He was so tired. Bone weary, spiritually numb and emotionally jaded, Brian lay wasted in the hallowed ground of the loft. Two weeks had passed since his world had been decimated, but the only one who seemed to realize the extent of that apocalypse was Brian himself.  All around him life went on. Most of the gang continued to sink balls and beers and cocks at Woody's, to pass along gossip at the diner. They told themselves and each other that Brian was (no doubt) drowning his sorrows in Kinnetik, in booze, in anonymous ass. Business as usual according to the Brian Kinney Pain Management Manual. But as Liberty Avenue and its hodge-podge of inhabitants continued to work, play, fuck and love, Brian Kinney was struggling to simply breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat... ad nauseum.

Until he couldn't.

Then Brian Kinney quietly disappeared.

********

Almost four hundred miles away, a young man on his way to meet with yet another artist's manager, descended the steps toward the subway turnstile. He was running late. Again. For two weeks his life had been nothing but one unendingly long bout of pounding the pavement: running to find an affordable place to live; running to find a paying job; running to find a manager. Running, always behind himself. He hadn't even had a moment to call home, to talk with his mom or Brian.  

God, Brian. He missed him desperately and hadn't even been able to talk with him since he called to let him know he'd arrived safely. Brian was wrong. It wasn't only time. It was also exhaustion, money, heartbreak...Why the fuck had he agreed to do this? He was already so empty from the relentless pace at which he was operating that he couldn't put brush to canvas even if he'd had the space.  Although he was sketching a bit, he hadn't painted even a line of color since he'd arrived in the city. There was just no place to work on his art. He was spending all his time and energy trying to find a way out of that miniscule apartment he was sharing with Daphne's friend. Yeah, he had a place to crash, but that's exactly what it was -crashing. On a pallet. On the floor. His god-awful apartment in the Pitts was bigger than this walkup. Christ! At this rate, it would take him years just to afford a space to paint. In the meantime he was still looking for any job that would have him and practically prostrating himself at the feet of every agent in the city, begging them to take him on.

A shoulder shoving him into the half wall beside the entrance brought Justin back from his internal misery. He had to make this appointment or his day was yet again going to be wasted. He held tightly to his portfolio as he furiously angled his way through the press of bodies scurrying toward the crowded train entrance. As his hand reached for the turnstile a familiar tingle spread along the base of his neck, as if a sweet breath had been expelled against it. "I love you." He could almost feel the words spoken against his ear. A chill crept through his heart. "Brian."

********

Another week passed before the gang actually discovered that Brian had disappeared. Of course Michael made the discovery first. He had called Brian's cell phone a week ago. It was apparently disconnected. He called the number for the loft. It went to voice mail.

"The fuck, Brian! I'm trying to call you and your cell's not working. Call me the fuck back!" Michael whined his impatience to his friend. Brian didn't return the call. The next week Michael went to the loft and, when Brian didn't answer his knock, he used the key his friend had given him years ago to let himself in. It was only 7:00 a.m. and Brian should have been home. The loft, however, was silent. Eerily so, Michael noted. Calling out to his friend, he shook off the chill that suddenly ran through him when he received no answer.  It was almost as if the room had echoed.

Everything seemed to be relatively normal in the great room of the loft - only a few papers out of place on the desk which, in itself, was way out of character for the anally retentive creature that was Brian. Bills. Credit card statements. A piece of what looked like a map printout. "Maybe he went on a business trip," Michael mused aloud. "Wonder why he didn't tell me about it?"

Though Michael thought his friend had left things uncustomarily out of order, he didn't find anything he considered extremely disturbing. The open draperies on the high loft window allowed the daylight to illuminate the bedroom as he checked it. Everything seemed normal there, as well. He checked the closet and found nothing obviously amiss there. A closet full of Armani and Prada, neatly organized. A quick glance at the bathroom showed it was pristine, as usual. The towel, apparently from Brian's last shower, was neatly hanging on the towel rack, his toothbrush properly in the holder. Walking to the kitchen, Michael checked the refrigerator. Brian had never been one to keep much in the way of actual food in his refrigerator when Justin wasn't around. Since Justin had been gone a little over three weeks, Michael wasn't really surprised to find the thing nearly empty. But the smell that assaulted his nose when he opened the door nearly choked him. The few perishables that were in the fridge were completely rotten - and reeking. The refrigerator was off, and obviously had been for some time. Checking the stove and the microwave, he found they were off as well. A first real tickle of dread teasing his gut, Michael flipped the wall switch for the overheads... Nothing.

"Shit! This is fucking strange," Michael whispered to the empty room. Having been best friends with Brian since they were fourteen, Michael was sure that Brian wouldn't be gone long enough for his food to spoil or his utilities to be disconnected without letting someone know. Christ, for that matter, if he was going to be gone for that long, he would have made arrangements for someone - probably Cynthia - to handle these things.  He would have let Michael know, for Christ's sake!  With another look around the loft - now that he knew he actually was looking for something - he noticed a fine dust film over the counters and the furniture and a vaguely stale odor that was definitely not Kinney-like.

Michael slumped down onto a tall stool beside the breakfast bar trying to make some kind of sense of things. Aimlessly running his fingers through the dust layer on the counter-top, Michael realized that as far as he knew, none of the regular gang had seen Brian since Justin left. After the Babylon bombing and his own brush with near-death, Michael himself had been rather preoccupied with his own family and his own life, just assuming Brian was drowning his sorrows in his regular fucked-up fashion. But this...this was something different. As he mindlessly trailed his hand over the dirty counter, his fingers played with a small paper stuck to the back of an envelope. Picking it up, realizing it was a sticky note, he read what was written on the small square.

Go raibh síocháin leat,deartháir. Chumhdaigh tú. Cumhdóimid.

That was definitely not Brian's handwriting. That was definitely not even Brian's language.  There was definitely something seriously wrong here.

Cynthia was worried. Brian hadn't been in the office for two weeks, and hadn't even been reachable by phone for the last week. Of course he had told her he was taking some time off. After the stress and shock of the Babylon explosion, the investigation that followed, all the ups and downs with Justin - the almost wedding and his leaving for New York - as well as Gus leaving for Canada, she didn't know how he was even functioning. But... that was Brian. That he took this time off at all was out of character. Even when he had the cancer she wasn't supposed to know about, he kept working.  Yeah, he could take a quick ‘trip to Ibiza' or head for the Sydney Mardi Gras, but to be gone for this amount of time? Not Brian Kinney behavior. 

Yes, Cynthia was well qualified to handle the day to day operations of Kinnetik, at least in the short term. Working with Brian all these years had made certain of that, and Brian's business planning had put legal and administrative safeguards in place to allow her to actually act as his proxy and attorney-in-fact with the company. He trusted her implicitly, knew she would protect his interests. She knew the business from top to bottom, inside and out, and had no problem dealing with the asshole attitudes and sudden crises this business tossed her way at every turn. Brian had taught her well. He knew she would only need him in an actual emergency, and the FUBAR that was now the Brown Athletics account certainly qualified as that. But damnit, regrouping and realigning his life notwithstanding, right now she needed Brian's face in front of the client and she couldn't locate him. His cell phone was apparently disconnected and, although she had left messages on his home phone, he wasn't returning her calls. She was keeping him up to date by email but she had no way of knowing if he was even accessing that. Jesus, what a mess! At this point there were only two options: go to the loft and confront Brian personally, or call Michael. Closing her eyes and blowing out the air she'd been holding in her cheeks in aggravation, she knew she had to take option one. The loft it had to be - she couldn't stand Brian's ‘best friend' and she had fielded enough of his calls this past week.

As Cynthia collected the necessary files and paperwork before heading to Brian's loft, she heard her office door open and a very insistent Michael Novotny, with full whine effect, started his demands. "Cynthia, tell Brian I need to see him now."

"I'm sorry, Michael, but Brian is unavailable at the moment." Cynthia instinctively went into personal assistant protective mode. No way was she giving up any information about Brian to Novotny. "Would you like to leave a message?" God, what did Brian see in this man? She was aware of the long history, but she was never able to fathom the friendship between these two. They were light years apart in their intellect, interest, sense of humor... Even their appearance screamed incompatibility to her. She just didn't get it.

"Listen, Cynthia, I am going to see him. I've not seen him or talked to him for over three weeks." As Michael said this, he slumped down onto the small sofa in Cynthia's office. It sounded so unbelievable when he actually said it out loud. He knew things had still been a little strained between Brian and him lately; had been since before the Babylon attack. But this... this was... "He isn't answering my calls, his cell has apparently been disconnected, and his loft seemed abandoned when I was there earlier. I need to see him."

"Michael, I can't..." She started to repeat the company line, and then caught what Michael was saying. She really wasn't sure she had heard Michael correctly. "Excuse me, Michael. You said his loft looked abandoned? What do you mean by that?"

"I mean abandoned, Cynthia. Not lived in. Empty. Utilities turned off. Food rotting in the fridge. Layers of dust. Abandoned!"

The woman was stunned. What the hell? She slumped back into her chair and stared blankly for a moment at the man across the room from her. But only for a moment. ‘Okay,' she thought to herself. ‘There has to be a reasonable explanation.'

"Michael, are you sure about the loft? Maybe the power was out temporarily. I know about the cell phone, but I was hoping that was some problem with his carrier."

"Well, a power outage might explain the lights in his apartment, but not the rotting food in the fridge. It also wouldn't explain why the lights were still on in the hall, or why the elevator was still running. Wouldn't the whole building be without electric service in a power outage and not just Brian's loft?" Uncharacteristically, Michael had already thought around these arguments in his own head. He had argued the issue with himself to the point of a major headache.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right there," Cynthia conceded. "But let's think about this for a minute. I'll be honest, Michael, Brian hasn't been in the office for a couple of weeks. He was barely holding it together the week before that. With everything that has upended his life during the last couple of months, he was burning out." Recalling the vacant look in Brian's eyes when he said he was staying home for a few days, and the exhaustion evident in his whole demeanor the week after Justin left, she wanted to kick herself for not doing more. Something. Anything!

The first thing we have to do, Cynthia told herself, is to find Brian. Getting answers as to what was going on was secondary. Understanding his lack of communication would come later- finding him was primary goal. And the most logical place for Brian to be under these circumstances would be New York. With Justin.

"What about Justin? That seems the logical place to look right now." Cynthia searched Michael's face, hoping to find... something. "Have you talked to him?"

Michael's face turned pouty, but he answered simply, "no."

"What about Gus in Canada?"

Again, Michael looked sheepishly at Cynthia. "No. I thought he would be here."

The rest of that declaration went unsaid, but Cynthia heard it just the same. Michael thought Brian was ignoring him. And just when she was beginning to admire the man for thinking outside of his selfishness.

"Well, it looks like I've got some calls to make." She picked up the phone and began dialing. "Justin, this is Cynthia. Please call me back as soon as you get this message. It's urgent. Call my cell if you can't reach me at Kinnetik. Let me give you the number." As she rattled off her cell phone number, she said a little prayer that it would be Brian returning the call and shrugged off the immediate certainty that it wouldn't be. Things just didn't feel right.

*******

Marvin Trainor looked down again at one of the samples in this young man's portfolio. They were obviously good - not as good as many he had seen, but very good nonetheless. There was a passion, an inspired quality discernible about the paintings that spoke to him even through the photographs the young man presented. But there just were too few of them. The boy had potential. What he didn't know was if it spoke of artistic stamina and vision. Based upon the limited sampling with which he had been presented, and if indeed this was evidence of the whole body of work available, he just wasn't ready to take on this young man as a client.

"These are very good, Mr. Taylor. Inspired. Passionate." He paused dramatically, looking up at Justin, before adding, "I assume you have others." The last was definitely a statement rather than an inquiry. And this was the roadblock Justin continued to run into every time. The lack of volume in his repertoire. Without a suitable place, or any place, to continue his painting right now, he was limited in what he could offer. They all liked his work. They just didn't like that he didn't have enough of it. For all they knew, these pieces could be flukes of temporary inspiration and the rest of his offerings could be for shit. He knew. He understood. He just wasn't ready for the big leagues.

Taking Justin's silence for exactly what it was, Marvin Trainor spoke again. "Mr. Taylor, by no means do I want to negate the impressive quality of your work. I will honestly admit that it shows great potential. There are a few pieces which veritably border upon genius. You and I both know that. But..."

"I need more," Justin interjected.

"Quite frankly, yes. You need more."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Trainor. I want you to know I truly appreciate your candor." The young artist smiled openly to assure the man of his sincerity and reached out to shake the agent's hand. "At the moment, however, I am a bit limited in my ability to increase my portfolio by my need to eat." Justin's face flushed with the embarrassing admission as he gathered his things to leave. Both men were painfully aware of the irony in his truth - the Catch-22 of the starving artist.

It was much later that Justin picked up the phone to call home. He was admitting defeat. This was all a mistake. At the least he was going to call a truce in this war to succeed, regroup and hopefully live to fight another day. Right now he needed to talk to Brian, to just hear his voice and refresh his spirit. Feel protected again. It had been over three weeks since he had spoken with him and he was angry that he hadn't forced himself to find time to call before now. Yes, he was exhausted beyond what he thought he could handle, and yes, Brian had urged him to give himself time to settle into city life before he talked to him again, but he should have ignored all that. He knew it for the bullshit it was and he knew it when Brian said it. He should have called.

As he picked up his phone, ignoring the voice mail notice, he dialed the most familiar number in his world - and his heart clenched at what he heard.    

*******

Sitting silently in a booth as far back as the diner would allow, Cynthia and Michael were both trying to make some logical sense of the unbelievable scenario that was playing out. Lost in trying to understand the condition of the loft they had just left, Cynthia spilled the coffee she hadn't really wanted in the first place, startled when her phone rang. Glancing at the ID, she grimaced and sighed loudly as she pressed the TALK button.

"Justin, thank go..." She was cut off mid word by Justin's frantic voice.

"Cynthia, what the hell is going on? I just tried to call Brian and his phone is disconnected? Then I heard your message saying it was urgent that I call you. What's happening? Is Brian alright? Is he hurt?" Oh, god. She knew now that Brian wasn't with Justin, and from the tears and concern apparent in Justin's voice, she also knew he had no idea where Brian could be. This was going to be a very difficult conversation, for both parties.

"Justin, please. Slow down. I need to tal..."

"Slow down? What the FUCK is going on there?" Christ, he couldn't concentrate. Brian was hurt, or sick, or... He couldn't even imagine the rest of that thought. ‘God, no, please,' he thought.

Knowing without a doubt what the response would be, Cynthia still had to ask, "Justin, is Brian with you?"

"Of course he's not with me, Cynthia. I haven't seen or talked with him in over three weeks. I'm in New York, for chrissakes! I'm going to ask you again. What. Is. Going. On?" Questions about whether Brian was ill, hurt, alive or dead began twisting together in Justin's soul. Panic was closing in quickly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted to himself.

"We can't find him, Justin. We don't know where he is and he hasn't been seen by any of us, as far as we can tell, for two weeks now. I haven't talked to him in over a week. His cell is disconnected, he isn't responding to his email and...," she really, really didn't want to tell Justin the rest of this. "...and his loft appears to have been abandoned."

"WHAT?" Anger, fear, panic and incredulity all flew into that one, single shouted word.

"Jus..."

"WHAT?" Justin repeated. "Abandoned? The loft? And how do you just lose your boss, Cynthia? For over two weeks?"

"Justin! Stop! This isn't helping anything," Cynthia snapped back.

Justin sighed and wiped the moisture from his eyes. Cynthia was right. Attacking her wasn't helping matters. Find Brian first and then he would let whatever shit hit whatever fan it wanted to. "I'm sorry, Cynthia. This is just so... confusing...terrifying, actually. He has to be in some kind of trouble. I'm just... I... I don't know what I am," Justin confessed. "Have you called the police yet?"

"I wanted to make sure he wasn't with you first, Justin."

"Then call Carl. He won't treat it as just another fag issue. Call him now. " Justin quietly added, "I'll be there as soon as I can."  

*******

On the other side of the city, the tall, slender man jerked awake violently, his heart hammering in his chest, and shouted: "Christ's name!" He knew it was only a dream. More a nightmare, really, but the terrors didn't settle upon waking. He rose from the small bed in the darkened room, reached his arms behind his head and pulled off his t-shirt, now soaked from his own sweat. His hand shook as he ran it through his too-long auburn hair, wiping the bangs away from his forehead, automatically reminding himself that he needed to get it cut soon. Chuffing out a humorless little laugh that he could even have such a mundane thought when his heart was still pounding as it was, he reached his still shaking hand toward the pack of Pall Malls lying on the wide sill of the bedroom window. Bringing a silver lighter up to the cheap, harsh cigarette, he thought (not for the first time) how apropos the inscription on it was.

Ignite your Rage.

What a fucking strange and somehow fitting inscription. Especially tonight. When he first found the heavy lighter tucked in the pocket of his jeans he wondered where it came from. He certainly didn't buy it, he knew that much. He could barely afford the rent on this tiny shithole of an apartment, much less an obviously expensive thing like this. But he could see the irony in the inscription. Ignite your Rage. He could feel it simmering deep in his gut. Again. Closing his eyes and taking a few deep, cleansing breaths he visualized reaching deep into that gut and locking the unwelcome emotion behind a solid metal door. He visualized calm, peace. Those things he needed as desperately as he needed air. He sat on the side of the single bed, opened the drawer on the bedside table and pulled out his Bible, letting it fall open to a random page. Looking down at the open book, his eyes fell upon a marked passage: "The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen and protect you from the evil one." *

The evil one. Protect me from the evil one. Protect me. Protect...

He just didn't want to face the fear again. Not again tonight. Protection...

With a slight roll of his shoulders, a small shift in the set of his head, Mac slipped into a quiet nothingness.

Rising from the edge of the bed, a man walked with a purpose to the closet, pulling out the first shirt and pants he touched and dressed silently in the dark of the bedroom. Striding into the small living room he picked up the apartment keys from the coffee table, exited the apartment, walked the dark and empty streets, settling onto a stool at the first bar he came across. And he drank...

*******

*(2 Thes 3:3) 

"Ms. Moore, Michael. I understand that you both are concerned about Brian, but the man's an adult. If he wants to disappear, he has that right. You have to admit, his life has been pretty...well... colorful, and he has a tendency to do things his own way. I don't know what you expect me to do at this point. There's no evidence that any crime has been committed, of any foul play."

Carl Horvath, standing with Michael in front of the desk in Cynthia Moore's office, was a bit at a loss. Brian Kinney had always been a bit of a loose cannon. He knew that from personal experience. He'd helped him out of a couple of pretty serious scrapes over the last couple of years.

"Detective Horvath, he's just gone!" Cynthia began again, her exasperation evident in her voice. "Brian is the owner and CEO of a very successful business in this city. One that he invested everything in to get off the ground. He has a son, a very strong relationship with this crazy family of his. He is involved deeply in his community, whether he admits it or not. He nearly went bankrupt taking down the last police chief, for god sake! This is not an irresponsible man! Colorful, yes. Capricious at times, yes. But he is not irresponsible! Not where his family and his business are concerned."

Michael had been silent through most of the conversation with Carl, simply answering questions and offering what input he could when needed. ‘Brian is missing.' The thought played on an endless loop in his head like some other-worldly mantra. But it wasn't calming, it was paralyzing. He was so fucking confused! He walked toward the window looking out over the parking lot, expecting to see the ‘Vette parked in its regular spot. The ‘Vette... wait...

Turning around to again face the others in the room, Michael's eyes begged the detective, "Carl, can we track Brian's car?"

"What?"

"Can we track Brian's car? Could they put out one of those bulletin things and look for his car?  If we find it maybe we can find him." Michael had absolutely no experience with actual police work, but it sounded good.

"Michael, I have to have a reason to track his car. Honestly, I could file a missing person report and do it that way, but you do know that if we take that route, the press will have a field day. Police reports are public record, and, well...frankly a missing Brian Kinney is news."From experience Carl knew exactly what the press would do with that kind of story, given Brian's identity. A prominent gay businessman, the Babylon bombing, the bashing, the Stockwell connection, Brian's personal life...Christ. It would be a circus.

"Well, we have to do something!" Fuck, he didn't want to cry right now. Overwhelmed with his own inability to do something -anything - he turned back to the window and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His fingers instinctively wrapped around a small square of paper still in his pocket from early that morning. He pulled out the sticky note.

"Shit," he said under his breath. Michael held his hand out to the detective. "Carl, I totally forgot. I found this on Brian's counter this morning. I can't read it and it isn't Brian's handwriting. I don't know why I took it, but it might be something."

Smoothing the crumpled note, Carl looked over the crisply written words and placed the paper securely in his pocket.

"It's late. I suggest that you two go home," Carl sighed. "Now, I don't want to put this into the police files at this point. Like I said, the press would have it on the front page by morning. But I know a guy...an investigator...who might be able to keep it quiet. I'll let you know tomorrow."

As Carl settled himself in his car, he looked toward the empty space where Brian's own car should have been parked, wondering if he was making a mistake not turning this in as a missing person. There really wasn't enough evidence to assume a crime had taken place, but it didn't feel kosher, either. But, if Brian was in trouble, a couple of hours could make a lot of difference. "Damn," he swore aloud. What a mess.

*******

The absurdity of his situation hadn't entirely escaped him. Coming home and he didn't even know where home was. Literally and figuratively. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of homelessness that had absolutely nothing to do with brick or mortar. It had everything to do with blood and bone and hazel and auburn. And gut-wrenching fear...

He sat silently in Cynthia's small, elegantly appointed kitchen, vacantly staring at the spoon resting next to his left hand, a pinkie finger reaching out occasionally to tilt it slightly this way or that. Wanting desperately to scream or throw the damned spoon across the room in frustration - or just cry again - he said instead, "The tea is good."

"Kava. I discovered it on a trip to... somewhere... a few years ago. Supposed to be calming."

 He huffed out a small laugh. "Yeah, well, I guess we need that."

"Justin," she began. "We'll find him." The anguish she felt pouring out of every fiber of the young man threatened to break what was left of her own shattered resolve. She swallowed back her fear and cleared her throat and repeated, "We'll find him." It sounded a little more hollow the second time.

Cynthia had already told Justin as much as she knew. Brian's disappearance, the loft, her conversation with Carl Horvath in her office earlier this evening. There really wasn't anything else they could do, at least until morning. Nothing but worry.

Justin rose from the table, picked up his cup and placed it in the sink. "Thanks for the plane ticket, Cynthia, and for letting me stay here tonight. I don't think I could handle the family...Michael..."

"Christ, Justin, you don't have to explain it to me." They both laughed emptily and fell silent again.

"I'm going to stay at the loft tomorrow. We need to get the utilities back on."

"I figured you would want to be there. I'll call the utility companies first thing in the morning. Kinnetic will cover the expense."

"I just need to be there. You know, in case..."

Justin brought his hands to cover his face, a soul wrenching cry escaped him and his shoulders shook. Cynthia walked over and wrapped her arms around the young man, her own tears mixing with his. There just wasn't anything else to say. Not tonight.

*******

Carl Horvath stood at the kitchen sink in the house he shared with Debbie Novotny, drinking his third cup of coffee. He certainly needed it this morning. Had he foolishly thought today would feel any better than yesterday? Right now he'd take getting the skin slowly carved off his tired ass by the chief every day for a month to what he was facing this morning. He liked Brian. He really did. But the boy sure had a way of getting things riled up, that's for certain.  And Deb... Damn, she's was a total guilt-riddled mess. One of ‘her boys' was missing and she hadn't noticed it. Well, suffice it to say home life wouldn't be the same for a while.  

As he drained his cup, Carl felt his phone vibrate. Looking at the ID as he answered, he had an unfamiliar moment of panic.

"Horvath."

"Yeah, Horvath, it's Krawczynski. Found Kinney's car. In impound."

Shit.

"How long?"

"Almost a week. Towed in from over by the Liberty Bridge near the tunnels."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah...keys were in it."

SHIT!

"You get anything on the note?"

"It's Irish. No surprise there. My guy says it was a rough translation, but it means something like ‘May there be peace with you, brother. You protected. We will protect.' Strange as hell, Horvath."

"This whole damn thing is strange. Thanks, Kaz. Fast work. Let me know what else you come up with."

"Yeah, well, Horvath. You'll owe me...Again."  

