the loft. It’s weird being here again. I see Brian around, at Red Cape, the diner, even Mel and Linds’ once or twice, but I haven’t been back to the loft since I left. I brace myself for the post-Justin-departure redecoration, but this time, there is none. Everything is exactly as I left it. It’s a little disappointing, really, because that means Brian’s also exactly as I left him, which is why I left him.

I shake it off. Brian offers me a beer and I take it.

“You hungry?”

I shake my head.

It’s late now. Brian finishes his beer and goes into the bedroom. I don’t watch him take off his clothes. I don’t watch him slide between the smooth clean sheets. It’s easier this way. I move to the closet and grab the extra blanket and pillow.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I’ll…” I motion with my head toward the living room.

He rolls his eyes and pulls the covers back. I drop my jeans and pull off my shirt and try not to feel too comfortable, but with Brian’s soft wheeze in my ear, and the mattress that feels molded to my body, I can’t help but feel at home, even if it’s not my home anymore.



It's morning, and he's already gone, but he made coffee. There are some things that will redeem a man; that’s one of them. I drink it slowly, knowing I’ve got a lot of logistical bullshit to deal with today. I’m feeling a little emotionally wrung out, and that’s one of the primary reasons I ignore the diner and buy a scone and a second cup of coffee at Starbucks before I head home.

Once there, I start a list of what I know is missing. I keep my back to the damaged paintings. If I look at them I’ll cry, or start stabbing someone, and I don’t really have the time for either.

I call my insurance company, and am off the phone just in time to answer the door and find my mother there, her brow creased with worry. She shakes her head and says everything except the exact phrase, “I told you so." She’s also brought some other listings. I try explaining, calmly and rationally, that we went through this three months ago, and nothing has changed. I like the light, the space and the price. I’m not moving. She looks disappointed, and plays her worried mom card, twice, but eventually just pushes some cash in my hand, “to buy more groceries,” and leaves.

Unable to stand the silence, broken only by the noise made by my downstairs neighbors who are clearly not seeing eye to eye on something, I grab a sketchbook and head to Red Cape. I have to tell Michael that we’re going to be running behind, with so many sketches gone with my laptop.

He finishes ringing up a customer, and nods when I tell him. Carl knew, so Debbie knew, so Michael knows. Somehow I forgot about that for a moment. I go over the plot line again, tightening up the plot and storyboards, and spend a little while sketching while Michael handles the after school rush. When he gets a break, he offers me Hunter’s room.

“I stayed at Brian’s last night. I’m fine.”

“So you’re moving back with him?” Michael turns away and pretends to be arranging the action figures behind the register. His practiced disinterest tells me more than a piercing stare could. He thinks we should be back together.

“No.”

“I talked to Ben. He said he’d be fine with you staying, and he even mentioned helping you find some off-campus housing with another student.”

I laugh. “Michael. I’m not a student.”

“I wasn’t telling you to go back to school, but you know that Ma worries about you, and me and Ben and Brian.”

“So what, I should run away because my place got robbed? I did that after Brian’s place got robbed and how did that work out?”

Michael laughs. “Probably better for you than it did for me. You took my room!”

“I gave it back.”

“Yeah, but now Emmett’s got it.”

I’m actually relieved that the conversation has turned away from the previous night’s events, but Michael can’t let anything go for long.

“You really should consider a safer neighborhood, though.”

“Where I live now is safe. I got robbed, but I’m fine. I have better locks this time, too.”

“Justin, maybe you should find someplace where…”

“Where what? Someone can keep an eye on me?”

I could tell Michael wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He just crossed his arms over his chest and muttered to himself.

I wanted to go home, make something for dinner and just listen to some music while I plotted out a new painting, but my iPod was gone, my computer was gone, my refrigerator was gone, and that mutilated canvas that wasn’t finished and now never would be, and that all combined to make me think the diner was a good idea. It wasn’t.

Debbie started from the moment she saw me, talking about drugs and people who’ll do anything for them and dead boys found in dumpsters and anything else she could think of that would get me to live somewhere else. I was about to tell her off when Lindsay came in to pick up a takeout order. She hadn’t heard, so we had a civil conversation until Debbie filled in the backstory.

Lindsay’s face did that thing, the one where she tilts her head to the side and makes this sympathetic expression. Then she touched me and nodded. “You should consider something safer, Justin.”

I dropped my money on the table and left. I bought a stereo/TV combo at the Big Q, locked myself into my apartment and plugged it in.

Over the next few days I replaced most of what was missing. I admit I might have been a little obsessive about it. I wanted my home to feel like home again. I tried not to think of the list of music downloads I had to rebuild, or the ideas and layouts that were gone forever. I tried not to let myself get too angry or too sad. I had moments when I succeeded. I had more moments when I failed. By the end of the week, things were pretty much back to where I started, material possessions-wise, except that now when I saw anyone, their first question seemed to be, “How can you feel safe there?”

I didn’t answer, because the truth would give them more ammunition. I didn’t always feel safe here anymore. Sometimes I would hear an argument, a loud noise, or someone walking by my door, and I would freeze. I’d read the statistics. A lot of places get robbed soon after the initial robbery, when all the stuff has been replaced and is shiny and new. I learned to deal, the same way I deal with headaches and hand cramps and nightmares. I accepted. I coped. I tried to put it behind me.

I didn’t bother to leave the apartment on Saturday. I spent the morning getting everything loaded on my laptop. I was planning to start work on a new piece, but before I could, I had to clear the one part left that showed what had happened here. I moved the shredded canvas but I couldn’t throw it out. I thought about hanging it, but tossed that aside as a ridiculously bad idea. I don’t need a ruined painting to know the world’s not always safe. I ended up spending the rest of the day staring at the work I’d already done, some of the small pieces of some of the shredded canvases calling to me. I just sat back and stared. I let the anger was over me. I let the fear in for a limited time as well. I lit a cigarette, even though I rarely smoked these days. I sat on a stool and stared at the three pieces all, in some way, damaged. I still hadn’t decided what to do with them when there was a knock on my door.

It was Brian, smiling, with Chinese food.

I took the food and let him in, locking the door behind us.

I still hadn’t gotten new chairs for the table. We ended up sitting on the floor.

“So, is this your way of softening me up before demanding that I find someplace safer to live?”

He looked at me and tilted his head, not understanding the question, and then shrugged. “You should have seen my first place.” Then he tossed me a fortune cookie. “Read it to me; you always get the best fortunes.”

I laughed and shared the last piece of shrimp with him from my chopsticks. “You used to complain they were too long.”

Brian shrugged and leaned back, relaxed. Happy? “I think I’ve developed a taste for long fortunes.”


There is a sequel to this story Called Personal Question