*******

The man zipped his jeans and picked up the keys lying on the chipped hotel table. Slipping on his shoes, he spared a glance back at the rumpled bed and the red hair splayed out over the cheap pillow before he closed the door and walked back toward the old apartment. The morning sun played havoc with his hangover and he shielded his eyes against it as he reached for the door of the old building. He leaned up against the aged red brick and rested his throbbing head. Rolling his shoulders slightly, he slipped away into black.

Mac blinked his eyes against the bright light of the day and looked around him, confused. Alarm crept into him as he fingered the keys hanging from his right hand.

No.

He wasn't outside. He was inside. It was night.

Christ's name!

Hand trembling, Mac opened the door and ascended the stairs, grateful for the familiar musty smell and the shadowed darkness of the narrow stairwell. It distracted him slightly from the strange stink of his own body - the rank odors of a two dollar whore - and the not knowing. Not knowing why he was stinking. Not knowing why he was outside. Not knowing ... anything anymore. And the fear began to build. There was always the fear.

At least it was familiar.

Cool metal handle beneath his fingers.

The weight of heavy steel pulling against his shoulder.

Sounds of pulleys grinding against thick wire cables.

 The distinctive clang of the stop.

Just opening the loft door flooded Justin's senses. At once so intimately familiar and so painfully foreign. He had gone through this same process a thousand times, sometimes afraid of what he might find on the other side. But, never had he felt the aching emptiness he felt at this very moment. This void. This absence of Brian.

As he entered the loft it just all seemed so very wrong.  Musty. Dark. Dank. Just... wrong.

This is a really nice place.  

But it wasn't now. There was no impressive feeling of an elegant minimalism today, merely starkness. The high ceilings held only ghosts rather than sensual shadow.

I like your kitchen.

But he didn't now. There was no shine or gleam on the stainless steel appliances. There was only a thickening layer of dust. The ever present Granny Smith's now wrinkled and drying in the bowl.

Justin continued to walk through the place that had been more his home than any other place had ever been. A place that had meant safety to him, even when his hold on that safety seemed tenuous. Now it felt so...desolate.  

It just wasn't home right now. Dropping his battered duffle on the floor next to the sofa, Justin turned and walked out of the loft and, once again, closed the metal door.

*******

Waiting in the lobby of Kinnetic, Carl Horvath again looked over the few notes he had made of his conversation with the investigator this morning. Much as he hated to even think it, this wasn't looking good. At all. The fact that Kinney had been missing  for some time, his car abandoned near the river with the keys still inside? No, definitely not a positive sign.  

"Carl?"

Looking up, the detective met the painful gaze of Justin Taylor.

"Justin. I'm glad you're here. I'm getting ready to meet Ms. Moore, but it's probably good that you be in on this, too."

Justin sat on a small settee across from the detective, and absently ran his hand across one of the soft leather arms. Absolutely nothing in his life had prepared him for the kind of confusion, fear and pain that had consumed him since that phone call yesterday. Had it only been one fucking day?

"God this is such shit!"

"I have to agree with you on that, son. But as I promised Ms. Moore yesterday, I've contacted an investigator - man by the name of Krawczynski - rather than turn this over as a police matter at this time."

Justin bit his lip and nodded slightly. "We have to find him, Carl. I can't..."   

"Detective? Ms. Moore will see you now," the young receptionist stated and escorted the men to Brian's office.

As soon as she noticed Justin, Cynthia wondered if meeting in Brian's office was for the best. She couldn't help but see the young man's eyes immediately drawn to the photographs sitting on Brian's desk - one of Brian and his son, another of Brian with his arms playfully around Justin.

"Justin. Will you be okay in here? We can move to my office if it would be more comfortable."

"Cynthia, no. This... this is fine. I'm fine. It's just...difficult, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Cynthia was finding it increasingly difficult, as well.

"Well," the detective began as he sat facing Cynthia across Brian's desk. "I assume you filled Justin in on our discussion yesterday?"

Cynthia sat forward, her forearms resting on the cool glass of Brian's desk, looking down at her clasped fingers and nodded her response. Justin shifted uncomfortably in his seat beside Carl, torn between facing the reality in the room or continuing to stare at the photo of Brian and him - trying to will himself into that moment, that reality. A reality that wasn't broken and twisted into some kind of mockery. He hadn't seen or touched or fucked or even talked to him in over three weeks! Three weeks and a plane ride into some alternate goddamned reality.

"Justin?... Justin?" Cynthia's voice called Justin back.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm okay." He wiped his eyes and reached over to place his hand lightly on the detective's arm. "What do you have, Carl?"

"I was saying that I contacted my investigator last night. Gave him as much information as I had. He's good. Real good.  He contacted me earlier today, and he had run the note through his programs. Seems it's Irish but the message itself is a bit cryptic." Carl opened the small notebook he held in his hand and read, "‘May there be peace with you, brother. You protected. We will protect.' Do either of you have any idea what this might mean?"

"I have no idea, Detective. Are you sure it's related to Brian's disappearance?"

"Ms. Moore, I'm not sure of anything right now. I'm trying to find that out. But we do know the note wasn't written by Brian."

"It wouldn't be unusual for Brian to have odd quotes or phrases around. He's an ad man, always working on some campaign from home. Words and phrases are his life's work." Justin looked toward Cynthia, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

"I don't know of any active campaign we have that would address those words, Justin."

Carl cleared his throat. "There's more. Kaz was able to locate Kinney's car."

"Shit! Carl! That's good, right? Did he find Bri?" Justin jerked forward in his seat and for half a moment he felt warm again. But in the next half of that same moment he felt the warmth seep away again.

"Justin...the car is in impound. Officers found it abandoned almost a week ago and had it towed."

He could feel dread squeezing his throat, suffocating him and he didn't want to hear any more. Couldn't hear it...

"They found it outside the tunnels next to Liberty Bridge. Next to the Monogahela." Carl fought back his own bit of pain, knowing the implications of what he was saying. And he knew the next part would only make the implication stronger.

"The keys were still in the ignition."

Not even the whisper of a breath could be heard in the room as Cynthia and Justin both sat stunned.  But it was only a moment. Cynthia's quiet sob broke through the thickness of the silence that had settled around them. "Oh my god..." Justin's body stiffened and he raised his head, an odd little smile playing at the corners of his lips. He looked into Carl's eyes and huffed out a small, gentle laugh.

"You think...you think he..." Justin laughed full-on and shook his head. He stood up, walked to the corner of Brian's desk and picked up the photograph of him in Brian's arms. His fingers traced the face of the beautiful, complicated man.

"No. Fucking. Way."

"Justin, we don't know anything," Carl tried to sound reasonable.

"You're right, Carl. You don't know anything. But I do. I DO!" Justin's nervous humor had changed rapidly into rage, his body vibrating with it.

"THIS!" He held the photograph out toward Carl and Cynthia. "This man is not dead! I would know! I would feel it! I would...I..."His words trailing off, every remaining ounce of the young man's resolve crumbled. His body wracked by quiet sobs, he clutched the photograph to his chest, and with a soft keening moan, he sank to his knees.

*******

He recited the passage again. One more time. Protect you from the evil one.* ‘Lord,' he prayed again silently, ‘help me.' Pressing his hands against the worn and faded pages of the book lying before him on the small table, he felt the fear - his oldest friend - once more settle down inside him. A small broken laugh rose from his throat. His oldest friend. His only friend. His frenemy.

He couldn't remember. The nights, the days. They all blurred together and teased him with something...hinted at something. But he could never remember. From one moment to the next it seemed he was always becoming again, as if he was and wasn't at the same time. The Father had told him... Was it The Father? The Father had told him something important, something important about a first time. But he couldn't remember anymore. Fuck!

Rising from the table and placing the worn book back into the drawer, Mac turned to the window. He re-lit the half smoked cigarette that lay in the ashtray and sucked the poison deep into his lungs. It helped. The smoke. It's all smoke. And mirrors. Smoke and mirrors, he thought. A fantasy. A pretending. A fakery.

A protection.

As he stood inhaling and staring out at the darkening streets, he pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering about the alien familiarity of the gesture. He knew he couldn't remember much anymore. Had he ever? Last week? Was there a before last week? Christ's name! He hated this fear. There was just so fuckin' much of it!

With a single tear marking his cheek, Mac gave his shoulders the slightest shrug and fell again into the black.

The man stubbed out the burnt cigarette, closed his eyes and leaned his wet cheek against the glass of the small window for a moment, gathering the coolness into his skin. Squaring his shoulders, he pulled back and made his way to the small bedside table, pulling out the well used Bible. He removed a small photograph hiding itself in the back flap, tossed the book aside and returned to the window. Picking up the small silver lighter, he read the familiar inscription with a sharp glint in his hazel eyes.Ignite your Rage...indeed. The photograph - a rumpled man holding a small boy - slowly turned to ash with the flick of the man's thumb. As he placed the burned reminder in the ashtray, he grimly whispered, "Sonny Boy says burn in hell, Jack. It's where the evil one belongs."

Sonny Boy replaced the lighter on the window sill, grabbed a worn jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away from his deed. He needed a drink. Or three.

*(2 Thess 3:3)

Kaz rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and leaned back, exasperated, into the mesh of the only expensive piece of office furniture he owned. Sitting for any length of time always gave him a migraine, and with the paperwork involved in his business he might as well have been a frigging school teacher. So he splurged. On a fuck-ugly, shamefully expensive ergo chair. And he loved the goddamned thing.

Right now, he was more than thankful for the purchase. Resting back on the head bar, he tried to focus on this latest case. He was familiar with Brian Kinney. If you were a gay man in Pittsburgh, you at least knew the name, and you probably knew a hell of a lot more than that. He lived out and proud and never made apologies for who he was or what he did. People envied him his success and his lifestyle. Hell, Kaz himself had been known to envy the man. He was an open book and led a charmed life.

Except that he wasn't and he didn't.   

Only one day of intensive research had turned up so many anomalies in Kinney's life, and holes in his public persona, that the investigation was beginning to look like an archeological dig. The information Kaz had given to Horvath this morning was not even the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Kinney had a number of arrests to his credit, a childhood medical history that read like War and Peace, and an apparent penchant for maintaining bank accounts and sub-par rentals all over the county under various names. How could someone this public fly this far under the radar?

For an out and proud gay man, Kinney had a fuckload of secrets.

*******

As Justin turned on the lights and walked into the open space of the loft he just felt empty. An empty that reached so far down he didn't think there could be an end to it. How could one's life become so desolate, so completely unrecognizable in just a little over twenty-four hours? But it really hadn't been only that long. The desolation had started when he left for New York. He just hadn't been aware of it at the time.

He walked over and picked up the duffle he had abandoned that morning and walked to the bedroom, tossing the bag on the floor and his body on the bed. Justin simply had no energy to do this right now and didn't know if he could find the reserves upon which to draw. He was just fucking raw. And he didn't want to cry - again. He was Brian Kinney's partner... boyfriend...whateverthefuckhewas... Shit!!  But the tears did come and Justin allowed himself to feel the pain. For Brian. For himself. And for the fools they had both been.

As Justin wiped his eyes, he forced his exhausted body from the bed and began the job of putting Brian's loft back into order. There was no way Brian could come back to find his home in this condition. And he would come back. Soon. Making a mental note to make sure the cleaning service came tomorrow Justin still felt he had to do something now. He walked down the steps into the open room of the loft, his eyes scanning, noting the confusion of papers on Brian's desk and the haphazard pile of books and DVDs lying on the floor in front of their shelving. Brian had always been meticulous about keeping his things in order. He would start there. A tangible beginning to an unknown ending.

*******

The calls had been made first thing in the next morning. Since Carl had made the requests, rather than Debbie, each family member saw it as much more a demand than a request. Yes, they all agreed, they would be there. By nine a.m., everyone was present, indulging in coffee and breakfast at the Novotny table. A few - Justin, Cynthia, Michael, Ben - knew the import of this meeting. The rest of them could sense it. Some sensed it in the tension drawn across Carl's face, some in the way that Debbie reigned in her normally effusive behavior, and some in the way Justin actually looked older than his years. The one clue that allof them picked up on was the presence of Justin and the absence of Brian.

Emmett was the first to break the silence.

"Debbie, sweetie, what's going on? And...where's our Mr. Kinney this morning?"

Debbie took one deep breath and tried to square her shoulders. Justin moved closer, gripping tightly to her hand. "Carl...I..."

"It's okay, honey. I'll talk," Carl reassured her. And he did. As Justin paled and closed his eyes. As tears ran down the faces of Cynthia and Debbie. As Ben cradled Michael, his husband's shoulders slightly shaking with quiet sobs.

By the time Carl had finished relating how Brian's car had been found, the murmurs and cries of disbelief had stopped and a shocked silence had fallen upon the group. Jennifer caught her son's eyes and was immediately crushed by the weight of pain she found in them. As she rose and hugged her son, hot tears flowing between them, the rest of the group began to breathe again, painfully.

Emmett again found his voice first. "Has anyone called Lindsey?" he asked quietly.

Justin responded, carefully, "We haven't told them what's going on, but we did find out that Brian hasn't been there. Until we know more..."His words trailed off as Carl spoke again.

"Actually, Justin, I would like to speak with you privately for a moment if I could."

Justin squeezed his mother's hand and nodded slightly toward the back door. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply as they stepped outside. "You have more, Carl." There was no question in his words, only a uneasy certainty.

"Yes, well... I do have a bit more information." As he held out a fax sheet he continued, "I received this from the investigator early this morning at the station. Please, read the whole thing first. Then we'll talk."

The young man took the single sheet, his hands shaking visibly, and read silently.

Re: Preliminary investigation into the missing person, Brian A. Kinney...

The trembling in his hands increasing with each written line of the report, Justin vainly tried to reconcile the man he had loved for over five years with the man reflected in the words he was reading:

Six arrests... four juvenile... sealed by the court... six month detention... Shuman Juvenile Detention Center... adult arrest... vagrancy and panhandling... fifteen ER visits prior to age 18... four known residences... seven bank accounts located...

Shit.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

"Fuck... There have to be some serious... mistakes... here, Carl. Arrested six times? Six months in juvie? All these residences and bank accounts? Fifteen fucking hospital visits in eighteen years!?" He walked over to the fence and leaned his head against it, his body sagging.

"Kaz is going to check into this further, son," Carl offered, his hand on Justin's shoulder. "I don't know what to say at this point. I take it you didn't know all of this?"

"I didn't know most of this, Carl! This...this just can't be..." He stubbed out the cigarette, turned around and looked at his friend. In a broken voice he whispered, "Carl, I don't think I even knew this man."

"I don't think any of us knew him, son. I'm fairly sure that if Michael or Deb were aware of any of this before, they wouldn't have been able to keep it quiet."

"Carl, Brian wouldn't want..."

"None of this goes any further than us right now. Like I said, Kaz is looking into it. But... you're his partner, Justin. You deserved to know."

The young man gave an almost imperceptible nod of thanks toward the detective as he wondered just when the hell their lives had entered the Twilight Zone.

Debbie and Jennifer were robotically clearing away the evidence of the mostly uneaten breakfast when the two men re-entered the kitchen. Carl walked over and wrapped his arms tightly around the normally irrepressible red-head. He knew she was hurting. He knew she felt deeply for all her lost boys - Brian in particular. But he wasn't quite sure how to deal with the quiet, controlled woman she had become as she realized the extent of the situation they were facing. How did he deal with someone who almost seemed to be in mourning?

"We'll find him, honey," he finally said, and Debbie clutched him even more tightly. "We'll find him."

What Carl couldn't see - what none of them could see - was the weight of guilt that was bearing down on Debbie Novotny's soul. Guilt for letting one of her boys slip away. Guilt for every ‘asshole' she could remember having tossed out at Brian. Guilt for the anger she was now feeling toward him for pulling yet another asshole stunt, even as she also knew he could be suffering. The twisted push-pull of blaming Brian for every wrong she could and loving him, as well.

They all had their guilt, their Brian-demons to battle. And as Carl Horvath answered his cell phone, they remained blissfully unaware that very soon they would be thrown into the middle of Brian's own personal war - and none of them would remain unscathed.

*******

Kaz sat in the booth waiting for the other two men to arrive, staring at the subject of his current investigation and thinking how very much more fucked up things were about to get. He didn't think he'd ever been more thankful for the crap lighting that seemed obligatory in these small bars. Kinney wouldn't recognize him, he was sure of that. He'd never tricked with him, never done business with him. The clubs hadn't been his scene while he was on the force - for obvious reasons - and he had never gotten into them when he went private. Sure, he'd visited a couple of the clubs a time or two, but he was very discrete. No, there was no reason for Kinney to recognize him. But he would recognize his companions when they arrived. Yeah, he was really thankful for really bad bar lighting.

It had been almost too easy. It hadn't taken him long to turn up a shitload of unexpected information on Kinney when he started investigating. And that info had brought him right to Kinney in record time. But as surprising as some of the information he found had been, what he was watching right now was a hell of a lot more surprising.

He turned when he saw the door open out of the corner of his eye, and discretely signaled to the two men entering.

"Carl. Glad you could make it so fast."

"Kaz, thanks for calling. This is Justin Taylor, Brian Kinney's partner. Justin, this is Kaz Krawczynski, the investigator I contacted." As Carl Horvath motioned to Justin, the investigator nodded in acknowledgment at the young man and moved over a bit on the round booth seat.

"You said there was something we needed to see? You found Kinney?" Carl questioned.

The investigator nodded, his face twisted in a bewildered frown. "Yeah. But I have to warn you. This is not the Brian Kinney you may think you know."

"Mr. Krawczynski, I appreciate what you have done. Are doing." Justin stared at the man beside Carl and, with as much strength as his exhausted state would afford him, stated, "But just tell us where Brian is."

Kaz looked over the young man. He had learned to read people well while he was on the force. One of those necessary by-products of being a cop. The body language he was seeing told him that this Justin Taylor was scared shitless but meant business. The determined look in his eyes also told him that he was a strong little fuck. Okay...

The investigator slowly brought his beer to his lips and took a long drink before pointing the bottle toward the other side of the room, to a table near an old fashioned jukebox.

"There," he stated simply. "Kinney."

Justin and Carl both looked in the direction pointed out by their companion. Both men stared for a long moment, somewhat stunned by what they saw. Carl was the first to speak.

"Holy shit."

Sonny Boy had that drink - or three. In the early morning he was still having them. A celebration of the ignited rage in his soul and the burning of Jack in effigy, the symbolic destruction of the evil one. Never again. Never. Mac had been so tired, so afraid. Struggling so hard to just remember. Sonny wasn't going to allow that. Had to prevent that. Had to protect them. Protect them all. His brothers all. He would let them sleep and he would remember. He would burn Jack as many times as necessary. And then he would forget.

And his forgetfulness lay in the taste at the bottom of a bottle. In the smell of cheap perfume and cologne. In the tightening feel of warm thighs around his waist. In the sound of his own racing heart. In the smell of sex and booze.

The laughter of the woman on his lap brought him back from those thoughts. Be here now, he reminded himself. Nothing exists but here. Now. This. She wasn't exactly pretty. Or young. But she was here and now and she was offering forgetfulness. And Sonny was taking her up on her offer. Protection demanded it.

She ground herself down upon Sonny's lap. He was too far into drink to respond fully, but he soaked in her attention - his hands tangled in the short, dark hair, his mouth devouring her painted red one. He almost didn't feel the slight touch on his shoulder or hear the broken almost-whisper.

"Brian?"

He threw off the hand with a shrug, clutched the dark hair tighter in his own hands and laughingly buried his face in the cleavage exposed by an unbuttoned blouse. Another broken word. Louder.

"Brian?"

Sonny sighed and clenched his jaw. Cocking his head slightly he stared into the blue eyes of the young blond man at his side.

"I think you may be mistakin' me for another," came the soft brogue and a smile up at the man. "I'm not this Brian you are looking for."

Justin stood frozen, looking down into the now glassy hazel eyes of Brian Kinney. He took in the cheap plaid shirt and the grimy jeans, the gelled hair slicked back from that beautiful face.

"You are Brian Kinney."

"Did you not hear me the first time? I'm not this Brian, ‘tho it is a good Irish name." Sonny laughed. Turning his attention back to the woman on his lap, he dismissed the young man.

Confusion written on his face, Justin turned to Carl and Kaz. "What the..."

"Like I said, not the Brian Kinney you thought you knew," Kaz offered. He had been watching Brian for over two hours and nothing about his actions or speech reflected the legendary stud. Kaz had begun to wonder if this actually was Brian, if he had perhaps made a mistake. But...if his own partner thought this was Brian?

The three men didn't move. They simply stood and watched while the man they knew as Brian Kinney behaved and sounded like anyone but.

Sonny could feel the eyes on him. Could smell the confusion, even fear rolling off the men. A chill ran down his spine. A too familiar feeling began to build in his gut.

"Never again," he whispered to himself as he moved the woman from his lap and rose from the chair. There was no laughing demeanor about him now. Nothing casual about his stance. Shoulders back, he brought himself to his full height, feet slightly apart, hands fisted by his side. He was prepared for their attack.

"Gentlemen, I am not your Brian Kinney. I'll not say it again. Now you have no business with me."

Justin knew those eyes, the flecks of green flashing. The eyes of an angry Brian. Why Brian was behaving like this, he didn't know. Disappearing, denying who he was, making out with a woman, for fuck sake?

Justin started to move toward Brian as Carl put his restraining hand on his arm. But he had to try once more.

"What's going on, Bri? What happened?"

Sonny's arm came up across Justin's throat as he pushed and pinned the young man to the back wall of the bar, knocking over the chair as he moved. Even in his shock at Brian's actions, Justin saw it - one flicker of fear and pain, one hint of his Brian crossed hazel eyes. For the briefest of moments. In the seconds it took Kaz and Carl to reach Brian and pull him from Justin, it was gone. Just the anger there now.

"I'm not him," Sonny claimed again, almost in a whisper. And again, "I'm not him."

Then a collapse into total blackness.

*******

He sat and waited. It seemed an eternity that he'd been here, although that ugly institutional wall clock told him it had only been a couple of hours. Sitting in the hard, blue plastic chair, one of many in a line of bolted-together hard, blue plastic chairs, made the time pass much more slowly. He had too much time to think and he would rather not do a lot of that right now. ER waiting rooms didn't have a lot in the way of distractions, which he thought odd. Where better to place distractions than in a room full of people worried about someone injured or ill? And shitfuck, he was worried. Everything was a damned mess.  

Justin and Carl hadn't contacted the family yet. Knowing what a madhouse the waiting room would become when that crowd descended, they decided to wait until they at least knew something. Anything. Carl had gone to the station, Justin having promised to call him as soon as he had anything to relate. Kaz had accompanied Justin to the hospital, but had since gone home. Now that Brian had been found, his part of the drama was essentially over. Justin had the stray thought that he needed to properly thank the man for his quick work. But right now he had other things to worry about. Brian. God, what the fuck was happening? The inactivity pulled heavily on Justin's eyelids and he gave up the struggle and closed them.

He was dreaming, he knew that on some cognitive level. He felt trapped, locked inside some complicated Chinese tangram, trying desperately to fit all the pieces together to make the image appear again. But the fit was off. Some small pieces were broken and, no matter how they were forced together, the resulting image seemed cracked - fractured.

"Who is here for Brian Kinney?"

Justin had been lost in his dreams of Chinese puzzles and broken pieces when the voice broke through the near silence of the room. Startled from his sleep, he jerked his head up quickly to see a fortyish man in green scrubs standing in the double doorway separating the waiting room from the ER proper. Quickly getting to his feet, his heart racing with thoughts of Brian's condition, he answered breathlessly, "I'm his partner, Justin Taylor. I also have his medical POA."

"Mr. Taylor, I'm Dr. Patterson, attending in ER. I just wanted to bring you up to date on what little we know at this point. Mr. Kinney is still unconscious and that concerns me somewhat, although I suspect the alcohol in his system is one of the culprits there. We've run blood tests and are waiting for results on those." The doctor looked down, leafing through paperwork he held in his hand. "Based upon information provided to us by the first responders regarding some disorientation and confusion on Mr. Kinney's part prior to his loss of consciousness, we also performed a CT scan and, as well, we are waiting for the result from neurology on that front to rule out head trauma or other pathology. Of course, he will be admitted based upon his continued lack of consciousness."

"Dr. Patterson, this is more than ‘some disorientation and confusion', as you stated! My partner went missing over a week ago, abandoning his car, his home and his business. When the investigator found him, he was in a bar making out with a woman, for Christ's sake, adamantly claiming he wasn't Brian Kinney! He was speaking with a freaking Irish accent!" Justin was beginning to melt down. Anger at everything that was happening to Brian, as well as the stress of the past couple of days exploded inside him and he was just too raw to keep it from leaching out. No, shouting at the doctor wasn't productive, but it sure as hell felt cathartic right now.  "Right before he lost consciousness, he got physically violent with me and had to be restrained. He was a total stranger..."

Tears wet Justin's face and he collapsed back into the hard, blue plastic chair, exhausted. The doctor eased himself down into an adjoined chair and placed his hand on Justin's shoulder. He just let the young man cry.

"Mr. Taylor, I know this is stressful - has been stressful. At this point - without more information - there simply is no way of knowing what is going on with your partner. It would be unprofessional of me to even hazard a guess at this juncture. I do promise that we will do everything we can."   

Justin wiped his face and took one, two deep breaths to calm himself. God. He knew this wasn't about his own fucking issues or his own fucking stress or how fucking tired he was. Right now was about Brian. Only about Brian.

"Can I be with him?"

"Of course. I'll take you back."

*******

Cynthia Moore placed the investigator's report back on her desk, walked over to the credenza and poured herself a Kettle 1. A little early, she thought to herself, but what the hell. What's a little vodka before noon, eh? Some of the most concrete facts of life as she had come to know it had been shredded lately, so who was she to worry about some socially constructed drinking rule?

Although Carl wanted to keep the information Kaz had discovered between himself and Justin, Justin felt it only fair Cynthia be included in the knowledge. After all, she was essentially running Brian's businesses at the moment and the information in the reports could have some potentially wide-sweeping effects financially, and he knew she would keep it to herself. It wasn't the financial information on the report that had Cynthia downing alcohol this morning, however. Even if finding out that Brian was apparently secretly squirreling his money away all over the State of Pennsylvania was a bit of a shock, the arrest record in Illinois from 1994 was the gut wrencher.

How could she forget that year and all its drama? The year Brian made ad exec at Ryder. The year she became his secretary. The year she kind of fell in love with him. Well, not kind of - and she did recover quickly. But the strong personal and professional bonds between them began to forge that year as they worked on the Simpson Steel account. Everything was going along great on the account, research had been done, the most creative presentation in Ryder history was ready to go. Brian flew to Chicago, clinched the deal - and disappeared. Not a word from him for four days. Then she got the call that he had been injured and would be coming back to work in a week. Marty nearly canned him for that little hiatus, but of course, Kinney charm won out and the rest is history.

Cynthia had strongly suspected then that there was no ‘injury'. Of course, she suspected he was off tricking, not that he was in jail.

That Brian was damaged was obvious to Cynthia when she began working closely with him. Something in the roll of his shoulders. In his eyes. In the way his behavior and attention would shift almost imperceptibly at times. Flirtatious and focused one moment and then suddenly gruff and... lost? One minute diligently sketching out his latest brainstorm and the next gripping his hair with one hand and staring, almost painfully, into nothing.

Simpson Steel was the first large solo account he worked on and the stress was intense. She knew Brian was a genius at advertising and she had always chalked his eccentricities of behavior up to that. Weren't geniuses always a little on the odd side? And he always recovered magnificently. That almost instantaneous ability to recover that was to become the linchpin of the Brian Kinney mystique. Never let them see you without your mask. But the mask apparently slipped on that trip to Chicago.

She sat back at her desk and again looked over the report. February, 1994. Arrested in Illinois for vagrancy and panhandling. Fuck. Juvenile detention at the age of fourteen, March, 1984. Ten years apart.

What the fuck happened to you, Brian Kinney?

Kaz relaxed in his beloved ergo-chair with his second (of many, he hoped) cold Corona. As he pushed the slice of lime further down the long neck of the bottle, he went back over the encounter in the breeder bar with Kinney and his partner. It kept replaying like some bad Lifetime movie in perpetual reruns in his head. That the kid was stunned seeing his partner all but fucking that woman in public was a no-brainer. He'd never heard even the slightest rumor that Kinney swung both ways, and Horvath and the kid's reactions pretty much confirmed that he didn't. But he obviously did. Shit. Talk about your gossip fodder. If he was so inclined, he could have the gossip grannies set for the next couple of months. But, alas, he wasn't so inclined. Not only did he value his reputation as an investigator, but he had that distinctive gut knowledge that there was a whole fucking iceberg beneath the little tip they saw today.

He flipped open his cell phone and thumbed through the contacts, hitting one he hoped would be able to help him clarify some things. He flinched only a little as he waited for an answer on the other end. Kaz knew his official work on this job was finished and anything he did from here on out would be on his own dime. Christ. Now he was turning into some freaking Mother Theresa investigator and he didn't even know why.

"Liar," he said to himself. Who was he trying to fool? Of course he knew why.

It was Brian Fucking Kinney.

"Pete? Hey, man, it's Kaz. You still tight with Clayton at Chicago PD?"

*******

If he had ever needed his mother in his life, he knew it was now. But the phone call had still been difficult. He had sat with Brian through the rest of his stay in the ER exam room, and now he was in a private room on the third floor. Brian was still unconscious, but it appeared now as if he was sleeping deeply rather than being in a comatose state. Thank god. 

Justin felt more than heard the change in Brian's breathing, and raised his head from where it was resting on the side of the hospital bed. He tightened his hold on his partner's hand. Justin had been holding Brian's hand from the moment he saw him in recovery, only letting go for a minute while the staff made the transfer from gurney to hospital bed. He couldn't let go. Not even to take the piss he so desperately needed. He was afraid to let go.

Eyelids fluttered open for a millisecond. A grip was tightened slightly on Justin's hand. A dry tongue tried to moisten even dryer lips.

"Bri?"

Nothing.

Justin reached for the bed tray table and picked an ice cube from the paper cup sitting there. He ran it lightly over Brian's parched lips. Brian licked the moisture hungrily and Justin repeated the gesture. A small smile.

"Jus?" His voice was gravel. And it was the fucking best sound Justin had ever heard. In his life.

"Hey."

"New York."

"Yeah. It's still there."

Brian's eyes opened and closed. And opened again. Another slight smile.

"I stink."

"Yeah, you had a hard night."

"Jus?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm tired." His eyes closed and he was gone again.

Tears clouded Justin's eyes. In his heart he knew Brian wasn't talking about needing sleep.

*******

Jennifer called Cynthia, letting her know that Brian had been located. He was in the hospital and she and Justin were with him. Yes, as far as they could tell he was physically okay. No, they don't know anything else right now - he had only be awake for a couple of minutes. Yes, of course she was welcome to be there.

Justin called Carl, letting him know that Brian had been admitted and had been awake for a couple of minutes. No, they didn't know anything else at this point. Yes, could he please call the rest of the family and let them know.

Carl called Deb. And he knew all hell was going to break loose.

*******

Cynthia tapped lightly at the door and eased it open. She greeted Jennifer and Justin and then walked over to Brian's bedside. Just a glimmer of a smile on her face, she reached out and touched his cheek with the back of her hand. "Hey, Boss...," she whispered to the sleeping man.

Justin gave her a gripping hug when she turned around, holding her for long minutes before letting out a large sigh and pulling away.

"I won't stay but a minute. I just had to see him. To know..."

"It's okay, Cynthia. Believe me, I understand."

"Justin, I need to speak with you about..." she let her voice trail off without finishing. Justin figured out she didn't want to speak in front of his mother.

"Mom, I'm going to take Cynthia down for a cup of coffee. Will you stay with Brian for a couple of minutes?"

"Of course, honey. I'll call your cell if he wakes up."

"Thanks. Can I bring you something?"

Jennifer chuffed out a small laugh. "I'm fine, Justin. I know you need to talk about something. I'll be here."

Justin reached out and pulled his mother into his arms, resting his chin on her shoulder, whispering into her ear, "Thanks, Mom."

As the pair closed the door behind them, Justin smiled sheepishly at Cynthia, letting her know he really didn't want to leave the floor for coffee.

"Can we just talk here in the hall?"

"This is okay, Justin. I...I was looking at the report that Horvath brought over earlier. The one from the investigator."

"No one else knows all that, Cynthia. I was just worried that the financial informa..."

Not letting him finish his concerns, Cynthia continued, "Thank you for that, but what concerned me was the arrest in Illinois in 1994. I remember that time well. I didn't know he had been arrested, but there were some things that I thought you should be aware of around that time."

As Justin leaned back against the hospital wall, his hands in his pockets, the woman told him what she recalled about that time - the importance of the first solo account, the stress, the bond beginning between the two of them, learning his sometimes erratic behaviors and the disappearance and excuses.

"When I found out that he'd actually spent the time in jail, and saw that it was for vagrancy and panhandling, I was stunned, Justin. Not the jail part, but the charges. And the fact that he disappeared. Totally off the radar for four full days. And I noticed something else interesting on the report as well."

Justin had been silently listening, trying to process what Cynthia was saying, and what she was not saying. Although he found the incident disturbing in and of itself, he couldn't figure out why Cynthia thought it was important right now.

"Justin, ten years earlier, almost to the month, it appears that Brian began a six month sentence at Shuman. It just struck me as odd. Almost an anniversary or something. I wish I could tell you why I feel that way. I don't know. But I do."

"I hadn't noticed the dates. They most likely have nothing to do with each other, Cynthia."

"Maybe, but we do know that something important had to have happened to him in 1984 if he ended up in juvie, Justin."

"I know that '94 was the year he met Michael, and the year he...,"Justin's stopped. Suddenly he had a stricken look on his face.

"Justin? What is it?"

"Um...he...nothing. Cynthia I need to get back to Brian. Can we talk about this another time?"

 "Okay, sure." Justin knew something. Cynthia was now more convinced than ever that there was some connection between the two incidents. "Let me know what's going on, okay?"

"Yeah. I will. Later."

As Cynthia walked away, Justin's stomach lurched as he recalled the night he met Brian and the empty look on Brian's face and the haunted sound of his voice - "But I don't remember anymore."

Oh. God.

*******

Debbie and Michael arrived together.  No surprise to Justin.

Neither one knocked at the door. That was no surprise to Justin, either.

For the briefest of moments, they both just stood, like deer in headlights, staring at Brian sleeping in the hospital bed.

"He's sleeping," Justin said, simply.

"Well, wake him up. He can't just disappear like that without letting us know!" A combination of anger and hurt was apparent in Michael's voice.

"We are not waking him, Michael. Whatever is going on, he obviously needs to rest." Jennifer seriously had an urge to slap Michael. Justin had explained the strange behaviors Brian had been exhibiting and she knew, as a mother sometimes just knows, that there were serious issues ahead to deal with. She had come to deeply care for the man who was almost her son-in-law. He was complex and tortured in so many ways, but above all he was a good man.

Looking down at one of her boys, so lost at times, Debbie was torn. She did love Brian, she really did. But she was also filled with anger at him for putting them all through the anguish of the last few days. She couldn't think of a single believable reason he could give her for disappearing the way he did. Finding his car that way, next to the river...all she could think of was that he was dead. She had halfway convinced herself of that and had already begun to mourn. As she hesitantly reached out and touched his hand, the tears coursed down her cheeks, and she realized the level of hurt and anger she was holding. And relief. He was alive. She was mad as shit at him. But at least he was alive, she thought as she made the sign of the cross.

"Shut up, Michael."

"Ma..."

"Shut. Up. Michael." She repeated. "He needs to rest. There will be enough time to figure all this out when he's better."

"No, I won't shut up. What he did was selfish! He's my best friend..." Michael started but was quickly silenced by the grip of his mother's hand on his face.

"So help me, Michael, if I ever hear you use that phrase again to justify one of your own selfish needs..."

The silence in the room at Debbie's tone was deafening.

"This boy is hurting. His need is the important thing right now. Whatever it was, it hurt him so much he walked away. And itkills me to know we weren't enough."

Jennifer gathered Debbie in her arms and held her. Two mothers grieving for a son's pain. Michael watched the others in the room, painfully aware that not a single one of them understood his feelings. He loved Brian, too. But the Brian he loved would never have treated them this way - and he needed to know why. He looked at his friend lying there against the stark whiteness of the hospital linen, reached over and gave him a light kiss on the lips.

He felt the slight pressure on his lips. Struggling against the waves of fatigue, he blinked his eyes open and saw the face of the one who had kissed him. Cocking his head out of the way, he reached up, roughly grabbed the front of the other man's shirt and growled in a soft brogue, "Just what the FUCK do ya think you are doin'?"

Justin's heart skipped a beat, nearly stopped. He closed his eyes against the tingle of tears and quietly pressed the nurse's call button.

*******

Martin Patterson stood at the nurse's station and looked over the test results in Kinney's file. Other than the blood alcohol content being a little high there was nothing. The scans looked fine as well. Back to square one. He went back over the scant information he had on the man.

Objectively he noted that the patient was a little under the optimal weight for his height, but had good muscle tone. Obviously kept physically fit. Age 35. Presented in an unconscious state. With the exception of a high BAC, nothing notable from the blood tests. CT scan within normal.

Subjectively he noted first responders' and partner's concerns about confusion. Partner claims he didn't know his own identity, that he was acting outside of any normal parameters, became physically violent when confronted, spoke with accent not normally present.

Although considering himself an excellent diagnostician, Patterson had to admit this one was a bit puzzling. Deciding that a complete neuro work-up was necessary, he so notated the file. As an afterthought he indicated the possible need for a psych evaluation, pending the results of neuro report.

As he made his final notation and closed the file, he saw the call light was lit for Kinney's room. He walked with the nurse in response to the call, hoping the patient was awake and rational. Entering the room, he noticed Kinney was indeed awake and holding another man by the front of his shirt in a rather menacing way. The nurse stopped immediately, knowing that to approach might exacerbate the situation. Dr. Patterson moved in front of the nurse at the same moment that Kinney released the man he was holding with a slight shove. No one in the room made any attempt to move at this point and all of them, including Kinney, carried slightly confused or stunned looks. Trying to diffuse any further issues, the doctor chose to ignore the previous situation and speak matter-of-factly.

"So, our patient is awake. Hello, Mr. Kinney, I'm Dr. Martin Patterson." As he spoke, he noticed the change on the face of his patient. He was... wary... his eyes darting around the room as if he were looking for an avenue of escape.

"What am I doin' here?" The doctor immediately noted the brogue Mr. Taylor had mentioned earlier. Focusing on his patient, he didn't notice the even more confused looks on the faces of the others in the room, but he did hear one of the women mutter under her breath. "Jesus Christ."

"You are in the hospital, Mr. Kinney. You were brought in unconscious earlier today." Dr. Patterson watched carefully as the wary confusion played out on his patient's face. He watched as the man reached over toward the bedside table and picked up the phone sitting there. He watched as he threw the phone across the room, his face a collage of emotion. He watched as the man's breathing grew deep and ragged. And he watched as the man rolled his shoulder slightly and disappeared.

Blinking his eyes, Brian looked around the room at the group of shocked faces. He smiled slightly and lay back on the pillow, reaching out and taking Justin's hand. He turned his head slightly and caught Michael's gaze.

"Hey, Mikey."

He just kept his eyes closed. That's all he could do. If he could figure out a way to close his fucking ears, as well? Yeah, he'd be right on that. But they would just keep demanding shit. Talking and talking and talking. BrianBrianBrian... It just went on and on. Christ. "Shut the fuck up already! Leave me the fuck alone!" But he didn't actually say that. Not out loud. He couldn't get his mouth to work right. It didn't matter much, they wouldn't shut theirs up long enough for his to get any airtime. FuckFuckFuck... It was always his fault. He did it wrong again. And they were blaming him again. Their voices grating and pinching and scratching and gnawing inside him.

"I don't fucking know what you want from me!" Brian shouted aloud.

He jerked his eyes open and scanned the silent room. He was alone.

*******

Justin had introduced his mother, Debbie and Michael as Brian's chosen family to the doctor as they were settling into the small lounge area across from Brian's room. Dr. Patterson sat down on the paint cracked plastic seat, leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front, and let out a small sigh before addressing the group settling nearby.

"As I told Mr. Taylor earlier today, we haven't found anything from our examinations and tests at this point that speak to Mr. Kinney's symptoms. I have ordered a neurological workup which will, hopefully, give us some direction here. We know Mr. Kinney has a history of cancer, as well as heavy drug and alcohol use, a high stress profession..."

"Doctor, forgive me if I overstep my boundaries here," Jennifer spoke quietly, "but you saw what happened in there. What was that?"

Martin Patterson struggled with how to best address the woman's question. He didn't want to step too far outside his own area of expertise by making assumptions regarding the obvious personality flux Brian had exhibited. They had all witnessed the episode first hand. Not being acquainted with the man prior to this morning, he couldn't even make an informed guess as to which of those facades might be the true one.

"Mrs. Taylor, I know we all witnessed something that appears strange to us, but until we know more, I simply cannot give you an answer as to what ‘that' was. But if I could, perhaps, ask a few questions about Mr. Kinney?"

"Go ahead," Michael led off. "We've all known Brian a long time."

"Okay. First, someone tell me about Brian. Who is he? What is he like?"

They all thought over that loaded question before answering.

"He's a proud man," Debbie began. "Doesn't let anyone inside. Keeps it all under lock and key."

"Brian's all about Brian. His business, his tricks, his needs..." Michael piped up. He was still angry about Brian's disappearance and the way he had been treated a few minutes ago. The obvious fact that something was wrong with Brian had a hard time competing with all of Michael's insecurities and unrequited feelings over so many years. His conscience nagged at him, telling him that Brian was not really well. But where Brian was concerned Michael's conscience was, more often than not, relegated to the backseat while his id rode shotgun for his tender ego.

Jennifer bristled at the words of Brian's ‘best friend'. "Brian is as generous a man as you could ever find, Michael. It took me a long time to see and understand that. How can you be so blind?"

At Jennifer's words, Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He actually knew he was being an ass, but for fuck's sake, he was tired of Brian's strange behavior. He wanted his friend back.

Justin barely took notice of the dialogue that had been going on around him. He was trying to figure out how one could reduce something as complex as a man like Brian Kinney into some sort of convenient sound bite. He stood and walked to the wide window, reaching up slightly to adjust the blinds. He just stood looking over at the door to Brian's room, as if that would help him find just the right words.

"Brian is... everything. Intelligent, creative, driven... and a beautiful man who appreciates beauty in others. He's arrogant, narcissistic, stubborn, yet kind and gentle. A man who would go to any lengths to make sure his friend had her dream wedding, but wouldn't miss the White Party to attend it." He laughed lightly at that memory. "Brian is...private...with his feelings, almost to a fault. And public with his sex, almost to a fault." Dr. Patterson's lips turned up in an embarrassed little smile at that comment. "Fiercely protective of those he cares about."

Justin paused, but it was filled with anticipation. He turned back toward the others in the room.

"He likes people to think he is so emotionally strong, that nothing can hurt him. But that's a lie he wants others to believe. He's so very vulnerable. He hurts. But he just puts on another mask and goes on as if nothing has happened. They slip once in awhile - the masks - and then you can see a little glimpse of who he really is. He's a perfect puzzle." An uneasy dream of fractured Chinese tangrams played at the back of Justin's memory.

The doctor now held two seemingly unrelated thoughts:

First, he was hoping beyond all hope that his suspicions about his patient were way off base.  

And he thought Brian Kinney sounded like one amazing man.

*******

Hours later, Alice McCarthy stood in the third floor hallway going over the patient file she had picked up at the nurse's station. Martin had called in a favor, one she was pretty sure was a wasted effort, and asked her to visit one of his patients - a Brian Kinney. Apparently Kinney was evidencing some behavioral issues that were outside of what his family reported as normal, as well as having an extended unexplained disappearance and presenting at the ER unconscious. She knew that what Martin suspected was highly unlikely, given the reported prior history of this patient. Successful, well to do financially, no prior known psychiatric diagnoses. Her best guess would be some neurologic issue, but a favor was a favor, she reminded herself.

As Dr. McCarthy entered Brian's room, the man's uncovered back was to her and he was going through the drawers in the small closet, tossing the few articles of clothing he found there onto the floor. He obviously had not noticed her enter and she took those few invisible moments to observe him. He was tall, quite thin but fairly well toned. Wearing only the open back hospital gown, he appeared comfortable with his body since he wasn't trying to hold the back closed. Experience had taught her that most people, even when alone, are uncomfortable with that kind of exposure. The patient's body language indicated to her that he was agitated or confused. One hand was running repeatedly through his hair. He held what appeared to be a plaid shirt in the other hand and was staring at it with a somewhat horror-struck twist on his face.

Deciding to make her presence known on her own terms rather than lose any chance of gaining his trust by being discovered ‘spying' on him, she addressed him softly.

"Mr. Kinney?"

"Where the fuck are my clothes?"

"Aren't those your clothes, Mr. Kinney?" Dr. McCarthy knew that what he was wearing when he arrived at the hospital would have been placed in that closet.

"Of course they are. I always make it a habit of asking where something is while holding it in my hand," he bit out sarcastically. "Fuck no, these are not my clothes!"

"I'm sure we can ask the nurse if there was perhaps some mistake, but the staff is quite careful with patients' belongings. What were you wearing when you arrived this morning?"

"I was wearing...I had..." Fuck. He couldn't even remember coming to the hospital, let alone what he was wearing. Brian slammed the closet door and ran his hand over the bridge of his nose, pinching it as he tried to concentrate. "I don't recall exactly, but I know it wasn't this shit," he conceded.

"Try to remember. What was the last thing you recall wearing?" Dr. McCarthy watched as Mr. Kinney struggled to find an answer to the relatively simple question. He appeared... lost. She knew she was seeing some of the confusion Martin had mentioned.

"Okay. Let's not worry about what you were wearing. Can you tell me the last thing you remember before you came to the hospital?"

Brian clenched his eyes shut against the sudden urge to cry. What was that about? God. And why was his head starting to hurt like this? And why the fuck couldn't he think straight! And why was this idiot asking all these fucking questions?

"Listen. Are you listening?" Brian didn't wait for the woman to answer him. "I don't know who the hell you are or even why the hell I'm here. But it doesn't matter. I'm leaving. And I want my own fucking clothes." He would call Justin. Or Cynthia. Anyone who could bring him some clothes so he could get out of this mad house. Finding that his cell phone was not with the other belongings that were supposed to be his, he reached over to the bedside table where the room phone should have been. There was nothing.

"Where's the phone?" he asked, pissed at having to work this hard for such a simple thing.

"You don't remember?"

"Remember? What am I supposed to remember now?" He was growing tired. Tired of the questions, tired of not knowing the answers, tired of thinking and thinking and thinking...

"You threw the phone across the room earlier. You were angry, and you are angry now. What are you angry about, Mr. Kinney?"

"I'm not...angry. I... Shit!" He closed his eyes and leaned back against the closet door. He wanted to cry, to scream, to... do something! What was he wearing? In the loft? He wanted to sleep again - to sleep for a long time. He just wanted to be able to breathe! "I can't... I can't... anymore..."

"Just leave us alone." The voice was soft and small and so full of fear. The timbre was different. The inflection had changed. Dr. McCarthy looked on the man crumpling to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest protectively. She watched him as he put his head on his knees and cradled himself, rocking almost imperceptibly. "Just leave us alone."

And she knew without a doubt that Martin was right. Brian Kinney was an amazing man. And her heart broke a little for him. For them.

*******

Justin had not left the hospital since Brian had been brought into the ER early that morning. Sitting in the cafeteria trying to drink down the sorry excuse for coffee they provided, he so wished he had some of Cynthia's Kava tea. But that would probably put him to sleep as tired as he was at the moment. And he needed to stay awake. The crap coffee would have to do.

He had just finished a long talk with Daphne and had managed to convince her that coming to the hospital now would be useless. After the episode in Brian's room and the non-productive talk with the family and Dr. Patterson afterward, he couldn't decide if he wanted to be unconscious or to scream. Shit, even recovering from his bashing wasn't this stressful. Was it? Maybe for Brian? Maybe it was always worse when it was someone you loved rather than yourself. He knew he had been hurt, terrified, even a bit hopeless when he found out Brian had cancer, but at least he knew what it was. This? No, this was much worse. This was like being in the middle of hell, being forced to watch the man you love disappear. Slowly. Atom by atom. Morphing right before his eyes into... what?

Justin had nearly begged Debbie and Michael to keep Brian's hospitalization private, to not tell the rest of the family. Debbie had said it herself - Brian was a proud man. If he didn't want anyone to know about the cancer, he sure as hell wouldn't want anyone to know about whatever the fuck this was. But Justin knew... he just knew... that by the time they reached the parking lot the rest of the gang was being blasted with all kinds of exaggerations and misinformation. Goddamn, he hated the way they twisted Brian around, claiming to love him and then having some kind of morbid gossip party when he was down. Justin didn't doubt that they loved Brian. They just didn't know how to love him. It was abusive love, though they would never see it that way. Their kind of love was only a broken bone away from the kind of love Brian's parents had for him.

Overwhelmed with the enormity of everything that had happened in the last few days, Justin rested his head on the cafeteria table. He just needed to relax. The fatigue was drawing him deeper and deeper when he heard his phone ring. Right now he couldn't miss any calls and he answered the unidentified number. It was Dr. Patterson. And he wanted to meet right away.

God.

Kaz reached up and flicked the blinking, buzzing light fixture over his desk a couple of times with his knuckle, now swaying slightly on the suspension chains. Antique my ass. Fucking old piece of shit. He glanced between the notes of his second phone call with Pete and the ‘official' report he had sent from Chicago. Shit. There's a helluva lot of difference between the two, Kaz thought. He'd been a cop long enough to know that sometimes what really happened and what was reflected in an official report could be light years apart. He also knew there was only one reason for that kind of discrepancy.

"Seems your ass got in the way of protecting one of theirs, eh, Kinney?" the investigator said quietly to himself as he placed a copy of the documents in a folder. He reached into his pocket for the number he had been given earlier that morning and flipped open his phone.

"This is Krawczynski. I'd like to discuss a couple of things with you about Mr. Kinney. Tomorrow, if you have the time. You have my number." Kaz closed his phone, picked up his Corona and turned out the light. There was nothing else he could do until Taylor returned his call.

*******

Justin sat uncomfortably in one of the old arm chairs facing Dr. Patterson's large metal desk. There was nothing kind or comforting about the room - it was functional. And cold. Justin knew, just knew, that this cold was appropriate. That no amount of warmth would ease what he was going to hear. What he didn't want to hear.

"Mr. Taylor..."

"Justin. Please."

"Of course, Justin. I..." Martin Patterson stumbled, thinking he'd prepared himself for this difficult conversation. He looked at the young man sitting before him, at the hope and fear and even resignation in his eyes and knew there was no adequate preparation for this kind of blow. Just do it, Marty, he admonished himself inwardly.

"After we talked with Mr. Kinney's family today... To be honest, Justin, I was concerned that Mr. Kinney's condition was a bit out of my area of practice. I called in a colleague, Dr. Alice McCarthy to hopefully give us a little better insight." He motioned to an attractive older woman standing slightly behind Justin's chair, her hands clasped in front of her.

"I'm sorry," Justin admitted. "I didn't know anyone else was here."

Alice McCarthy approached and quietly took the seat beside Justin, held out her hand and clasped his. She could feel the anxiety in his grip, could see the confusion on his face. 

"I'm Dr. McCarthy and I'm glad to be able to speak with you, Justin."

"Sure. Look...just tell me. What's going on? What's happening with Brian?"

Dr. McCarthy worked to choose her words carefully. "Dr. Patterson asked me to do a preliminary observation of his patient, Mr. Kinney. I'm a psychiatrist, Justin, and I was merely called to introduce myself to your partner, speak with him briefly, and report on that meeting to Dr. Patterson. This was in no way a full psychiatric evaluation, nor was it meant to be."

"Psychiatric evaluation?" Justin sat back in his seat and let out an exhausted sigh. "Christ. I'll bet that went well. No offense, Dr. McCarthy, but Brian really hates anything even hinting at therapy or psychiatry."

"Has he had psychiatric treatment in the past?"

"No. Not that I know of, at least. There were... I tried. But he wasn't... exactly... receptive." Justin thought of all the times he had made small attempts to get Brian to open up to someone - even just to talk with him. The bashing. His childhood. The alcohol and drugs. The near sexual addiction. Jesus, the man was a walking psychiatric wet dream.

"Why did you think he needed to seek help?"

The young man closed his eyes and rested his head back on the chair. Shit! What could he tell her? What should he? Justin was well aware that Brian would interpret anything he told these doctors about him as a betrayal. But...this was different. A month ago... a week ago... hell, just yesterday he would have agreed with Brian. But the game had drastically changed.

"Brian's had a... difficult life. His childhood was pretty fucking bad from what I understand. I don't know specifics, just that his dad was a physically abusive asshole and his mother was an uber-religious ice queen who refused to stop the abuse and condemns him to hell for being queer. He broke off from his family when he was eighteen as much as possible. He didn't even come out to his parents until he was in his thirties. He was afraid to love his son because he thought he would turn into his father. Blames himself for everything that happens to anyone he loves.

"Bri drinks everything away, or takes drugs to feel or to numb. Uses sex to forget. You know, he's a legend - the Stud of Liberty Avenue." Justin paused slightly and gave a small grin. "He told me once he had personally redefined promiscuity. Everybody wants him and he works hard to maintain the myth. But, that's all it is, a myth. ‘Cause that's not who he is. He's not the asshole everybody believes him to be. I've seen him. I've lived with him. I've loved him for five years. There's a different person there. A funny, kind, gentle man. He's just so... afraid to let him out."

Justin took a ragged breath, and wiped at the tears he didn't know were there. How could he explain Brian Kinney to anyone? He wasn't sure he even knew him anymore.

Dr. McCarthy walked across the room to a water cooler and brought a cup back, handing it to Justin. She wanted a moment to process the information, both spoken and unspoken, that the young man had provided. Alcohol, drugs, promiscuous sex, afraid to love and be loved, abusive childhood, dysfunctional adulthood... Added to what she knew from Kinney's file and her observations today she at least had a working hypothesis with which to begin.

"When I observed your partner today, I saw an angry, confused man who didn't even recall what he was last wearing before arriving at the hospital. Who couldn't recall what happened in his room earlier today. He seemed to be struggling to merely hold on to some kind of reality. And Justin... this may be difficult to hear and understand... but I suspect that this isn't an entirely new phenomenon. From what you have told me, he has been trying to grasp a reality for some time.

"Mr. Kinney became quite upset - terrified actually - while I was in his room. I had to order sedation for him. You are his medical surrogate which authorizes you to make medical decisions in the event of Mr. Kinney's inability to do so on his own. At the moment, it is my professional opinion that he is unable to act in his own best interest. Although I still think a complete neurological workup is prudent, I would like your authorization to also have him undergo a complete psychiatric evaluation, as well. Do I have your permission?"

"Do whatever you have to do. I just want Brian back." He hesitated, pushing back the encroaching fear and asked bluntly, "Exactly what are you suspecting? I have the right to know."

Dr. McCarthy took a moment and a deep breath before deciding to be completely forthright with her patient's partner.

"There one compelling possibility based upon what I know at this point. It revolves around a type of dissociation. Dissociation is a function of our mind which allows us to remove ourselves from something we don't want to deal with. In the everyday, we all use it to some degree, such as daydreaming. We drive to a destination and then can't really remember the trip there, perhaps. But in response to extreme trauma, one can dissociate in a more permanent manner. It's a protective system constructed by the psyche to allow the person to simply bear the abuse or trauma." She stopped and made sure Justin was looking directly at her before she continued.

"Are you familiar with the term Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

Justin could feel the familiar bands of tension tighten around his chest, and he fought to hold off his immediate panic, to regulate his breathing. To even continue breathing at all. Inhale. Exhale.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

*******

Michael lay on his back staring up at the ceiling apparently focusing on a small water stain hovering above him.

"We need to redo that."

At the words, Michael blinked his eyes and looked over at his husband. "What?"

"The ceiling. Need to have it repainted, seal off that stain."

"Oh. Yeah. I think we still have some paint in the basement. Probably not enough, though. I'll check on it tomorrow?" He continued his staring.

Ben rolled to his side, facing Michael, propping himself on one strong arm. "He's home, Michael. He's in the safest place for him right now."

Michael sighed and folded his hands behind his head. He didn't completely agree with Ben and, of course, he knew that Ben knew that. Ben always seemed to know what Michael was thinking when it came to Brian. Yeah, Michael was glad Brian was ‘home' - finally. But he didn't buy that being in the hospital was the best thing for him. They didn't find anything physically wrong with him. No broken bones, no head injury that they could find. The doctor sat there and told them all that. Brian should be home. With his family.

"I want to kick his ass, Ben. How could he just leave like that? Act the way he did? I thought he was done with most of that shit he took from Anita or whothefuckever. We all know he was missing Justin, but if he needed us, why the fuck didn't he just tell us!"

"When did he ever tell anyone that he needed them?" Ben rolled back over on his back, picked up his glasses and book. "You're acting like he did this intentionally to you, Michael. You've always made excuses for him, but even you have to admit this is way outside his normal misbehavior."

Michael stayed quiet. He did know. He really did know. And he also knew that his anger and hurt wasn't really about anger and hurt. He was fucking scared. For Brian. For himself. Even for Justin, for chrissake. Brian was always there, even when he was being a jerk - Brian was always, well, Brian. And that person he saw in that hospital room wasn't Brian.

He had the odd thought that the world had just shifted an imperceptible bit on its axis.

*******

Carl Horvath tightened the belt on his robe as he made his way downstairs. He had known the moment Debbie got out of the bed and he knew, instinctively, that she wasn't going to be back in it for some time. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he could hear her in the kitchen. He could already smell the Pine Sol and knew she was doing her own version of pain management.

"Honey, come back to bed," he called even before he reached the kitchen. He knew she wasn't going to comply. That was his girl. When the world goes to hell around you, you clean or cook. He rounded the corner and saw her - on her hands and knees, purple vinyl gloves rolled to her elbows, scrubbing the old linoleum tiles with a vengeance.

"I have to clean this floor, Carl. It's filthy."

"Debbie. You just cleaned the floor yesterday."

"I fucking know when I need to clean a floor, Carl."

Carl walked slowly across the wet floor and poured them two glasses of milk. He sat them on the table and reached down, lightly touching Debbie's shoulder. "You and I both know that scrubbing the hell out of that floor isn't going to change what's happened. Come on, sit with me."

Debbie slapped the brush into the bucket of water at her side, and sat back on her haunches, her shoulders tight as she looked up at the man leaning over her. She was fucking pissed. At the floor. At the bucket. At Carl. At the goddamned world. And just as suddenly she wasn't and her shoulders shook and a low keen escaped. God! She hurt and she was scared and she was worried.

Carl pulled Debbie from the floor and guided her to the chair beside him, holding her hand in his.

"I know, honey. But he's alive."

"But who is he, Carl? Who the fuck is he?"

Watching this woman - this strong as hell, beautiful, crazy woman - fall apart beside him, Carl had never more in his life wished he had an answer.

*******

He could see the light beginning to filter through the separation in the god-ugly drapes over the window. He could smell the rough of the disinfectants and antiseptics around him. He could feel the pinch of an IV connection in his hand. He could taste the slight metallic tinge in his mouth from the bite he had given his tongue. And he could hear the soft purr of the man sleeping in the chair next to his bed.

Justin.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

Why the fuck was Justin here? He was supposed to be in fucking New York.

Yeah. It's still there.

 He knew he was in a hospital but he had no fucking idea why. Or where. Or for how long. It seemed that everything just wasthese days. No prelude. No follow through. Things just happened or appeared and he had the feeling that he was always arriving in the middle of his life lately. He couldn't remember getting here, but he was here. Wasn't he looking for something earlier? Wasn't he standing over there? Wasn't he leaving this place? Apparently, he didn't.  

Christ, he just wanted to be left alone.

So he could breathe. Or not.

"Fuck, I need a drink," he thought aloud. "I just fucking need my head to work."

"Hey," Justin said as he shifted awake.

"What the fuck am I doing here? And what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Now, there's the Brian Kinney I know and love." Brian. It was Brian. Thank God.

"Justin. What are you doing here?"

"I came home."

"So, you've achieved fame and fortune already? Conquered the art world in New York? How the hell long have I been here?"

Justin chuckled slightly and sighed heavily. He was not prepared to have this conversation with Brian.  "Yeah, you're Rip Van Kinney and I'm a huge fucking success."

"Jus," Brian's voice was strained. He knew Justin, knew when he was avoiding.

"Bri... you're in the hospital. I know you can tell that, if nothing else, from the lack of quality linen."

"Yeah, yeah. It's scratching my pampered ass. Now are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Brian noticed immediately how Justin averted his eyes, wouldn't look at him. Shit. It must be bad. He could feel his heart rate increase and his mouth dry out. Christ, he didn't want to do this again!

"The cancer? It's back?"

"God! No! Brian... you had some kind of... attack. I can't explain it, but you... Carl and I found you...We brought you here early yesterday."

"Attack? Fuck, I had a heart attack?"

"No!" Justin realized he had no fucking idea how to approach this with Brian. "Your heart's fine. There's no cancer... Shit, Brian. I'm going to get the doctor." Justin leaned over kissed Brian's forehead and walked out of the room.

The cold started in his stomach. An icy ball deep in his gut, growing until it filled every centimeter of his body. He was frozen. He knew. On some level he knew. A suggestion of plaid shirts and Bibles, of cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey... of time not really being time. And he just knew. Brian Fucking Kinney would never really exist again.

Brian sat stoically as Dr. McCarthy recounted her observations of the previous evening. He calmly listened as Dr. Patterson related Brian's arrival at the hospital. He waited matter-of-factly while Justin painfully wove a story of disappearance and abandoned vehicles, of a drunken rendezvous with a bar whore, of nearly assaulting Michael, of speaking like an Irishman. He passively heard it, and aggressively dismissed it.

"You are all insane! You are all fucking insane!"

 "Brian..."

"Justin, I don't know what shit you are all trying to pull here, but that's all it is... shit!"

"Bri..."

"No. No. You think I walked away from my business? From my son? From my fucking life? Hell, no. Fucked up on some bad shit from Anita? Maybe. But being someone else? Pretending to be some Irish speaking prick and practically fucking some whore, some woman in a bar? Christ, Jus! No. I'm fucking fine!"

"You are not fucking fine, Brian! You've been a walking pharmaceutical company for most of your life! You never acted like this!"

"Yeah, well. There's always a first time." Suddenly he just didn't care anymore.  

Brian's anger dissipated as quickly as it appeared. Now he was... What? Exhausted? Apathetic? Disconnected? All of the above?

His head was again throbbing and he just wanted them gone. Away. To be left alone. He raised his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, clenched his jaw. Were they lying to him? Why would they lie about this? He knew they had to be playing him, but he couldn't think of one goddamned reason why they would. Why Justin would! Jesus... He was just so fucking confused. Brian squeezed his eyes shut and rested his head back on the bed.

"Just go away." But there was no power behind his command, no emotion in the words.

Alice McCarthy stood back and observed it all. Kinney's response, his interaction with Justin, his confusion and, finally, his apparent resignation. Now, she thought, now is the time to approach him.

"Mr. Kinney? Did you assault your friend yesterday?"

"Wha..? No. Of course not."

"Did you destroy the phone in this room yesterday?"

"No."

"Who did those things, Mr. Kinney?"

"How the hell would I know?" Shit. He could feel his anxiety returning. Fuck. Them. All.

"There were several witnesses to both those incidents. If you weren't involved, who was?"

"I don't fucking know! Drop it!" Brian covered his ears trying to block out the incessant questioning. His head was throbbing from the aggravation and he really, really just wanted a drink.

"Who was involved, Mr. Kinney?" Dr. McCarthy paused. Then asked again, "Who was it that did these things, Mr. Kinney?"

Brian's hands came away from his ears, wrapped around the back of his head, elbows sticking out like ears on a cat, and he stared hard at Dr. McCarthy.

And grinned.

In a high, breathy voice he said as he winked, "You know, he just really wants a Beam right now. Give him that and he will si-innnggg like a nightingale."

In the background, Justin felt his heart stop beating and Dr. Patterson felt his speed up.

Alice McCarthy took one step toward the bed and asked, "Who are you?"

The man lying in the bed blinked his eyes, tilted his head sharply to the left, and smirked.

"I'm Trick, chick. Who are you?"

*******

Emmett sat alone in ‘the' booth at the diner and watched Kiki dart back and forth between the kitchen pass-through and the various tables full of colorful late morning diners. Pink plate specials and cheeseburgers, lemon bars and milkshakes balanced in her arms, and the skirt of her retro uniform billowing out as if it was supported by dear Aunt Lula's crinolines. He wrenched his head to the side, lowering it almost to the bench seat trying to look under the skirt to see if there actually were crinolines flushing out that skirt. And he felt incredibly lonely. Teddy was carrying so much more of the Kinnetic workload since he had returned from his cat's-away-so-the-mouse-will-play vacation and Emmett missed him. He missed everyone. For days...and in some cases, weeks...there had been no one sitting here with him to snark at his queenishly high-school antics. There had been no one sitting here making fun of his cock size or his theatrics or his habit of eating a doughnut with knife and fork. No Michael or Debbie or Justin or...

He lay his head back against the wall of the diner, stretching his long legs across the length of the seat, hanging his feet off the other side... and tried to make sense of this family predicament. They were all told that Brian had been located and was in the hospital. And yes, Debbie had assured him, Brian was unhurt. But that just couldn't be entirely true. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Brian was in the hospital for some reason. Neither did it take a genius to realize that the absence of everyone else was directly related to that reason.

No, Emmett never even thought to consider himself any sort of genius. He did, however, believe that his intuition was a teensy bit more developed than most others', and right now that intuition had every hackle on his body raised and waiving white flags in surrender. There had never really been a problem with Brian Kinney before - well not a problem that everyone was apparently as helpless to decipher as this. Brian was the one who handled everyone else's problems - whether they knew it or not.  Getting Teddy out of jail. Finding a way for Michael to open his comic book store. Paying for Justin's tuition. Brian's own issues, however, were regarded by everyone as so much spew from some personal propaganda machine. But Emmett had become increasingly aware of just how integral that propagandized Kinney was to the health and wellness of their little family. A little family that he suddenly envisioned as a very large, very cracked Humpty Dumpty, waiting for all the king's horses and all the king's men.

And the king was in the damned hospital.

*******

Carl Horvath reached across his cluttered desk and retrieved the documents being offered to him by his old friend. As he waited for the detective to finish reading and draw his conclusions, Kaz realized he still hadn't heard from Justin Taylor. But he really wasn't surprised that he hadn't. Taylor had enough on his plate at the hospital with Kinney. As far as the investigator knew, there still hadn't been any news issued, even to the family, as to what was really going on with Kinney. When the news did come out though, he knew in his gut that it wasn't going to be simple. Or pleasant. When anything about this got out to the public... Christ!

"You trust this guy in Chicago? This Pete?" Kaz was brought back to present when Carl spoke.

"Yeah. He's good," Kaz confirmed. "Something went on there, Horvath. You know it and I know it. I really can't wrap my head around Brian Kinney standing on a street corner begging for alms."

"I agree. Didn't seem likely in the first place... Now it seems even more unlikely. Don't really know what it has to do with what's going on with Kinney now, though." Like Kaz, Carl new that there were few reasons to doctor an official police report, and none of them was on the up-and-up. "I want to keep this between us right now, Kaz."

"No reason to make it official, but Taylor needs to know. Especially with what's happening to Kinney right now. He goes missing then for four days and he goes missing now for a week? And from what Pete reports, his source said Kinney was pretty much in a panic, claiming to be someone else when he was brought in." Kaz shook his head slightly and leaned in toward the detective. "A bit too coincidental, I'm thinking."

"Okay. So we tell Justin what we know now. I'm assuming you have Pete or someone else working on finding the reason for the discrepancy?"

"He's on it."

"Do me a favor, Krawczynski. Give Justin what you have. But... talk to me before you go to him or anyone with whatever else you find out. At least until we know what we're looking at."

"Another favor?" the investigator stood and shook hands with the detective. "You know you're never getting me paid off, don't you?"  

*******

Justin wanted more than anything right now to paint. A canvas, the walls, the floor - anything. To get a little color back into a life that had suddenly slipped away into gray. Stark. Depressed. Shadowed. He just knew Rod Serling was standing in some corner smoking a cigarette, ready to cue god-awful eerie intro music, and some disembodied voice was hovering over a television test pattern, promising to return control of his life back to him after the last commercial interruption. Nothing else made sense. It was all just pretend and he was stuck inside some freakish imitation of reality.

Yet it was not pretend. It was Brian's face. His hair, hands, lips - Brian's body. But it wasn't Brian.

Trick.

If it wasn't so fucking terrifying, Justin would have laughed at the poetic justice of that particular name.

Trick.

Dr. McCarthy holding a conversation with ‘Trick'. Brian's trick. Who looked like Brian. Who was Brian. Who wasn't Brian.

Breathe... just breathe...

"Hey, blondie looks like's he's losing it over there."

Justin shuddered at the high breathiness of the odd voice. Dr. Patterson moved toward Justin and placed a steady hand beneath one elbow.

"I'm okay," he tried to convince himself.

Dr. McCarthy continued to focus on Trick. At the moment Justin could not be her main concern.

"It's good to meet you, Trick. I'm Alice."

"And you're ten feet tall*" Trick sang the words quietly and laughed. Even the laugh had a breathy quality.  

"You like the Airplane, Trick?"

"Yeah."

"Does Brian like the Airplane, too?"

Justin tensed at the question, not even really sure why. It just seemed so... twisted... for this woman to be speaking to Brian and yet not. God, he wanted to sit down, to support himself against something, to ease off the nausea rising in him - but he was afraid to move. Afraid to disrupt. Afraid that it would somehow make it real. He could only stare at Brian - Trick - this other - who somehow didn't even look like Brian anymore. He wasn't real. He wasn't.

"Shhhh..." One finger laid across lips, Trick shushed Dr. McCarthy. "Don't wake them up."

"Them? Are there others?" The psychiatrist was very surprised with such an admission so quickly. She knew, of course, that there were probably others, but she didn't expect Trick to mention them so easily. And she wasn't surprised by the sudden silence on Trick's part, or by the slight flicker of panic that crossed the eyes.

"And you've just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low," Trick sang again softly, absently picking at a loose thread on the rough hospital blanket, eyes darting frantically around the room. Trick paused, then looked up directly into Justin's eyes and continued. "Go ask Alice, I think she'll know."

 *     Lyrics from White Rabbit. Grace Slick

Justin sat solemnly in one of the motel quality armchairs placed in front of the desk of Dr. Alice McCarthy. His nerves were raw, his throat dry. He wanted to run. Away. Somewhere - anywhere but here. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to remove the burn behind them, and gulped in great lungs full of air. His jaw hanging slack, he felt the bubble rise up from his lips with an exhaled breath, and knew he was sorely failing in his promise not to panic. ‘Turn it outward,' he commanded himself. ‘Get out of your fucking head. Be. Here. Now.' With a heavy sigh, he tried to focus.  

He felt a roughness of worn, nubby upholstery beneath his fingers. He took in the almost obsessively ordered condition to the doctor's desk, the glaring cleanliness to the deskpad. Not a single coffee ring on the thing. Not a loose paperclip in sight. He counted and re-counted the four file folders, neatly tucked into a gray metal tray at the far right corner of the desktop. He noted a faint odor of lavender - incense? - and detected the soft plop of water pooling at the foot of a plastic rock fall. All choreographed for calm. For relaxation. For throwing one off one's anxiety game.     

Bad choreography. There was no dancing around this fucking elephant.

Justin had not spoken a word - not a single syllable - since that agonizing look he shared with Trick. There had definitely beensomething in that single gaze. And Trick's conveniently fitting song lyrics? ‘Go ask Alice.' Convenient, coincidental? Or was the whole fucking exchange some kind of cryptic message torn out of Brian's/Trick's psyche? ‘I think she'll know.'

Jesus.

"Jesus!"

"Justin?"  

The young man sighed heavily and covered his face with his hands. "So?"

"So... now we at least have an idea of...?"

"An idea? An idea?" Justin interrupted, raggedly. "That was not an ‘idea', Dr. McCarthy. That was fucking terrifying! He's... he's..."

"Terrified, Justin. He's terrified. Much more so than you are right now. And not just of what is happening to him presently. I'm not even sure of how much of ‘now' he is actually aware of. He is terrified of facing himself, life, his reality."

"So he created an alternate one? One that isn't even him?"

"Not one. Plural. To date we have evidence of at least four dissociative personalities. We commonly refer to these as alters." Dr. McCarthy opened a drawer in her desk and retrieved a manila folder, handing it to Justin. "I've gathered some reference material for you to look over - some general, some more specific and detailed. There are many misconceptions about DID. A lot of that will be explained in the papers I've given you, but a couple of things I'd like to address with you now."

Justin stiffened his back, clenched and unclenched his hands. He nodded for the doctor to go on.

"First... this condition is unique in and of itself, however, Mr. Kinney's... presentation... is even more unique..."

"Well, Brian is nothing if not unique among the unique." A smile played at the corners of Justin's lips. He was surprised - and the doctor was a little relieved - that he could find a sliver of humor, of normalcy in the moment.  

"That I'm beginning to discover," Dr. McCarthy responded, returning her own small, genuine smile before continuing. "Following a normal pattern, Mr. Kinney... Brian... would have had at least some history of psychiatric involvement. If nothing else, the erratic behavior that is a major component of this condition is usually noticed by friends and family or co-workers, as well as corollary depression and anxiety... and that itself is often the impetus for the patient to get treatment, voluntarily or otherwise. You've described Brian's distrust and total disregard for the psychiatric field, and that could explain some of this. I don't understand, however, how his family and friends could not see the suffering he was going through."

"They saw it. We all saw it."

"Can you elaborate a bit on that?"

Justin rose from the chair and appeared to be inspecting various items in the room, touching this book and that figurine, running his fingers through the flow of water from the miniature rock fall, while trying to explain the complicated dynamics that existed in Brian's circle of friends. Brian's alienation from his family and the bits and pieces Justin knew of the abusive environment in which Brian existed as a child. The strong co-dependency that permeated the relationship with Michael, with Lindsey, with Debbie. The way Brian's image as the stud, the asshole, the loner was constantly reinforced, even encouraged, by his so-called friends. How they seemed to need him to be erratic, to be the lost boy in order to cement their own identities.

"He loves them. They use him. Yeah, they love him, too, I suppose. But not for who he is, really. For who they see him as, who they need him to be. They kept him alive, but they never let him live. Brian was always so much...more... than they ever allowed him to be." Justin raised his eyes and Dr. McCarthy could see the love and pain the young man held inside.

"And you? You've told me you tried to get him to seek help."

"Yeah. I guess I just didn't try hard enough." Justin pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and snuffed. "I was just a fucking kid in love with him. One minute he'd be so... sweet. We'd make dinner together, laugh, make love... The next day I'd come home and he'd be fucking someone in our bed. He'd tell me I was strong or brave or beautiful, then he'd rent me a hooker as a birthday present. It was like living in one of those circus fun houses. You know, the ones with all the mirrors? You never knew when you were looking at the real Brian Kinney or a reasonable facsimile, an image. He'd pull me close and in a heartbeat he'd push me away."

"Or a reasonable facsimile would push you away?" The doctor stared at Justin with a knowing look.

"Will the real Brian Kinney please stand up?"

"Justin... they are all part and parcel of the real Brian Kinney. This is not a possession, not another personality taking over your partner. All of these alters, however many there may be, are parts of his own psyche, his identity. Each alter has a function, they serve a purpose, a protective purpose. The real Brian Kinney has always been there. My job - our job - is to help him find a way to integrate these aspects of his identity. This is... this is not going to be simple or easy. For Brian or for you, Justin. I have to ask... how committed... how strong... is your relationship with your partner?"

"How committed?" Justin chuffed out a small, humorless laugh and ran one hand through his disheveled hair. "Dr. McCarthy, he is my life. I owe him my life. Literally. I'll be with him through this. I'll do whatever he needs, be whatever he needs."

I would do anything, I'd be anything, to make him happy.

*******

He paced around the unfamiliar room, his bare feet slapping rhythmically on cold, gray tiles. He stopped and ran his forehead across the small window in the door, drawing a peculiar comfort from the slight chill of the glass. He snorted at the irony in that since the rest of him was fucking cold. The thin white tee-shirt and faded green sleep shorts provided little defense against the cool air of the hospital. "At least," Brian thought, "I have fucking clothes on in here."

He hated this room, this floor of the hospital and all the extra eyes that were watching. It was like being in the damned zoo. On exhibit. Fucking doctors. And they weren't taking his blood pressure or checking his IV the way they had done in the other room. They were just... watching. Expectant. Waiting.

He knew he should have walked away from the other room when he had the chance and wasn't quite sure why he actually hadn't done that. He had been tired, confused, afraid. Afraid? Afraid of leaving a room? No. No. Of something... else. Something other. Other.

Passionate looks and sapphires and smooth flat chests straining against his hands and painted red lips and the soft swollen breasts exposed by an unbuttoned blouse.

Goddamnit! It just didn't fucking make sense.

He had listened to the doctors...to Justin. And that was all for shit!

And he kept pacing. And pacing. And pacing. Around, around in circles. In circles. And he just couldn't fucking think or remember. Or breathe... Inhale. Exhale.

He knew who the fuck he was! Brian. Fucking. Kinney. Just Brian Fucking Kinney. And he lay on the floor in the middle of the circle he had paced off and took an imaginary drag on the imaginary joint, pulling the sweet imaginary smoke deep inside of him, and offered himself up to the imaginary high. Because imaginary was oh so fucking much better than real. Because the imaginary Brian Kinney didn't cry.  

*******

"I had him committed today."

That's all he said. Not another word had been spoken since he had opened the door and let Cynthia into the loft. Cynthia froze. Her hand holding the cup of tea halfway to her mouth, her lips already parted to receive it. She wasn't even quite sure she had heard Justin speak, the words had fallen so quietly.

"Committed?" She choked out the word as she replaced the cup back onto the obscenely expensive coffee table. She couldn't quite make eye contact with Justin yet.

"In the psychiatric unit. He's in deep shit, Cynthia."

Oh, god.

"God... Justin... but he's... I know something's wrong... but..." There just wasn't coherent thought to be had. Brian? Committed? Shit... Shit.

"He's not insane, Cynthia, but he's... there's a problem." Justin had leaned back, sinking himself into the corner of the sofa, hiding his face behind both hands and wondered just when the hell he himself was going to feel sane again. "And he's going through some serious shit right now. He just can't be... on his own right now."

Cynthia suspiciously scanned over the sheaf of printouts Justin had given her, the words all swimming together into one big run-on life sentence.

"Holy fucking mother of god."

"Yeah," Justin sighed as the woman reached out and covered his hand with hers. "They can't know, Cynthia...The family... They cannot know about this."

"God, no! Can you even imagine..."

"Actually, yeah, I can. That's why they can't know." A shudder ran through both of them.

"Are you going to be okay? What can I do now?"

Before Justin had a chance to respond Cynthia squeezed his hand and hesitantly continued. "Ted has to know, Justin. At least something. I won't be able to hide the paperwork from him...the medical invoices. That's part of his job. He's been close with Brian since the cancer. Brian trusts him, Jus. We have to trust him on this."

"Jesus, Cynthia!"

"Ted owes Brian everything, Justin. He gave him a chance when no one else would touch him. Gave him his life back. He kept Brian's confidence about the cancer. He will protect Brian. You know that." She stood and, handing the file folder back to Justin, said, "I'll tell Ted only what he needs to know."

Justin nodded. The exhaustion and pure anguish poured out from every cell of the young man's being. Cynthia could see the extent of the toll the last several days had taken on Justin. The dark circles under his eyes. The dejection written on his face. The lack of that glorious smile.  But she also saw a determination she had never seen before - in the set of his shoulders, the squaring of his jaw. God, he seemed so young to be dealing with this kind of shit! But Cynthia knew he really wasn't a kid. Hadn't been for a very long time, it seemed. And she knew Justin would be strong enough for Brian through all of this.

And she hoped with every fiber of her being that she was right.

Much later that night, as he lay in the bed he had shared with his lover - where they had fucked and laughed and played and made love - as he touched the empty space beside him where Brian should be - Justin wondered if he would ever feel strong again.

Three days. Three days of her wanting him to talk. He really hated that bullshit. Justin knew that, and yet he let this bitch hold him hostage. To talk. Fuck her. Fuck Justin. Fuck every fucking motherfucker in this goddamned fucking hell hole! Brian's hand flew up to cover his ears as if to block out the memories of the last few days.

"We can't help you if you don't talk to us, Brian."

"Are you ready to talk today, Brian?"

"Can we speak to Trick today, Brian?"

Trick? You want a trick? Bring back that orderly with the generous bulge and I'll show you a trick, bitch. And who the hell is Trick?

He stood in front of the window in an office to which he had been ‘escorted', looking out across the exposed roof of the floor below. "Not quite the usual five star accommodations you normally order, Kinney," he thought wryly as he counted the rusting rivets holding together the air conditioning unit on the other side of the mesh filled glass. Sixteen. At least that's what he could count from this luxurious vantage point. Sixteen rusty rivets.  

He hadn't seen Justin, or anyone but hospital personnel, since they had moved him to that god forsaken new room. Snickering, Brian thought this was surely some kind of cosmic comeuppance for never telling Justin he had visited him in the hospital. Figures. Apparently the twink had learned to play hardball.

He pretended not to hear when the bitch entered the office. That's the only way he could think of her now - the bitch. She had issued orders that the door to his room be left open at all times since... well... since he had apparently destroyed the room after her last ‘visit' with him yesterday. He didn't really remember. He didn't really care much. Didn't care that she called herself a doctor. Didn't care that she said she wanted to ‘help'. She deserved it. She wanted to ‘talk'. Fuck her.

"How are you today, Brian?"

He gave a humorless little laugh. Ran his hands through his now shaggy hair.

"How the hell do you think I am? I'm here." He folded his arms across his chest and turned around to face her, his ass resting on the narrow window sill, his long legs crossing at the ankles. "Did you bring me here to invite me to ‘talk' again?"

"Actually, yes. Do you recall our discussions yesterday?" Dr. McCarthy took in the body language of her patient. Closed off. Folded up around himself. Protective. Although she was sure he was trying to project  nonchalance, she clearly heard what the posture actually said - stay away from me.

"We didn't ‘discuss' yesterday, as I recall. Or the day before that."

"Actually we did. Quite a bit of discussing."

Brian scowled slightly and snorted. "Yeah. Right. All those times I said ‘no'. Quite a lively conversation."

"Please, Brian. Have a seat."

As Brian pushed himself away from the window and settled himself into a chair in front of the doctor's desk, Dr. McCarthy settled herself into the chair beside him and said quietly, "I have something I would like to show you, Brian. Is that okay?"

Brian gave a slight shrug and grudgingly turned his attention to the computer screen indicated by the doctor. He heard three quick clicks and watched as a face appeared on the screen. A face that looked like his. In this room. In this chair. The face that looked like his was... singing? The sound pealed out from the speakers, tinny and high, mirthless and forced. Hands shifting in the air, directing some muted orchestra that could only be heard inside the head of the face that looked like his.

This is the man all tattered and torn...

...the maiden all forlorn...

...tossed the dog...

...who killed...who killed...

...in the house that Jack built.*

And his heart stopped. And his breath stopped. And he wondered how he could still feel so much air pass over his tongue and over his throat because you can't breathe in these great gulps of air when your heart and your breath has stopped. Can you? No. No. You can't. He learned that...tossed the dog... in some class at Holy Mother... who killed... Holy Mother... who killed... didn't he learn that... in the house that Jack... that Jack...

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

The noise that came from the chair next to her was the most broken she had ever heard and she wondered if it was even a word at all. It was a primal sound. It was agonized. It was pure pain. In that fraction of a second it took her to turn her attention from the monitor to the man sitting beside her, he had curled himself into a tiny ball, his arms wrapped so tightly around his drawn up legs that the fingers were already white from the grip. She could see he was holding himself together by a very tenuous thread of reason, his tortured eyes staring beyond her, seeing something that no longer existed except to him.

"Brian?"

"...who killed...who killed..." He chanted and rocked himself, his eyes dry and his voice so very, very small. "...he pissed on my rug... come here, Sonny Boy... that's what happens... remember that, boy..." He could see the fur that had been so soft and gray. Now the color was... off... the fur was too... still. But it had bounced today... hadn't it? And it had warm brown eyes... before... And the air made no sense flowing through his teeth. His heart had stopped. Its heart had stopped and red was the new gray...

"Brian..."

"Leave him be, you cunt." The whisper was belied by the anger - no, the hatred in the voice, as the body in the chair beside her unfolded itself and leaned toward the woman. "He's safe where he is and I swear to whatever is almighty that we'll keep him there if you don't leave him alone."

Dr. McCarthy sat slightly stunned, appreciating the sudden hardness in the eyes of the man next to her. This was definitely not Brian Kinney. Of course, she actually knew better than to believe her own irrational thought, but she could understand where the concept of possession arose. Although the physical features were the same - a few differences having more to do with the projection of emotion through body language and visual façade - but the demeanor and personality, even the vocal qualities were so very opposed to the arrogant and distant man who entered her office. This alter was commanding, protective, threatening. And boiling over with quiet contempt.

"Where is Brian?"

"Safe."

"You don't believe he's safe here?"

The man laughed, a great bellowing guffaw, before closing his gaze in on the doctor. "You can't protect him. We can," he hissed.

She paused, then nodded. "Who is ‘we'?"

The man smiled, a smile that didn't show in his eyes, and replied, "Just... friends."

*******

Lindsay sat plucking at the red ball fringe edging the pillow in her lap, staring furiously at Justin. She, Mel and the kids had arrived early this morning, having driven straight through the night from Toronto following the phone call from Debbie two days ago. Now, sitting in the middle of Deb's living room with the rest of the adopted family, she felt a battle waging deep inside between her upbringing and her anger. Her anger was rapidly getting the upper hand.   

"You mean to tell me that Brian has been in the hospital for over a week, missing for who knows how long before that and you didn't let me know, let his son know?"

"Linds, please..." Justin was tired. Fucking exhausted. The last thing he needed right now was more of the family ganging up on him. He had been ignoring most of their phone calls, had refused to answer their continued attempts to get through to him at the loft. Although he had not been allowed to see Brian - to visit him or hold him - for the last three days, he had still spent every single solitary day in the psychiatric lounge talking with the doctors and hoping that today would be the day he would be let inside. At night he was simply too weary to deal with the onslaught of questions and demands and advice he knew he would be bombarded with if he allowed it. His one concession to all the family demands was a daily call to Carl. He gave him a running update, at least a sketchy one, leaving out such important details as diagnosis. He trusted Carl. He did. But the less he knew about some realities right now, the less opportunity the family had of finding out. 

"Justin! Don't ‘please' me! You should have called me! From what I understand you aren't telling anyone anything!"

"You got that right! We aren't even allowed to visit him! He's been in the hospital for days and I've been allowed to see him one time! One time!" Michael's own anger at Justin, long brewing over the last several years, was overflowing. Christ, the kid just wouldn't stop trying to run Brian's life! And now he was trying to push them all away from Brian. Well, it would stop now if Michael had anything to say about it. The family was fed up!

"Sunshine, I know you think you are doing the right thing..."

"Deb... Christ! Will everyone just SHUT the FUCK up!"

Uneasy silence fell over the room. Cynthia sat beside Justin at this fucked up family command performance. She was the only other person who knew all of the details surrounding Brian, the only person Justin could completely trust with that knowledge. They were bonded in a way neither of them sought, but both of them appreciated and he had wanted her there, with him.  She placed her arm around Justin's shoulder, whispering to him, trying to calm the trembling young man.  As difficult as it was for Cynthia, running the companies and grieving for the incredible pain her employer/friend was enduring, she knew that it was an overwhelming load for this young man to carry. Justin was living it every minute, every second and she could see that he was barely holding it together. And Cynthia knew it was only because he had no other choice.

"When did you move to Toronto, Linds?"

"Justin, you know exactly when we..."

"How. Long. Ago. Lindsay?" Justin interrupted brusquely.

"Um...almost three months. But you already knew tha..."

"And how often did Brian talk with you after you moved?" Again, Justin interrupted. There was a point to be made.

"Every Saturday. He always called... Saturday morning... to speak with Gus." Lindsay's voice began to trail off and she fondled the pillow fringe again. Oh, my god, she thought. "Oh, god..."

"Yeah. You didn't even notice, did you?" Justin massaged the back of his own neck. God, he just didn't want to battle this tonight. He tried to stretch the kinks out of his shoulders and, turning his head slowly, let his gaze touch on each person in the room.

"Other than the visit to the hospital, when was the last time any of you actually spoke to Brian? Or saw him?" There were a few murmurs, sideways glances to others in the room, and then silence. "A week ago?" Justin waited. "No? Two weeks ago? Three weeks? A month!?" Again, he waited. Nothing.

"Where were you all? Where were his friends - his family? Yeah, I have a shitload of my own guilt because I wasn't here for Brian, but... you were here! You were right here! And with everything happening in his life you don't see him - talk to him - for weeks?" Justin stood up and shrugged into his coat. "You know, Brian never expected anything from his real family. But from you? Yeah, I think he would expect more. Something."

"Linds, Mel. You've probably wasted a trip. No one can see Brian right now. If you need money, talk to Cynthia. Brian would want to take care of Gus and JR." As he turned to leave he clutched the hand of the woman next to him. She tightened her hand in his. She understood. She would make sure Gus had what he needed. For Brian.

 Michael reached out and grabbed the arm of Justin's coat and pulled the young man around to face him. "Where the fuck do you think you're going? You still haven't told us what's going on or why you're not letting us see Brian."

"Let me go, Michael." The two men faced off, neither backing down. As they stood watching each other, Justin had the sudden realization that Michael's battle was not about Brian any longer. It was about him, about Justin. It was about a persistent twink who had done what Michael himself hadn't the courage to do. "Michael, let go of my arm. Now. I promise you I'm not the little boy you met five years ago. You can't manipulate me anymore. And you can't use Brian anymore." He stared hard into the other man's eyes and repeated, "Let. Me. Go."

Michael loosened his grip on Justin's coat and lowered his arm. Justin shook him off and turned back toward the roomful of people he had considered friends. "Stay away from the loft. Don't call me. Don't loiter at the hospital. It won't do you any good. Brian's doctors have given strict orders that he see no one right now. When that changes, or when I know anything else, I'll let you know." He drew a deep breath to steady himself and continued. "I thought I knew you, could trust you. Yeah, I have my own guilt about leaving for New York. But Brian... How could you have abandoned him the way you did? I... I... Just leave us alone. Please."

"Baby, I'm so sorry. You know Brian. We thought..." Emmett reached his hand out to his friend and stopped, realizing how pathetically feeble his own excuses were. He had failed his friends. Horribly. And he knew that no excuse or apology could ever begin to make amends.

Justin looked his friend in the eye, anguish glaringly obvious in his own, and laughed bitterly. "Yeah, about that. You may all be surprised at how very little any of us actually know about Brian Kinney."

He turned and left the house where he had spent so much time over the past five years. Where he had lived and loved and laughed and cried. His leaving somehow felt so final.

*******

The dark settled in around him. It lay flat and heavy against his skin, running its thick fingers through his hair and winding its way into his nostrils like gas fumes from a pump - heady and noxious. It filled him and suffocated him. He hated the dark. The blackness and the inevitability of it. The fear it carried with it. His breathing increased, pulling more of the dark into him. God, he felt so helpless, so ineffective, so... vulnerable. His hand reached out for the panic button on his bed. He had to get out of here. He tried to call out. His lips were frozen by the kiss of that darkness. It bound him to the bed - sat upon his chest like a harsh lover. Please... please... He shut his eyes tightly, thinking of blonde and blue and neon lights and alabaster. God, Justin, please...

"Brian..." The voice was quiet, close. It lightly touched his hand.

"Brian, you're okay. You aren't alone." That voice again. That life preserver he thought he had hated. He breathed in raggedly holding onto that voice and opened his eyes. God, he hated her. But she saved him from the dark. And behind a small, locked window somewhere deep inside himself he thought, "Go ask Alice, I think she'll know."**

His eyes, round and dark as a doe's, searched out the room for any vestige of lingering darkness. It had hidden itself in the corner, behind the curtain, under the bed. It cowered in front of this woman he thought he hated. The dark ran away from her. She could be light. She could illuminate. She could know.

He grasped her hand and turned his tear filled eyes onto to hers. As the tears broke loose and coursed down his face he begged,

"Please. Help me."

*The House that Jack Built -- a Mother Goose nursery rhyme

** Lyrics from White Rabbit -- Grace Slick 

The phone woke Justin early - 7:38.

The hospital.

Dr. McCarthy.

Sure, sure, I can be there in an hour, he had told her. Less, maybe.

But the initial fear brought on by the doctor's request held him down on the bed for a full five minutes before the adrenaline kicked in. He picked up his phone and dialed. "Mom, the hospital called. They need me to come. I... I don't want to be alone today. Can you...?" She understood. She would pick him up in thirty minutes.

Quick shower. Dress. Coffee in a travel mug. Grab his bag. Go.

Shit.

As Justin waited for his mother outside the front door of the loft building, he fought back the now familiar panic. Didn't take much to bring it up these days. Just an early morning phone call. Christ, he would take that asshole Hobbs getting in his face every hour on the hour to what Brian was facing now. Brian, who needed control. To be in control. And was so out of control.

Sitting on the steps, he lay his head down on his raised knees and prayed. He didn't even fucking believe in god - any god. But right now he would hedge every bet he could and if that meant praying to something he didn't believe in, he would fucking do it. Twice.

"Justin!"

Looking up toward the sudden, familiar voice, Justin groaned. "What do you want, Michael?" Christ, Michael had just been waiting in ambush! He didn't need this right now.

"I want the truth. What's going on with Brian?"

"Michael, I said everything I had to say last night. At this point, I don't have anything else to tell you." Justin craned his neck, hoping beyond hope that his mother's car was in sight. It wasn't. Shit!

Michael's eyes were hard as stone and his voice was sharp. He knew Justin was keeping something from him, from the family. He leaned into Justin's space. "You and I both know you're lying, Justin."

"I don't give a flying fuck what you think, Michael. This is not and never will be about you! This is about Brian and what his doctors feel is best for him."

"Bullshit! This isn't about the doctors. This is about you, you little shit! What right do you have to make decisions for Brian?" With every word Michael moved further into Justin's space.

"He has every right."

Michael turned at the sound of Jennifer's voice, backing away from Justin only slightly.

"And unless you want me to call the police, you will back the fuck off of my son now!" Jennifer's voice was cold and her phone was in her hand. She had every intention of following up on her threat.

"Mom... I'm okay. Let's just get in the car." Justin was shocked by his mother's attitude and words. And proud. But he wasn't intimidated by Michael. Yes, there had been a time when he was. Not anymore. He couldn't afford to be. There was a much more intimidating opponent that he had to focus on right now.

As Justin entered the car and started to close the door, Jennifer spoke again, focusing every ounce of anger she had toward the man standing on the sidewalk. "Michael, you have no idea who or what you are dealing with. You will never threaten my son again, with your actions or your words." She pulled herself into the vehicle and spoke to Michael through the window. "Now, my son needs to take care of his partner. I suggest you focus on your own."

As they pulled away and drove toward the hospital, Justin smiled a real smile for the first time in many days. "Mom?" he asked incredulously. Jennifer simply gave a slight smirk.

*******

The documents were all spread out in front of him. He had fucked himself a bit work-wise with his little impromptu vacation and now had to do a few early days to catch up with his paperwork. So here he was, in the office early again going over insurance verifications, authorizations, requests for information... for the boss. He had been told a few basics - Brian was going to be in the hospital for a while; he was going to need some intensive medical treatments; the running of the company would be in Cynthia's hands; it was a private matter; please don't tell anyone anything about anything. And he had agreed. Of course.

There were more than a few times he had wondered about the strange course of his relationship with Brian Kinney. Brian had mocked him - tortured him if the truth be told - at every turn for so many years. Brian, the consummate club boy who seemed to have everything and everyone he wanted. Beautiful and well aware of that. Exciting and desired by everyone, male and female. The total anti-Ted. And Brian never seemed to let anyone forget that. And, god, Ted had resented the jerk for that.

But when it came down to the bare bones of his feelings about the man, Ted trusted Brian Kinney. Trusted him enough that he decided Brian should be the one to choose whether he lived or died. He had trusted Brian to know when to pull his plug. Sure, it had all been hypothetical at the time: Ted really didn't foresee a circumstance when Brian would actually have to consider the choice. But it had happened and Ted knew that he had made the right choice.

Ted trusted Brian Kinney completely - with his own life. And when push came to shove, Brian had more than proven himself worthy of that trust. He had given Ted back his life, both literally and figuratively. He hadn't pulled the plug, and when Ted was at his very lowest, so down and out from his drug days that he honestly didn't know where a next meal would be coming from, Brian trusted him to run financials for Kinnetik. And he had trusted Ted with the secret about his bout with cancer. Yeah, he owed Brian. And he would do everything he could to repay the man - to protect him. 

Now, as he looked back down at the documents splayed around his desk, he found himself in a position to do just that. Cynthia had not told him the details of Brian's hospitalization. It really wasn't any of Ted's business beyond the financial aspects of the matter, and Ted was well aware that the only reason he was in the know at all was because he would have to process the insurance paperwork. But the paperwork was perhaps a bit more telling than Cynthia knew. The list of medications, the doctors' names... The information didn't tell him why, exactly, but it did tell him precisely which section of the hospital Brian was in and the reason for the information blackout for family and friends became clear. The jealous fags on Liberty would have a field day with this.

Jesus. Brian...

And, no. Ted would not tell anyone anything about anything.  

*******

He sat looking at the attractive blond woman leaning her ass on the edge of the desk. He might be queer, but he could still tell a pretty woman when he saw one. And she fit the bill. But she was more than just pretty. There was an air of self-possession about the woman - capable, determined, confident, with just a bit of entitlement mixed in. He definitely appreciated someone who had a sense of their own value, and this woman obviously had that. 

"Mr. Krawczynski -"

"Kaz. I like to conserve consonants."

"Then Kaz it is," she came back with a diffident little laugh. She decided to like this man. "I appreciate your conservationist leanings."

"Well, you know, waste not..." Kaz leaned back in the chair, glad for the moment that it was not as comfortable as the ergo-chair in his office. He had the feeling he would need to stay a bit less relaxed for this meeting. 

"Yes, indeed. Waste not. So let's get right to the point then, shall we?" Cynthia pushed herself off the edge of the desk a bit and resettled there. "You were the investigator Carl hired to find Brian?"

"Yes. Carl and I go back a long time."

"I would like to hire you to do some further investigation for me - for Brian." She walked around and sat down, pulling out some handwritten notes. "I saw the report you provided to Justin and Carl, the one listing the background information you found on Brian - the bank accounts and properties and the... arrests." Cynthia hesitated for only a moment before handing the notes she was holding over to the investigator.

Kaz took the notes, reading them carefully before raising his eyes to connect with Cynthia's. He smiled to himself, thinking she would have made one hell of an investigator. Good instincts on that one. "You want me to look into the '94 arrest in Chicago." It wasn't a question. Her notes were fairly explicit on the information she remembered about that period of time. This was going to be sticky; he had promised Horvath to keep this between them and Taylor. Not to mention he hadn't even spoken to Horvath yet about his latest conversation with Pete. Shit...

"And the '84 incarceration at Schuman."

"Why the Schuman stint?"

"I don't know. Call it woman's intuition, gut instinct - whatever you feel comfortable with. I just need to know what that was about."

"Let's go with ‘gut instinct'. What is your gut telling you?"

"That they are connected in some way. And no, I have nothing concrete to back that up. I just... feel it. I've worked with Brian - very closely for the most part - for over a decade. We worked together when that incident happened in Chicago. It stood out to me because of the disappearance. Now, with this disappearance... and the timing of the Schuman incarceration... I don't know, Kaz. It just all feels connected."

Kaz watched her. He could see there was more than some idle curiosity here, of course. He could feel her pain. But this woman was giving nothing else away. She had one hell of a poker face. He liked her style. Blunt and straightforward. No bullshit. Even if she wasn't sure why, she just knew it had to be done. And her instincts were fucking dead on. That made up his mind for him. 

"Cynthia, I can't let you hire me for this." He held up his hand to interrupt her confused protest. "Wait... you don't need to hire me because I've already had people checking into it. The Chicago arrest just didn't sit right, as you've obviously figured out. Brian Kinney wouldn't panhandle. Period. And the time in Schuman Juvenile..."

"You've already checked?" Cynthia interrupted and the poker face slipped a fraction with her surprise. "And what exactly have you found out?"

"That there were some connections between the two arrests and discrepancies between the official police report of Kinney's arrest in Chicago and what actually occurred..."

"The report was doctored? But why?"

"Until last night I would have had to guess at the reason. But I talked to my contact with the Chicago PD late yesterday. Are you familiar with a man by the name of Greg Simpson?"

"Simpson Steel. That account was the reason Brian went to Chicago. What could he have to do with Brian's arrest for vagrancy?"

"No. That would be Simpson Senior. Greg Simpson, Jr., his son. He was a high school teacher and athletic coach."

*******

He felt like that seventeen year old virgin again as he started to push open the door to Dr. McCarthy's office.  Four days. He hadn't seen him. Hadn't touched him. Hadn't heard his voice. Sure, they had gone much longer than that without contact. Hell, he was just in New York for three weeks without any contact with Brian. A heavy weight of guilt bore down on him with that thought. What had happened to Brian in those three weeks? What if he had been here? What if he had just called? What if...?

Justin stood still, bracing himself for whatever - whoever - he would find on the other side of the heavy door. He had been cautioned that Brian was ‘fragile'. Fragile. That seemed such a fucked up word to describe Brian Kinney. But Justin had always known that. He had. He just didn't know how fragile.

The first thing Justin felt as he saw Brian for the first time in four days was absolute fucking relief. He was there in the room with him. The second thing Justin felt as he saw Brian for the first time in four days was heartbreak. Gone was the elegant, graceful, proud man he was used to seeing. In his place was a tired, frightened man with haunted eyes.

"God, Sunshine." The haunted eyes filled with pain and tears.

"Bri, I'm here." Justin walked to the sofa and sat down next to his partner, reaching a hand up to cup his face. "I'm here."

Brian rested his head on Justin's shoulder, breathing in the soft freshness of shampoo and soap as he buried his face in the curtain of blonde hair. He had never held Justin quite so tightly, grounding himself, keeping himself tethered to a reality he couldn't depend upon anymore. He could hear each breath, feel each pulsing heart beat, taste the warmth - and pretend that the world wasn't spinning out of his control. There was a desperation in his grip, an urgency and need that he had only felt one other time - at the end of one ridiculously romantic night.

"I love you, Brian. I'm here."

"Jus?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what's happening to me."

There was nothing Justin could say to ease Brian's fears. He just tightened his arms around the man he loved and said, "I know."

As she sat and observed them she knew that the men had forgotten she was there. This part always made her feel a bit awkward - like some kind of medical voyeur. Much of her job was simply observing. In many cases that component of her profession yielded more answers than any direct interaction with a patient. In this particular instance she was trying to understand the trust levels, the supportive nature of the relationship between Brian and the man who ostensibly would be his main source of support and care. She knew the journey Brian and Justin were beginning was going to be a hellacious one. As she quietly watched the men touch and speak quietly to each other, she was encouraged that they might make it to the end. There was a deep connection between these two. They communicated as much on a non-verbal basis as they did verbally. Through a touch, a simple look. That ability - that art - could prove invaluable to them.

"Brian? Justin?"

Justin turned his head toward Dr. McCarthy and gave a small nod as he brushed a lock of hair from Brian's face. Brian lightly brushed his lips across his lover's, closed his eyes and rested their foreheads together for a brief moment. It felt so familiar and, god, he needed something to feel familiar. To feel real. He cleared his throat as he pulled away, but clutched Justin's hand tightly in his own.

"Justin, thank you for coming this morning. The past few days, I had requested that everyone, including you, be prohibited from visiting Brian. Please, let me assure you both that this was not just an arbitrary decision. It served a dual purpose, actually. We needed to see you, Brian, as you act - interact without the influence of outside factors. To just be. As well, you needed the opportunity to realize that help was both needed and available. Believe me, the separation was not a punishment, although it may have appeared as one at the time.   

"Brian, last night you asked me to help you. Do you remember that?" Dr. McCarthy noticed that Brian had been shifting slightly, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation.  

"Yes. I remember."

"Do you remember what precipitated that?"

"Christ..." Brian didn't want to recall his panic from the night before. The darkness, the total vulnerability. He turned his body slightly away from Justin, but kept his hand held tightly. Several moments passed in total silence. Justin placed his free hand lightly on Brian's forearm.

"I was... I panicked."

"You had a panic attack?"

"Yes. I suppose."

Oh, god. Justin knew all too well what a panic attack felt like. It was like dying, disappearing into a fear so thick you couldn't see a way out. Nothing made sense through that fear.

"Do you recall what caused the panic attack?"

Brian's body tensed. No. No. I don't recall. But he didn't say it out loud. Did he? Had he answered the question? It was just the dark. Only the dark. Sitting on me. Breathing into me. God, it made his head hurt. He had to answer out loud. Didn't he? They taught him that at Holy Mother... Brian, you must speak your answer aloud, please... Go to hell, Sister...

"No. No. I don't recall." He spoke his answer out loud. 
 
 "Brian?"

"No. I said no. I don't recall." Brian stood and walked to the window. He counted the rivets in the air conditioning unit on the roof outside.

"There are sixteen of them, you know. Rusty rivets. They hold it all together. Sixteen." The voice was very small. That of a frightened child. He turned from the window and looked toward Justin, his eyes round and bright. Lost. Wrapping his arms tightly around his head, he ducked and slowly lowered himself to the floor below the window, scrabbling backwards, trying to hide himself into the corner.  

As she approached the frightened man trying to tuck himself tightly into the corner of the room, Dr. McCarthy spoke quietly. "It's okay. You're okay."

"No. He's coming!"     

"Who's coming?"

The man - the little boy - wrapped up protectively in his own arms shook his head violently. "No. Shhhh. He won't see me here. He won't see me."

"Who won't see you?"

Justin had been sitting, stunned witnessing the metamorphosis of his strong partner into this sad, terrified child. He watched as round, sad eyes peeked out from between the arms that were desperately trying to hold the body together. Justin's hands balled into fists, his faced twisted in agony and hatred as he heard a single, soft word whispered:

"Jack."

(From Chapter 13: Say it out loud)

"No. He's coming!"    

"Who's coming?"

The man - the little boy - wrapped up protectively in his own arms shook his head violently. "No. Shhhh. He won't see me here. He won't see me."

"Who won't see you?"

Justin had been sitting, stunned witnessing the metamorphosis of his strong partner into this sad, terrified child. He watched as round, sad eyes peeked out from between the arms that were desperately trying to hold the body together. Justin's hands balled into fists, his faced twisted in agony and hatred as he heard a single, soft word whispered:

"Jack."

*******

That one whispered, whimpered word crashed Justin's world. He had known it, of course. Had known that there was serious abuse in Brian's childhood, but to hear that fear, that abject terror of a father from his little boy... from Brian. He clamped both his hands tightly to his mouth to stifle the loud sobs he knew were forthcoming as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.

God, please make him alive again so I can kill him. Please let me be able to kill him.

And in his head, in his heart, he was. Killing Jack Kinney again and again. Staring him in the eye with the words of his own evil biting back at him, he gladly executed that monster over and over. And Justin knew that inside himself lived something cold and hard, an iciness that would never thaw again. That one word from Brian's lips had spotlighted a part of Justin's soul he had never had to access. That part that could, and would kill. And he hated Jack Kinney for that, too - for stealing what little innocence Justin had left to lose.

"Justin..."

Dr. McCarthy's voice pulled him from his homicidal fantasy, and Justin suddenly wasn't sure which place was more comfortable - the reality of here, with Brian, or that world inside him filled with a gleeful murderous rage.

"I'm sorry. I'm here."

"Brian needs you here."

Immediately Justin pulled himself back and knelt beside the doctor. "I'm sorry. I... I..."

"I know, Justin. Me, too. But right now, this, is about Brian." She squeezed the young man's shoulder as he clamped his eyes shut and nodded his head.

Turning her attention back to her patient, she tried to pull him from his terror filled distress.

"Jack can't hurt you here. Justin and I are here to keep him away. Is that okay?"

"Shhh. Please... I got my eyes shut. He can't find me. Please!" Her heart was aching for this man, this hurt and frightened child as she listened to the small voice pleading. Then the voice changed, the attitude changed. "Go back to sleep, Little Boy... codlaíonn tú... codlaíonn tú ... you sleep. The Father's gone."

In an instant the arms unwrapped from the huddling body in the corner, steel hard eyes met those of Dr. McCarthy and then Justin. Justin met the eyes with his own strong gaze and knew he'd met this alter, had heard this brogue before. In a bar. With a woman on his lap. Pressed up against a wall, with that arm across his throat. "You were warned. We'll not be letting you HURT them!"

"They are already hurting. Their pain doesn't go away. You can't make it go away... only Brian can do that."

"No. He cannot."

"Why can't he?"

"Because he... feels... too much." Justin noticed the hesitation right away. This alter protected Brian. He felt for Brian. He reined in Brian's emotions, kept him aloof.

And it suddenly made more sense to Justin... he wanted to laugh with the sheer simplicity of it all. He hadn't been living with, loving with one man... he had been in a relationship with who knows how many men... all looking the same, but each one reining in his Brian at every step. Never letting him near an emotion because the house of cards would all collapse! He decided to risk addressing the alter directly, and hoped to any god who was listening that he wasn't making the wrong move.

 "We've met before, haven't we? Before you attacked me in that bar. You know me... intimately... don't you?" Justin accused. He stood up to have as much advantage as possible. "You should at least tell me your name."

"Justin..." Dr. McCarthy tried vainly to warn Justin away from this tack.

"No!" Justin stood his ground. "He and I have business to take care of, don't we?" He looked back to the unknown alter. "Tell me your name."

"You always were a feisty one. No wonder..."

"No wonder what? What?" Justin moved closer to the man who looked like Brian. "You know I'm tenacious. You know I won't stop until you answer me. Don't you?"

"Sonny. My name."

"Sonny. Thank you." Justin backed off his intimidation only slightly. "Have you always been here, between Brian and me?" 

"We are always there." Sonny smirked, so fucking much like Brian.

"We? Christ! How many of you are there? How many of you are there, keeping him alone? You can't even let him have that? Have me?"

Sonny quickly pushed Justin against the office door, pinning his shoulders with his body, his hands tangling in Justin's hair, thrusting back the blond head.

"Justin!" Dr. McCarthy started to approach the two men, more than concerned for the physical safety of the younger one and the psychological safety of the older. Shit! How had she let this get so out of control?

Justin held up one hand to wave off the doctor. "He won't hurt me. He won't hurt me!" He adamantly repeated. Looking directly into the flashing hazel eyes, he asked, "Will you, Brian? You won't hurt me, Brian."

Sonny's eyes wandered over Justin's face, searching for... truth? Forgiveness? He touched his forehead to Justin and Justin could feel the smallest of tremors run through the other man's body.

"Brian. Please don't let them do this to you."

"Jus..." Familiar lips met his for the briefest of touches. "Fuck, Jus..." Brian felt his partner's arms came up and wrap around him tightly, grounding him.

"My god, Brian... you have to let us help you. Please. I need you."

"It's too much. It's... too much."

"No. Losing yourself is too much. This is not another fucking trip to Ibiza, Brian! You will not fucking disappear on me!"

And Brian actually laughed.

*******

He leaned casually against the wall in the semi-darkness of the conference room watching his father direct yet another dry, boring meeting. At least this would be the last damned one, he thought. He had just been waiting. Waiting him out. And now finally. Fucking finally. Connie couldn't be happier that the old man was retiring. Only one more month and the reins would be handed over - to him. The only son. The heir. Greg C. Simpson, Jr. would finally - fucking finally - have the respect he deserved.  

"And, as you all know, this is the last meeting I will direct as head of Simpson Steel. We've had a good ride, boys and girls. A real good ride." Simpson, Sr. gave a self-effacing chuckle, highlighting the very understated comment. "But it's time. The legal powers that be are effecting the required changes that are necessary for a formal transition of power - documentation and that sort of thing - but today I make the rather informal announcement. As of next Monday, there will be a new hand at the helm, since my own hand will undoubtedly be at the helm of some yacht off the coast of a small uncharted tropical island." Another smattering of awed laughter arose. "In my stead, I am announcing that your new CEO will be my granddaughter, Samantha Simpson."

Connie didn't hear the congratulatory applause for his oldest daughter. He didn't see her take her place behind her grandfather's seat. He didn't feel the proud pats on his shoulder. For him there was nothing but red. Engulfing him. Consuming him. Red. Crimson shock. Hate.     

The man had never, never understood his son. Hell, he had barely tolerated him most of the time. Self-righteous old bastard.

You can't coast along in life, Connie. You have to earn your way in the world.

Success isn't about money, Connie. It's about accomplishment. It's about building a man out of the boy inside.  

I'm not going to bail you out of another fuck-up, Connie.

What a load of bullshit.

Connie knew he'd been a major disappointment to the old man from day one. Premature and frail, he wasn't the son the heir to the Simpson fortune was expecting. But Connie had tried. Hard. Tried to be the son his father wanted. He had worked hard to make sure the grades were perfect, that his friends were the most popular, that he had the most ribbons and trophies in sports. He had fucking tried. And not a damned thing had worked. It was never enough. But, at least he had the Simpson family name to fall back on. At least it was something.

Then came the divorce and mom had moved the two of them to fucking Pittsburgh. Christ, of all the places she could have chosen, it had to be the Pitts. And the Pitts had to have him.

And the pure red anger - the hatred - pulsed through him again. His daughter. His father. And that fucking little bitch, Kinney.

*******

Cynthia stood stone still, staring out of Brian's office window at the parking lot of Brian's company. Kaz studied her as she stood, resting her head against the glass panes. He had never seen anyone quite as motionless for quite that length of time.

"Cynthia?" No answer.

"They're all connected. All three of them. Somehow it's all about..." The words were so painfully whispered, the voice so quiet, Kaz wondered if Cynthia actually meant to speak aloud.

"That fucking piece of shit!" She finally yelled and the vehemence bursting out of this otherwise cool woman had Kaz on high alert.

"Are you talking about Simpson?"

"Yes. He's done this. Somehow. The arrest when Brian was a teenager, the arrest in Chicago, and..." Cynthia sighed heavily and wrapped her arms around her middle, as if holding herself together. She didn't know exactly what had happened, not the details, but... oh, God, she knew it was bad.  

"And?"

Cynthia slowly pulled herself away from the cool of the window, wondering at the irony of how that touch of glass comforted her. It matched the ice that had been running through her veins since she connected the last piece with that bastard's name. She turned around and made her way back to Brian's sprawling desk, picking up a single sheet of paper and handing it to the investigator.

"And... this."

Kaz looked over what was obviously a computer printout of an email from... oh, fuck... It was a request for a meeting to discuss retaining Kinnetik. A meeting here. In Pittsburgh.

"Oh, fuck..." The air hissed out of the surprised man.

"Yeah. Exactly."

"Son of a bitch," Kaz whispered as he noticed the signature. "Junior... When did you get this?"

"I didn't... Brian did." The answer came agonizingly slowly. They both knew the possible meaning behind this. Cynthia had already stated it. They were all connected. Junior was the reason Brian did time at Shuman. Junior was the reason Brian was arrested in Chicago. And now...

Kaz looked warily at the date and time stamp of the printout. Shit. It was dated the day after Justin left for New York.

Right before Brian's disappearance.

*******

She looked apprehensively between the two men holding each other. She didn't know whether to kick her own ass for letting the situation get so far outside of her control or genuflect in gratitude that the lapse had - hopefully - worked to their advantage. At this moment she was simply relieved that Brian was apparently in control of the body. At least for the moment.

Dr. McCarthy had never seen anything quite like the drama that had just played out in her office. Justin had simply taken over. He had commanded the moment, had intimidated Sonny into submission. That was one hell of a risk!  

Or was it really?

She had seen for herself the extraordinary bond that existed between Brian and Justin. Did that bond exist with Sonny as well? Or had Justin somehow been able to recall Brian from the queue of waiting alters because he needed him? Had Brian - the original Brian - felt the need to protect Justin and reclaimed his body in order to do so? Lord!

Alice McCarthy had been a psychiatrist longer than either of these men had been alive. She had seen just about everything her profession had to offer in terms of ailments, conditions, treatments... surprises. Somehow, after today, she felt like she was heading into a new course of study. One she had in some way missed during her years as a student and doctor. This was... She reflected back to her own comparison to possession during Brian's prior meltdown and wondered if she had actually been so very far off.

The doctor retrieved a cup of water for each man. This had been an exhaustingly painful encounter. As difficult as it had been, however, she knew she couldn't waste the opportunity these events had provided. She took her seat opposite the weary pair and spoke quietly.

"Brian, how are you feeling right now?"

"Like shit actually." They all laughed lightly at the pure normalcy of that phrase.

"I would think so. But... can you be a bit more specific? I know your body is tired, aching. That's normal with this level of emotional work." She leaned forward slightly, making sure he was focusing on her. "But how are you feeling?"

Brian hesitated, drawing in a long breath, then resting his head against the back of the couch. He closed his eyes and let his lips move soundlessly, as if reciting a quiet prayer. The doctor noticed his free hand stirring slightly, making the same motion repeatedly. The sign of the cross?

"Brian," she offered softly, "...where are you right now?"

Again, Brian hesitated. He then pulled Justin's hand closer to his chest, blew out the large breath and spoke quietly, eyes still closed. "I used to pray," he said simply, almost as if that answered every question. Gave everything finality.

"Are you praying now?"

"No," he laughed sardonically.

"What did you pray about?"

"I used to pray that they would die." There was no emotion in the words. It was a flatly stated fact.

"Or that I would."

The only sign that the admission was more than some random string of words was a tightening at the corners of Brian's mouth. One slight tell. One that spoke volumes to Dr. McCarthy. It was that pinch one gave oneself to keep the tears from overflowing. He could feel the dam of his closed eyelids giving way, she knew. And she knew that he had to lose the battle - had to allow the dam's destruction.

"Who are ‘they', Brian?" There was little question in her mind who ‘they' were. She was sure she knew. But it had to be said. Out loud.

"The... I... Shit!"

"Brian, who are ‘they'?

"No. No! Shit! Shit!" Brian pulled away from Justin and stood. He paced around the room, alternately pulling at his hair and scrubbing his face with his hands. He pressed his body closely to the wood of the door, then backed away and kicked it with as much force as the cloth covering of his hospital shoes would allow.  

"Christ! What difference does it make? Huh? What the fuck difference does it make?"

The room virtually pulsed with the pain and anger emanating from the tall, distressed man. Justin rose and quietly approached Brian, placing one hand on the heaving chest.

"I've never met a stronger man in my life than you." He wrapped his arms around his lover. "They lied to you, Bri. They made you feel weak. They made you feel vulnerable. They. Were. Liars. You found a way to be in control. But it cost you too much." He pulled Brian tighter and whispered in his ear, just for him. "Don't... don't let it cost you the rest of your life."

"I can't do this, Justin." Brian buried his face in the curve of the young man's neck, breathing deeply - taking in the scent of comfort, of home. God, he was so fucking tired. So fucking tired of everything.

"Yeah, you can. We can."

He breathed his partner in deeply once more and suddenly sagged back against the door, resting his head on it. His eyes closed and his mouth hung slightly agape. Soft. When he finally spoke them the words sounded almost reverent, as if pulled from some arcane litany.

C'mon. You know what we want, little boy.

"The Kings."

Dr. McCarthy narrowed her eyes slightly, a bit surprised at the identification. Who were the Kings? She heard Brian speak again, this time with a bit more venom.

"They fucking called themselves the Kings." And he let his body slide to the floor.

She knew that her perception of the depths of sheer cruelty and depravity to which the human soul could descend would soon be forever changed. Unfortunately, those changes would not be for the better. Alice McCarthy had thought, naively, that little could make her views of humanity even more jaded. And yes, she was jaded. She had simply seen too much in her profession - in her life - to avoid that particular pitfall. Just the sheer number of patients with histories of abuse and neglect that she had treated had accomplished that feat years ago. But... what she had witnessed, what this young man only hinted at unmasking today had the potential to make her previous cynicism seem like a day in the park.

Brian had been completely incapable of continuing the session following the identification of his abusers. She wasn't even sure at this point if the Brian personality fully knew on a conscious level the extent of abuse he had suffered. But he did know the perpetrators, and following that admission he had retreated into a nearly catatonic mental state. She knew, however, that somewhere within his psyche... within one of the alters he used for survival... there was an answer. A keeper of the secret. A key. And finding that key was absolutely necessary to unlocking the prison he had paradoxically created in order to retain some control... some freedom.

Dr. McCarthy closed the folder she had notated and updated, and placed it securely in her locked file before she turned out her office lights and locked the door. As she walked the nearly empty hall to leave emergency instructions with the charge nurse, she passed the large window of the family waiting room.

"Justin. Please go home. Get some rest," she gently ordered as she stood beside the young man dozing in the battered waiting room chair.

"Can't," he responded with a yawn. "I have to be here."

"He's been sedated, Justin. He won't wake up tonight. I promise." Justin Taylor, she was discovering, was an amazingly persistent and loyal young man. As positive as that was for his partner's recovery, it was potentially hazardous for his own physical health.

"Doesn't matter. I'm staying." The young man straightened himself in the chair and turned his focus to the suspended television in the corner of the room, pretending to absorb himself in the grainy picture and muted volume.

"You know, I admire what you did with him today. That was a terrifying experience and you handled it with a great amount of courage and insight - almost as if you had been trained in this."

"Oh, trust me, I have been," Justin laughed sadly. "I studied at the Kinney Institute for five years." He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and steepled his fingers against his lips before continuing. "It suddenly struck me that I had done this before. With him. All those times that he... he pushed me away, for my own good, as he said. Every time his mood or behavior seemed to change in the blink of an eye. I was talking to, fighting with, working with, having sex with one of those alters. A different part of Brian. I knew Sonny. And Sonny knew me. There was no danger, not to me."

"That may not be true another time, Justin." The doctor spoke calmly, but wanted to impress upon Justin exactly the amount of danger that may be, literally, just under the surface. "Brian is obviously volatile right now. He's struggling so hard to finally deal with his... abuse. Some catalyst has created a need for him to remember, on a conscious level. That's why, I believe, the switching is occurring so often and so rapidly. The alters are pulling in different directions from the host, perhaps. I have no doubt that we can help Brian get through this, believe me, but it isn't going to be quick or easy. And when he does remember, when he has to face his own... reality..." She paused and covered one of Justin's hands with her. "...it will most likely be cataclysmic."

Justin closed his eyes and rested his head against the dull beige wall.

"I know," he whispered.

*******

Emmett sat at the small table near the back of Woody's and took in his friend's heated monologue. He had stopped actively participating in any real conversation when he realized Michael was in no frame of mind to listen to reason. But that's the way it usually went when Brian was the center of Michael's ramblings. The perverse nature of Michael's obsession with the legendary Brian Kinney was the stuff of its own legend. There wasn't a queer on Liberty Avenue who didn't at least suspect Michael's true feelings about their reigning stud.

"And that little shit - and his mommy - actually threatened me! He fucking thinks he knows what Brian needs, what's best for him. Bullshit! I've known Brian longer than anyone and I know. I know!" Michael's voice had raised to a near shout and the room was now beginning to focus on the obviously angry man.

"Honey, I think we need to call Ben to come take your cute little tush home." Emmett knew that diffusing the situation - hell, just getting rid of the situation altogether - would be much better than allowing this room full of queers more fuel for their rumor mill. Michael continued on as if Emmett had not even spoken.

"They aren't partners! They've never been partners! Fuck buddies... That's all. And fuck buddies don't get to make decisions like this for each other. He's such a fucking shit!"

"Michael! Just where the hell have you been for the last five years? Justin and Brian have been partners for a long, long time. You may not like it, but that doesn't make it untrue. Now, we let Brian down, but that boy hasn't. He's right where he should be - by his partner's side!" Emmett had heard this same damned speech, in one form or another, too many times. "I'm calling your husband."

"The hell! You sound just like that shit and his mother! I'm not going home," Michael was virtually yelling in anger and frustration at this point. And the words were not lost on the room full of men. "I'm going to the hospital. That stupid twink's got Brian locked up in the looney bin, with psychiatrists and pills and god knows what else, and I'm going to find out just what the fuck is really going on! Why the fuck he just freaked out and disappeared on us!"

 Emmett thought his heart would stop. Sweet Jesus. What is this fool doing? He did not just put that shit out there for all of Liberty Avenue to hear. He pulled out his phone.

"Ben, you need to get over here right now, sweetie. Your husband has just laid out all Brian's cards on the table for every queer in the room... No... Ben, they ALL heard it. You need to be herenow." Closing his phone, Emmett, placed his hand on Michael's arm.

"Michael, I'm going to say this one time and you are going to fucking hear me. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Now."

An angry Emmett Honeycutt was an unusual sight and an unexpectedly intimidating presence. Michael could feel the rage radiating from the strong queen. He looked around the room and saw the eyes on him, knowing what he had said and what they had heard. Shit. He didn't feel the least bit bad about what he had said, but he hadn't meant to say it here - now.

"Emmett..." he began.

"Not another fucking word, Michael! I'm warning you. He is our friend! And you have just betrayed him in a very dangerous way."

Michael slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. He knew he had just made a huge mistake. As he waited for his husband, he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that Brian had always forgiven him when he screwed up. He would forgive him anything. He had no idea just how wrong he was.

*******

He felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and fought through his mental fog to find the damned thing.

"Yeah. Hello?"

"Baby, it's Em. I need to talk with you. Can you meet me?"

"Em, what's going on? I'm still at the hospital."

"Honey, it's almost midnight! What are you still doing there? No, don't answer that. I know the answer. But, Justin, you have to rest and I really do need to talk with you. You know I wouldn't call this late if it wasn't important." Even though his sleepy haze, Justin could hear the urgency in his friend's voice.

"Yeah, okay. I guess I need to shower and change. Give me time to get to the loft and them come over." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Emmett, are you okay?"

"No, baby, I'm not. I think it may be a long time before I'm okay again. I'll talk with you in a bit, alright?"

"Yeah. Later."

Justin pulled himself to his feet and collected his belongings. Walking toward the hospital exit, he hoped he would have time for a shower before dealing with Emmett's crisis.

*******

He felt the pulsing of their excitement. Men stood around him, their mocking laughter ripe with taunts. He could feel their heat, smell their sweat, taste their blood lust in the air.

In the center of the floor the small, doe eyed child shivered as the bodies continued to move toward him. Heads tossing back, arms hanging by their sides, the bodies jerked closer in an awkward rhythm.

Along his jaw, he felt the cold nose of the small animal quaking in his arms. Whimpers. Cries.

C'mon, Sonny Boy... nonononono!... He pissed on our rug... no!... Do it, Sonny Boy... nooopleaseplease... Be a man, Sonny Boy... pleeeaasenoooo... Love is for sissies, Sonny Boy...

Red slid down his arms, wet and warm and slick. Whimpers silent. He crawled back inside himself.      

Brian's body shook uncontrollably, fighting off the terror he couldn't wake from. He heard his own voice cry out, scream out, "NOOOOO", again and again, felt the gentle hand on his arm and the sweet sting as the sedation moved inside his veins. And the voices quieted. And the visions dimmed. And the world faded out to black.

*******

Emmett stood by the great window in the loft, looking down on the dark, empty street, thinking how appropriate the desolate scene was. Without knowing what it was, he felt the burden of this huge secret bearing down on him. He had never felt so... empty. So dark.

"Um...," he struggled to being. "It's Michael."

"God. I should have known. What has he done?"

"He was angry, baby. Messed up, like he always is where Brian is concerned. We were at Woody's..."

"Em?" The battle to stay focused, to stay calm was evident in Emmett's voice - and Justin felt an ominous chill run through his body. "What has he done?"

"He was carrying on - about you and Brian. I couldn't get him to shut the fuck up, baby! I tried... but he... got loud. Everyone was there, and they heard him..."

Justin grabbed his friend's hand and pulled him toward the sofa.

"He wasn't trying to tell them, but, oh, he did. They all know where Brian is, that he's in the psychiatric unit. God, Justin. They know about the disappearance. Everything! I could kill him!"

"Fuck! Fuck!" Justin knew what everyone could expect - what Brian could expect - to be the headline in the fucking rags tomorrow. "Christ! That fucking piece of shit."

"Honey, no one knows, except you, what's really going on. At least he can't let that cat out of the bag."

"Do you really think it will take any more than a couple of fucking dollars to the right person for some scumbag to find out? Emmett, you really... really don't have any idea as to what Michael has really done. Brian will be devastated. More so because it was his friend who betrayed him."  

"Yeah," Emmett breathed out. "I read somewhere that Judas was a friend, too."

Justin was livid. She had promised him. Fucking promised him that Brian wouldn't wake up during the night. But, Dr. McCarthy's assurances of sedation aside, Brian had wakened during the night. Or at least he had roused enough that the demons were able to torment him yet again.

He looked over at his partner, still unconscious from the effects of the second sedation last night, and Justin was struck by the innocence and boyishness - the peace - his face reflected in sleep. But that was just another lie. There was no fucking peace for this beautiful, tortured man. Not a single damned moment of escape for him. Even in sleep. Last night proved that.

Justin felt himself again wandering into that newly discovered territory inside his own psyche, that place where his rage burned with a homicidal heat he had never before known.

They fucking called themselves the Kings.

Yeah, he could easily kill Jack Kinney. Without a second fucking thought or a single backward glance. Christ... He thought about all the times Craig or his mom had sat with him at night, easing his fears and vanquishing the monsters he was convinced lurked under his bed or in his closet or outside his window. Formless, shapeless monsters of a frightened child's active imagination. And every day... every fucking moment of his childhood... Brian was trying to merely survive the very real, very incarnate monster that had given him life. God...

Fuck god.                                                                                    

No, Justin wouldn't have left the hospital if he thought Brian might wake up, especially after that traumatic session yesterday and the discussion with Dr. McCarthy in the waiting room. Her reassurance was really the only reason he had agreed to meet Emmett at the loft instead of insisting that they meet here.  

And now... Shit, Michael! If there was one fucking word... just one fucking mention of Brian in the press... He sighed and straightened the stack of magazines he had brought from the loft for Brian, picked up his sketchbook and charcoal, pulled one leg under him and settled in to wait for his lover to wake. His fingers poised above the empty page of his sketchbook, itching to take that first stroke... to draw some normalcy back into his life... but every image that ran through his mind had Brian broken and bleeding and suffering who knows what kind of torture...

With one audible sob, Justin pulled his hands up to cover his face as the book and charcoal slid with soft thuds to the floor. He drew both legs up, wrapping his arms tightly around them, and laid his face down on the tops of his knees. I can't do this here. I can't fucking fall apart here.  

"Hey." The soft voice floated through the room so quietly Justin could almost believe he had imagined the sound.

"Hey. You cryin'?" With the whispered question, Justin felt a single finger poke him in the shoulder. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and looked up into the worried round eyes of his partner. No, not his partner. Some alter.

"I'm okay," Justin spoke through the thick lump in his throat.

The alter sounded a soft growl-like noise, almost a warning sound. "Don't wake ‘im up. And don't piss on the rug." Without any other notice of Justin, the alter turned over and curled up completely beneath the thin, cotton blanket. And was again fast asleep.

The young man sat watching the curled up figure on the bed, his jaw a bit slack in surprise. Of all the encounters he'd had with the various parts of Brian's personality over the last several days - Christ! Had it only been a few days? - this seemingly innocuous one somehow seemed the most frightening.

*******

They parked the car in the nearly empty visitor's parking lot and walked toward the administrative offices of the non-descript red brick building. Even today, twenty years after the summer Brian spent here, Schuman Detention Center was not a particularly inviting structure. All sharp angles and function from the outside. Most certainly antiseptic and clinical on the inside.

"Certainly the kind of place that'd make a kid want to turn over a new leaf, don't you think, Carl?" 

"Yeah, but unfortunately it's a hell of a lot better than what most of ‘em came from."    

Kaz had to agree with that. He knew it was a fuck load better than what Brian Kinney had apparently come from. He had already filled Carl in on the tentative connection between the two notable arrests in Kinney's history, and the recent disappearance. And now they were here trying to decipher any insight available from the man's past. They didn't expected to get any actual information from the administrators of the facility, even if they had been prone to discussing past inmates. The records wouldn't even be accessible to them at this point. Those were tightly held in some moldering archive somewhere, certainly not important enough at that date and time to transfer to microfiche or other data storage. And, of course, incarceration records of a juvenile are sealed by the courts. Yeah, they knew he was here and when, but what they wanted were specifics of the actual experience Brian had during his stay. And some kind of information on exactly what happened to lead to that experience.

The two men stood in front of the high counter separating the visitor's area from the secretary and waited. Kaz rolled his eyes at the generic motivational posters on the walls, with idealized images of hang gliders and piton wielding mountain climbers and over-challenged athletes - posters which were interspersed with copies of meal plans and duty rosters, with class schedules and lists of visiting hours. The room had the hybrid feel of a high school counselor's office and an employment agency. And just about as much warmth. Just along the far wall he noticed an older man, a bit stooped with age, pushing a utility cart laden with cleaning supplies. Kaz nudged the detective's shoulder and nodded his head once in the direction of the janitor. With Carl's return nod, the investigator headed off to play a hunch.

"Careful there, son. Floor's wet and I don't need no accidents today," the older man cautioned.

"Yeah, thanks, sir. I don't mean to be tracking up your floor." Kaz surveyed the man, assessing him to be around sixty but fairly fit.

"Nah, that'd just be job security," the janitor said with a sly laugh.

"Guess you're right there. You been here at Shuman a long time?"

"Round about twenty five years or so. You got a reason for asking?" The older man's eyes drew into suspicious slits as he rested his arm atop the handle of his mop.

Bingo, Kaz thought to himself. His hunch hand been right - the man was here at the time of Brian's incarceration. Government jobs, regardless of the skill level, seemed to inure longevity with their pay scales and benefits. He knew a lot of messed up kids had passed through these halls since 1984, but Brian... well, he seemed to have a way of being memorable. Here's hoping...

"Actually, yeah, I do," he replied, pulling out his identification. "Kaz Krawczynski. I'm an investigator looking into the disappearance of a man here in Pittsburgh. The man's been found, but he's not... able to tell us much about what happened. We're checking out everything we can think of, and know he did six months here when he was thirteen, fourteen. 1984."

"George Whitney," the janitor introduced himself, holding out his hand to the investigator. "That's seems a long time ago when you're dealing with someone going missing now. And I sure don't know if I'd remember a boy from over twenty years ago."

"I understand, Mr. Whitney. I'll be honest. We have some reason to believe there is a connection. And I know it's asking a lot of anyone's memory, but if you could just take a minute to think back, it would be appreciated. The boy's name was Brian Kinney. Tall for his age, a rather handsome kid. Probably a loner. Would have been here from March '84 through September that year."

"Kinney, you say? Shit. If it's the boy I'm thinking of, that was a sorry case."

Kaz's ears perked up. "Sorry case?"

"Sorry case. Boy didn't need to be here, he needed a hospital. Sumbitches did that boy wrong."

Kaz said nothing. He just let the man talk at will. And he felt he had a gut feeling he had hit a home run on his first time at bat. Shit.

"I even told them, but they damn sure don't listen to the janitor." George shook his head, sadly. "He was such a... well... pretty boy is the only way to describe him. Not a fancy boy, like, just beautiful. But sad. Damn, that boy was messed up - didn't even know who he was half the time. Scared as shit one minute, and cocky as the devil himself the next. I had a sister who had some mental problems and I could see it plain as day. That's why he stayed with me all this time. He reminded me of Sarah. I kept an eye on him as much as I could. But he took his share of shit from the older boys. ‘Specially when he was out of it." George paused, sighing in regret at what the boy had endured.  

"What do you mean by ‘out of it', Mr. Whitney?"

"Oh, like I said, he didn't even know who he was half the time, making up names for himself, pretending to be somebody else. And he would get so damned scared! Tormented. The boy was plain tormented by something."

"Did you ever know why he was at Shuman?"

"Not really. They don't let us know stuff like that and he didn't say much about it. Just that he tried to hurt somebody. Hard to believe, though. That boy never struck out at anybody unless they struck out first."

Kaz reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, handing it to the older man. "Mr. Whitney, you've been very helpful and you have my thanks. If you remember anything - anything else at all - give me a call at the number on that card." He put an easy hand on George's shoulder, as he turned to walk away.

"Oh, one other thing," the man called as Kaz began walking away to meet Carl. He turned back as the janitor continued. "One afternoon I was doing some work cleaning up a mess some of the boys made in the community room. That was the only time I knew of the boy having a visitor in the whole time he was here. Some man, don't know who it was, but the boy was terrified of him. Think they actually did put him in the infirmary that night. The boy just kept screaming ‘no no no'."

"Can you remember anything else about the visitor? Name? What he looked like?"

"No. Didn't take much notice of him. Just the boy." The janitor again shook his head regretfully.

"Thanks. Again. If you remember anything else, just give me a call."

Kaz walked away, realizing he now had more questions than ever. And a sadness that engulfed every inch of him.

*******

Emmett sat uneasily on the sofa in Debbie's living room, a newspaper twisted and crushed in his hands, his cold face a contradiction to the hot fury running through his body. He listened quietly to the various snippets of conversation going on around him.

...can't believe this shit! ...gonna kill that little shit. He should have told us! ...none of our business! ...shit can't be true ...too strong for this ...Gus can't find out this! ...what's the asshole up to now?

"I don't know, Mel. What do you think the asshole could possibly be up to with this?" Emmett's icy voice cut through the cacophony, shocking them all into an uneasy silence. His soft heart had simply been crushed when he pulled the mid-morning town crier rag from the box on the corner and saw the headline.

‘Kinney Suffers Mental Breakdown'

The story that followed was devastating. How much of it, if any of it, was true was anyone's guess at this point. But of course Emmett wasn't naïve. He knew that when it came to Brian Kinney's reputation, truth and privacy and fucking loyalty would seldom matter. To the public or the majority of his friends, apparently.

Fuck Michael! Fuck them all!

"Emmett, you know Brian. You think this shit is for real? He's never done a damned thing in his life that didn't benefit him....

"Melanie..." Lindsay tried to quiet her wife. She, herself, was livid with Justin for his veil of silence during this whole thing - keeping the family at such a distance - and she couldn't believe that Brian would have agreed to such secrecy. But she knew that Melanie stirring it up, antagonizing an obviously distraught Emmett, wasn't going to help them figure this all out. 

"Yes, Melanie. Listen to your wife. Or would you rather listen to Brian's best friend?" The vitriol in Emmett's words weren't lost on the group as his eyes fell on Michael.

"The fuck, Emmett! I didn't write the damned article!"Michael was painfully aware of his own part in the article that had come out today, but he knew it wasn't his fault! He had just been frustrated and angry and...

"Emmett! What's gotten into you? Michael had nothing to do..." Debbie automatically stepped in between her son and his friend.

"You have no idea, Deb, just how much your son had to do with this." Debbie looked at him, a bit stunned at his interruption and the pain in his voice. Emmett turned back to his friend. "Doesshe, Michael?"

"Jesus! It was a mistake, Emmett! A fucking little mistake!" Michael looked toward his husband for support. Ben wrapped an arm around him, but Michael could feel a certain stiffness in the gesture. "Ben?"

"Michael, I..."

"Fuck! If that little shit had been fucking honest with us... We're Brian's family, for Christ's sake!"

Emmett quietly stepped closer to Michael, an amazingly intimidating sight to everyone in the room. They were all suddenly aware of how much raw power the tall queen actually commanded. The naturally sweet understanding and buoyant light of his personality was now gone. In its place was a dark resolve - a harsh fortitude. He didn't raise his voice. There was no flamboyant hysteria or guilded lily in his demeanor. He was deadly serious when he spoke.

"You have no idea, Michael, what family or friendship is really about." With a single raised hand, he stopped Michael's budding protest. "Absolutely no idea." Looking quickly around the room, his eyes landing on each and every one individually for a mere moment, he continued. "I don't think any of you have an idea."

Emmett was actually surprised at the abashed looks on the faces around him. "Or maybe you all do have an idea... So?...What? Did you just collectively decide that Brian didn't deserve the benefits of that knowledge? Hmm? That he, for whatever reason, fell somewhere outside the true label of friend or family? WHAT?

"Michael, you sat last night, in a room full of sixty, seventy queers and shouted - yelled out where Brian was, including all of the dirty details you were aware of! That was a little fucking mistake?" He laughed in frustration and anger. "I tried to shut you up. I tried to get you to leave. Did you even think of listening to me? No. NO! You had your feeling hurt over something that wasn't even any of your business! And...Surprise! It's all in the paper this morning!" He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired of the ridiculous drama that was his family.

"You, Michael," he continued, sounding just a little broken. "This is all on you. And I, for one, am entirely done with you. If you could do that to your ‘best friend' - betray him that publicly because your feelings were hurt - then what the hell do you have in store for the rest of us?"

He collected his coat and the crumpled newspaper from the sofa without even a glance toward anyone else in the room. He walked a bit slowly to the door and stepped out onto the familiar front porch. This was a place that had cradled him, harbored him only mere months ago after the bombing. This place and those inside had been his world, his home since he arrived in the city from Mississippi, and here he had grown into the man he now was. For that he would always be grateful - he would always remember. But as he closed the door and heard the solid click of the latch behind him, he unknowingly shared an unexpressed sentiment that a certain blond artist had felt in this same spot mere days before.

He felt a sense of finality.

There is an old saying that when one door closes, another opens. Emmett Honeycutt had always - always - been an acolyte of that particular saying. He was virtually a high priestess of the damned proverb. When the doors to Hazelhurst had slammed behind him, the doors to his life in Pittsburgh had been flung wide open in invitation. And bittersweet as that may have been, he had never for a moment regretted the resulting path his life had taken.

This was a bit harder. More than a bit. The metaphorical and literal closing of the door on his Liberty Avenue family felt more like cutting off his oxygen supply - his source of emotional sustenance. But... it had needed to be done. So, although he knew he would suffocate for a while, he had taken the stand he knew to be the right one. And, as he passed through the automatic doors into the hospital lobby, he smiled slightly, vaguely wondering at the ease at which these doors opened. It was an omen. He was after all, a virtual high priestess. He knew omens.  

Theodore Shultz had no such elaborate thoughts as he followed his friend through the hospital doors. He only knew that the man in question right now was his friend. More than his friend. Brian had been his  savior, and Ted owed him his life. Ted ran his life like one of the balance sheets on an Excel program, and he knew that nothing would bring his account with Brian Kinney up to date. He would forever be in the man's debt.

Exiting the elevator on the psychiatric floor, both men were immediately greeted with the sight of Justin in a quiet, but heated, conversation with an older, dark haired woman. The words were whispered between the two, but the distress was evident in Justin's tone and body, and the apology was evident on the face of the obviously concerned woman.

Emmett placed a restraining hand on Ted's arm, and the men simply waited. This discussion was not their business. They both knew that what they had come to discuss was going to be difficult enough on its own merit without adding an interruption to the mix. Emmett had seen Justin the night before and knew that he was literally near the end of what he could bear, and prayed to whatever deity might be inclined to hear that Justin would not break from their news. He had actually worried about it enough to call in Ted as a reinforcement.

The men watched silently as the discussion across from them wound down, as Justin nodded his head in acceptance, as the slight woman embraced the young man fondly and turned to walk down the quiet hall.

"Justin!" Emmett called.

"Emmett, Ted. What are you doing here?" Justin's confusion, and apprehension, was obvious. He couldn't think of a positive reason for the two men to visit him on this floor. He steeled himself, just a bit.

"Uh... Justin can we speak somewhere more private?" Ted asked the question as Emmett lightly ran his hands through Justin's beautiful hair. All evidence to the contrary, this man would always be a boy to his friend.

"Sure," Justin agreed, looking warily between the two men as he led them toward the waiting room. "This way."

As he rubbed his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure there before it became a headache, he realized it was only 3:00. It had already been a long fucking day. He blinked his eyes and looked toward Ted and Emmett, who were obviously struggling with something.

"Guys, not that I don't appreciate the visit, but what's going on?" He didn't miss the small look passing between the men sitting across from him.  "Emmett?"

Sighing heavily, and having no idea how to begin this particular conversation, Emmett silently handed a well-worn newspaper to Justin. "I'm sorry, baby... but you need to see this."

He knew what it was. Even without unfolding the rag, he knew. The pressure behind his eyes increased. And his heart fell.

"I'll kill him," he whispered furiously as he opened the newspaper and began to read.

The room was silent for long minutes as Justin stared at the thing in his hands, each minute growing more oppressively quiet.

"Justin?" Ted broke the emptiness with the word. "Are... you okay?"

The young man threw the offensive paper into the trash and covered his face with his hands, elbows resting on his knees. "No," he responded in a tired voice, barely above a whisper. "No, I'm not okay."

"We hated showing you that trash, Baby."

"It's okay, Em. I'd rather have this from you guys than pick this shit up on the street." The flux of emotions Justin was experiencing - fury, pain, hurt, betrayal - he knew was for both himself and Brian. More than anything right now he just wanted to be in some state of unconsciousness. Escape. Denial. Even for just a few minutes. But things just kept coming. One fucking hit after another. And there was no escaping or denying it - this was his life for now. He drew in a long, calming breath and held it for a moment. He didn't feel any release when he exhaled.

"This fucking snowball just never stops growing, does it?" He arose and walked calmly toward the door to the room, standing with his back pressed hard against it. Interruptions would not be beneficial for what he was going to say to these two good friends. He cleared his throat and shoved his trembling hands into the pockets of his cargoes, closed his eyes and began.

"First, thanks to you both for being such good friends. I don't feel like I have many of those these days. And I have to have your word, both of you, that nothing I say here will go further than the three of us. Okay?"

"Of course, Justin. I owe Brian more than loyalty. You know that." Justin nodded his head at Ted's agreement.

"I've realized in the last couple of days, Baby, that real friends are very few and very far between. You and Brian are truly my friends, my family. I won't ever betray either of you." Again Justin simply nodded, but he heard much more than a simple agreement in Emmett's words. There was a lot of pain there that he would have to ask his friend about later. Right now, he had a different goal to reach.

"Thanks. I'll let the others know all of this when I'm ready. Michael's actions have left a shitty taste in my mouth and I'm not about to trust any of them with this." He took another deep breath and paused before explaining the details of Brian's condition, his reality, to these two men. When he had finished, Emmett hugged him tightly, his shoulders shaking from his pained sobs and his outright relief at the strength of the young man in his arms. Ted sat silently, anger and empathy warring within him as he swiped at the wetness on his face.

Someone simply said, "Jesus Fucking Christ." It really wasn't important who.

*******

Connie Simpson sat at on the high stool at the little bar miles from his normal haunts and threw back another cheap whiskey. The quality of the booze didn't matter today. His focus was on getting as drunk as he could, as fast as he could, to forget what he could for one night. With every swallow he cursed the people he felt had wronged him most in his life -  dear old dad... and that whiney little bitch, Brian Kinney. As far as Connie was concerned, neither one of them was worth dog shit on the bottom of his shoes.

Dad, always aloof and distant. Pushing him away when he didn't meet the old man's standards. Nothing was ever good enough for the old bastard. And now - the ultimate push. Passing him over as CEO for Connie's own daughter. Goddamn!

And fucking Kinney! He was the ultimate cause of everything. From the minute he'd laid eyes on him, he was nothing but trouble. But even as a child he had been all the things that Connie wanted - beautiful, smart, graceful. And, God, Connie had wanted him. Wanted to own him, break him. No, Connie wasn't blind to what he wanted or to what others thought about it. They labeled it a ‘perversion', a ‘crime'. But they were ignorant, they just didn't fucking know! The high! The absolute bliss of dominating someone at that malleable stage of their lives, forming them, creating them.

And when he met the boy's father, he knew he would get his chance.

Connie reached up and loosened his tie and shrugged off his suit jacket. He rolled up his shirt sleeves exactly two times and snapped them into crisp folds. As he swallowed back yet another of the cheap shots, his eyes roamed the room, stopping on a beautiful specimen. Tall, lithe, chestnut hair...

Yeah, he'd do.

*******

Cynthia poured coffee for all three of them and sat the serving tray on the edge of Brian's desk. It was, at least, a concrete action, something with a beginning and an end. Simply pouring coffee felt like a monumental success these days. She knew that, even under normal circumstances, she would have struggled to run Brian's business at a skill level that only approximated his. But these were far, far from normal circumstances, and she was more than struggling. All she could do to, hopefully, maintain the integrity and reputation of stellar service for which Kinnetik was known was to keep juggling. Juggling meetings and presentations and promises. She was exhausted. And she knew she would never complain about it to anyone. Brian deserved more than that.

As she sat with Carl and Kaz, drinking coffee and discussing their theories on Brian's stay in Shuman, she mentally added another hour to her work day - adding that to the extra hour she had already promised to review the Remson file. And, again, she would never complain aloud. Whatever hell she thought she might be passing through right now, she knew Brian was living permanently in a worse one. No. She couldn't complain.

"I'm sorry, Carl. Did you say that the administrator gave you no information? At all?" She asked, clarifying what Carl had been telling her.

"No, but, then again, we didn't really expect him to. This was more of a fishing expedition. We just hoped to catch something," the detective replied. "We knew his hands were tied by regulations, time, statutes... but we were hoping he might let something slip. No such luck... with him."

"You said ‘with him'. Does that mean you had some luck with someone else?" Cynthia looked between the two men, hopefully.

"Actually, Cynthia, I spoke with an older janitor who'd been employed at Shuman for twenty five years. I pretty much lucked out. He actually remembered a boy whose details fit Brian closely. Mentioned his slipping in and out of identities, claiming to be other people, episodes of being terrified. Fit what we now know like a glove. The only piece of real information he gave me, however, is that Brian said he was incarcerated because he tried to hurt someone. That's all..." Kaz paused and took out his cell phone, excusing himself to take a call.

"Damn, Carl. This gets more and more complicated. Are you sure we can't just find the records of this?"

"Cynthia, juvenile records are sealed. It's actually done to protect the adult from childhood misjudgments. Throws a roadblock up for us sometimes, though. Like now." He stirred another sugar in his coffee and settled back into the comfortable chair.

"You know, Deb called me earlier. Apparently the press is on the thing now. There was an article in one of the... less reputable dailies today."

Cynthia laid her head on her arms, resting them on the desk. Shit.

"He can't get a break, can he? The best man I've ever known and he can't get a fucking break!" She raised her head and met the detective's stare. "What did the article say?"

Carl hesitated. "I don't know. I've not read it. But..." damn that boy "... it looks like Michael had something to do with the press getting wind of things."

Cynthia's jaw dropped open and her eyes grew wide. "Jesus Christ! Brian..."

Before she could say anything further, Cynthia heard the soft snick of the office door opening and saw Kaz returning.

"I'm sorry about the interruption but that call was from George Whitney, the Shuman janitor. He remembered something. You will be interested in this, Cynthia." He nodded toward the woman and gave her a small smile. "George recalled a discussion he had with the boy we think was Brian. He recalled that the boy said he wanted to hurt someone... someone he called ‘Coach'."

"Bingo." Cynthia returned Kaz's smile.

*******

Justin sat in the somewhat comfortable brown armchair he had placed next to Brian's bed, close enough that he could place a hand on, and feel the warmth of his lover's body. He needed to touch him. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just touch him. He needed to be grounded in this man.

It had been thirty-three days since they'd made love, with only a few stolen kisses passing between them since the hospitalization. Both were very tactile men, needing the other's touch in the way others would need to breathe - a hand on the cheek, the resting of one thigh against another, a brush of a hand in hair. It wasn't only about lust, about sex. God, yes, it was about that, too. But it was even more elementary. It was life, connection, air. It was about them.

As he rested his hand on Brian's bare forearm, absently rubbing his thumb in circles just above the wrist, he gazed around at what was, at this moment, Brian's world. Clinical and spartan in its design, of course, it gave off no warmth, no personality. Television bolted down high on the far wall. One small two drawer metal cabinet next to the bed. The one chair on which Justin currently rested. Faded walls, whose starkness was only broken by the occasional bright red electrical outlet or machine connection. All in all, a wholly depressing little world.

Brian wasn't asleep, and Justin knew that. But he let Brian pretend. Hell, he thought, he wasn't even sure it was Brian at the moment. But Justin also let himself pretend. Pretend for a few minutes that they were merely sitting in the loft, relaxing silently as they'd sometimes do on a lazy weekend day. Pretend that they were simply thinking about whether to order Thai or Chinese for dinner. Pretend that tomorrow their hectic schedules would begin again and Justin would groan in mock disapproval as Brian pulled him into the shower. Just pretend. That everything was normal.

But it had never been normal. And for the millionth time in the past week Justin wondered if normal even existed anymore.

Brian could feel the tension throbbing through the skin of his lover's hand. He wanted, craved to hold him, to just fucking touch him! It was the fear that stopped him. Made him avoid touching his partner, his lover - his everything. Made him keep his eyes closed, feigning sleep instead of simply speaking out. It was undiluted, petrifying fear. Intense and palpable. Fear of just fucking forgetting again, of not remembering where or even fucking who he was anymore.

Christ!

Brian Kinney doesn't do fear.

Brian Kinney always did fear.

Get up, little boy. Time to play.

From the fucking moment he was born. Yeah, he did fear. It was a constant companion, a hateful friend. Sometimes his only friend. And he could feel it, encouraging him, building him up like a fucking silk scarf around a ceiling beam. Like a fucking bottle of sleeping pills. Like a fucking razor blade to his wrist. His hateful friend. Crawling beneath his own contaminated skin.

And it kept him from touching his everything. Because... because now he knew. They knew. The contamination. The disease. And they can't unknow. God, they can't unknow!

Ben shut the front door just a little too loudly, catching his husband's attention in the small open kitchen. He peered over the counter as he spooned the yogurt on top of the oatmeal he had poured out for their breakfast, and noticed the grim, studied look on his partner's face.

"S'wrong, Ben," he asked hesitantly. With so much going on in their lives the last few weeks - the disruptions to their schedules caused by Brian's disappearance and hospitalization, the ensuing family meetings and the emotional upheavals everyone was experiencing - he was beginning to worry about his husband's health. Ben, by nature a quiet and thoughtful man, had become even less open since the articles had first started appearing about Brian in the various newspapers. There had even been a blurb on a local TV news show recounting the articles and offering open-ended speculation about the absent businessman's ‘true' condition and whereabouts. The media was donning its full circus finery.  

Ben sighed and pinched his nose beneath his glasses. "Reporter." He spat out the word as if it had burned his tongue. "At the gate, when I was getting the mail. Reporter asked me about Brian."

"So...," Michael began, "...what did you tell him?"

"Nothing, Michael. I told him nothing. ‘No comment'." Ben tossed the mail on the table, opening up the paper and giving it a cursory look before tossing it onto the table, as well.

"I don't believe this!" he yelled, and turned to look quizzically at his husband. Michael returned his confused look and retrieved the tossed paper. Initially he saw nothing other than the standard political fiasco or looming financial disaster, until he noticed the side-bar. There... in the highlights for Section C... the business section... a small thumbnail of Brian and a short clip questioning the Kinnetik owner's mental stability. Continued on C-1.

"Jesus..." was all Michael could say as he laid the paper down almost carefully. "Ben..."

"Don't! Just... don't, Michael." He knew Michael was confused by the real anger in his voice. He knew that Michael didn't, and probably never would, admit his own hand in the new mess that was staring Brian in the face, threatening the very future of his beloved company. And he knew that Michael would never understand that this denial was what angered him. Not that Michael had become angry or jealous or hurt or drunk enough to blurt out something so hurtful to his friend in public, but that he felt no remorse or responsibility for having done so.

Ben shrugged into his jacket and walked out of the house he shared with Michael without any additional words. As he walked aimlessly he realized he had always seen Michael as the embodiment of the best of a child-like nature - vulnerable but trusting and loyal to a fault. That core belief had helped Ben dismiss so much during the course of their relationship, even Michael's obsession over Brian and his continued distrust of Justin's character. He had brushed off Michael's inability to recognize the strength and love that created the bond between Brian and Justin as the leftovers of a boyhood crush. Now... now he saw his own husband's true, fundamental character laid out bare in the wake of this crisis. And, god help him, he really didn't much like what he saw.

*******

Debbie poured another cup of coffee for Carl, placing the pot back on the burner behind the counter. She had missed him terribly during the last couple of weeks, and she knew that, though their schedules were conflicting much of the time, the extra hours he put in trying to make sense of Brian's predicament had a lot to do with the lack of time they spent together. She certainly didn't begrudge him that. It warmed her heart to know that this man she initially thought of as a homophobic prick had developed such a desire to help one of her boys. Knowing he was doing the right thing, however, didn't keep her from missing him.

Just knowing that Carl was going to be there for her, as much as he was able, had held the woman together through this disaster. It had been hard. Incredibly hard. Knowing that Brian was hurting and being able to do nothing to help, not being allowed to do anything to help. She had no doubt at all that Brian was hurting. But she also knew the kind of life he lived - fucking hard and fucking fast. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. No apologies, no regrets. Christ! This little broken boy had simply shown up on her doorstep, intertwined himself completely into her family, and then had continued to do every single thing possible to destroy himself from day one. And he dragged her son and everyone else along for the ride.

That kind of life just begged a breakdown. She knew it, and she was sure he had known it, too.

"Red?" Carl touched Deb's arm lightly.

"Oh, sorry! Mind got away from me a little," she laughed lightly. "Can't afford to let any more of it go. You want to take a lemon bar for later?"

"I can do without it," Carl responded, tugging his belt. "Honey," he hesitated, knowing that talking about Brian could be a touchy thing for this woman right now. "...you know this stuff that's been in the paper? Well, it's gonna get worse, Red. There's a piece in the business section today. About Kinnetik. That's not good."

"Brian just needs to make some kind of statement, Carl. He needs to clear this up!"

"Deb, he's in no condition to make any statements right now, and he damn well shouldn't have to. This should just be his business. He's sick, honey, and after all we did to keep this quiet, it's a... shame it had to come out now. Like this. This could destroy his business." The detective in him braced for what he knew was coming. He could read the woman's face like a book.

"Are you talking about Michael?" She pointed asked him, backing away slightly from the counter. "If you are blaming my son for this, Carl Horvath..."

"Red! Stop. I'm not blaming anyone for anything. I'm just saying it's gonna cause some serious trouble. You may have some reporters visiting you, trying to get more information. Just... don't talk to them. Call me if you need to. Okay?" He reached across the counter and took Deb's hand in his. "Okay?"

"Yeah," she responded, softly. "But don't you dare blame my son. Michael loves that man, always has. He would never do anything to hurt him, Carl." Tears threatened Deb's eyes. "You know him."

"Yeah, well... this did hurt him, Red. It's gonna hurt him even more before it's over, I'm afraid."

*******

Cynthia leaned her back against the door to the conference room. Shit, she thought. To think that only two days ago she worried about juggling everything. Now, there's a security guard posted at each entrance to the building, reporters doing their best to circumvent the security, and every local client was calling about the fucking article in the business section of the Post-Gazette! Not to mention the seemingly endless parade of worried phone calls, Cynthia had just finished her third face to face this morning with an anxious client. And this time it was a big one, First Pitts Bank. That account itself brought in nearly a half million a year. Unless some concession was made to the press, they were going to lose these accounts and this was going to turn into a financial disaster for Kinnetik.

Christ. Rocks and hard places. Seems Brian just kept getting jammed between them these days, through no fault of his own. If Brian was here... Well, Cynthia? If Brian was here, what the hell would he do? He'd charm their fucking pants off. He'd dazzle them with the Kinney song and dance. In top hat and tails, if had to.  

But, Brian isn't here. Okay. So...

Guess it's time to pull out your dancing shoes, old girl, she thought.

Pushing away from the door, Cynthia picks up the phone to make a call she hoped she would never have to make.

"Hey, Cynthia."

"Hi, Justin. We've got a problem."

"We've got lots of problems. What particular one are we talking about?"

"It's time, Justin. We need to go to the press." 

*******

Lindsay drank her tea quietly and waited, hoping that Mel would be able to make it home soon. She had just put JR down for her nap and Gus was visiting his friend for the day. Perhaps she should have waited until this evening and not asked Mel to come home immediately.

No. This couldn't wait.

The phone call had shaken her. Of course, she had been keeping in touch with Michael and Debbie since their return from Pittsburgh - after that disastrous family meeting at Debbie's. She was still stinging over Justin's behavior that night. What was he thinking? He can't handle Brian that way! He's just a kid. A talented young man who needs to be focusing on his own life in New York, on his art! Suddenly he's Brian's keeper? His proxy? Lord...

And now this... Articles in the papers, on the news, the things they were reporting, potential trouble for Kinnetik... Gus's future was in that company and, much as she loved Brian, she had to protect Gus.

Oh, Brian, what have you done?

*******

God, he thought, was that a smile? Justin looked over at the beautiful man sitting next to him on the sofa and grinned at the expression on his perfect face. He was smiling! It wasn't a complete smile of joy, but it was a fucking spontaneous smile!

"What?" Brian asked him.

"You...you're smiling." There was a hint of awe in Justin's words that weren't lost on Brian.

"Yeah. I guess I am," he responded, a bit in awe himself. "I felt like... smiling."

Justin reached over and pulled his partner into his arms, his eyes wet with relief. There had never, never been a smile as bright, as welcome as the one he had just witnessed. "I can't wait until you smirk," Justin laughed into Brian's shoulder.

"Twat."

With that one word, Justin's defenses gave way and he sobbed. He had been holding on with everything he had and he was so tired of holding on. Of just holding on.

Brian was in there. HE was there.

Wrapping Justin tightly to him, Brian kissed the young man's forehead. "I'm here.  S'okay... I'm here."

"So, I'm going to guess that the cocktail has begun to work." Neither man broke away from their embrace as Brian asked, "Cocktail?"

Alice McCarthy nodded her head quickly and laughed at the question. "Yes, cocktail. Technically, a combination of different medications we've had you on for several days. And... they appear to be approaching what I like to call the ‘aha' moment - that moment when the patient notices a difference."

Brian pulled slightly away from Justin to face the doctor, making sure that he didn't lose physical contact with his partner at any time. He needed the connection, the ground. It seemed a lifetime since he had felt it, felt worthy of it.

"Dr. McCarthy, what exactly has been happening to me? I know I've been a... a mess. But what the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Brian, first let me say that I wanted to wait until you were somewhat stable emotionally to discuss this with you. Your partner has been kept completely apprised of and has been hands on with every action we've taken where you are concerned. In fact, I'm in awe of his physical and emotional stamina. He's an amazing young man." She smiled appreciatively at Justin, and Brian held his hand just a bit tighter.

"Yeah, he is." Brian said softly, whispering the words into his lover's hair.

"Now, to answer your question. We - you - are dealing with several issues. The most easily treated, and the ones for which the cocktail was prescribed, are anxiety and depression. Both of those conditions can be caused by biology or by traumatic event. Either way, the first line of treatment when the symptoms are as severe as yours is medication. Thus the cocktail. Thankfully we have recently been blessed with some very fast acting medications in those areas. Five years ago, even two years ago, that would not have been the case." She paused.

"Okay, so better living through chemistry. Go on."

"More accurately, better living through better brain chemistry," Dr. McCarthy smiled as she corrected Brian. "And, please, don't think of those conditions lightly. They can be devastating at times. Feelings of self-worth, of joy, the ability to love and be loved - everything passes through the lens of depression, especially. A week ago, Brian, you couldn't smile. Nothing seemed worth waking up for. Today, you smiled just for the sake of it. Am I wrong?"

"No. It is a little less dark, I suppose. Inside my head." He closed his eyes and turned his face away slightly before he added, "Just a little."

"I know. The medication can't diffuse all the darkness, I'm sorry. Even when they eventually reach maximum efficacy. There is still a lot of work to be done, for you to do. With that being said, I need to ask you how much you recall from the last two to three weeks, Brian." This was always the difficult part, getting the patient to the point of telling them about their diagnosis, that their lives were so out of control. Brian had seen it, had seen the videos of alters, but did he know what he was seeing?

"Dr. McCarthy, you and I both know that I don't recall much at all. I'm not an idiot. I know there are chunks of time gone, memories lost or whatever. I don't even know how long I've been here. Just tell me. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me!" Justin reached over and placed one hand on Brian's chest, calming him. This was the impatient, no bullshit Brian, demanding answers.

Alice McCarthy let out a long sigh, folded her hands on her desk and faced Brian squarely. This was a determined man. The man his partner spoke of so often and so lovingly. Capable, strong, intuitive. He already knew on some level what he was going to be dealing with.

"Brian, you've been in the hospital for ten days. Under my care for eight of those. Much of that time, you have been... absent. Not unconscious - just absent. You have a condition called Dissociative Identity Disorder. Before we understood the actual mechanics of the condition it was called... multiple personality disorder." She watched the confusion on Brian's face, saw it change into recognition and then disbelief, and then the expected anger.

"You fucking think I'm Sybil?" Justin clutched Brian's hand, struggling to keep him from running away from this.

"Jus? You believe this shit?" He looked toward his partner, stunned that he could be pulled into this fantasy.

"Yeah, Bri. I do. Please..." he implored Brian. Please, he silently begged, please just listen. Don't go away now.

"Brian, please," the doctor quickly tried to avoid a personality switch. "Brian, don't let this happen."

He shook his head in disbelief. Let what happen? What? But he knew what she meant. God... what the fuck had happened to his life? Who the hell was he anymore? He could feel it, like a faint command. An order being given that he had to obey... No. Not the fuck now! Not now!

"Not now!"

"Brian." She held her hand out to him. Another ground. Anything to keep him here. "This is you, Brian Kinney."

Both she and Justin could physically feel the struggle going on inside Brian, his body shaking from the sheer mental and emotional force he was exerting to simply maintain. Heard his murmured refusals over and over - not now not now. They knew he was at once fighting and accepting his truth. And they knew the moment the battle ended.

He sat with Justin holding him tightly on his left, the doctor in front of him, and felt a shift inside. An acceptance of him. As him. And he knew he wasn't Sybil. Or Eve. Or any of a host of other before him. He was Brian Kinney. And he would goddamn well win this fucking war.

He raised his head, his eyes closed tightly, lips tucked between his teeth.   

"Okay," he whispered to no one in particular. "What's next?"

Cynthia eased open the heavy door to the hospital room and poked her head inside hesitantly, her breath catching at what awaited her. In one single glance she took in the almost beatific scene. Brian was halfway sitting against the head of the awkward hospital bed, Justin snuggled between his extended legs, back pressed to Brian's chest. One of Brian's hands was stroking gently through locks of long blond hair, the other resting beneath one of Justin's, their fingers entwined.

It had been several days since she had seen Brian and even then he had not been aware of her presence. Now, here he was. And as much as Cynthia loved him as the friend he was, as much as she worried over his health and his business, as much as she had simply missed his acerbic wit and measured anger, she was totally unprepared for the rush of pure sweet joy that coursed through her when their eyes met.

"What?" Brian barked. "You don't think you have to work when the boss is gone?" The soft smile pulling at his lips belied the harshness of his words.

"Good to see you, too, Boss." She could feel the barely suppressed tears threatening to fall and determined that she wouldn't do that to him. She and Brian didn't work that way. He didn't need her tears to know she cared about him. "Nice to see you both taking advantage of the accommodations."

"If only that were possible here, Cynthia," he grinned and kissed the top of his snorting partner's head. "I'm working on getting a lock installed on theinside of the door."

Cynthia gave a genuine laugh as she sat down in the chair beside the bed. "Never bothered you at the office, Brian. I've probably seen as much of your ass as they've seen in the backroom."

"Yeah, well... Different playground, different rules," Brian sighed, feeling an urgent need to change the subject. With his improving mood, his body was beginning to remind him of just how long it had been since he had been able to play, and he shifted uncomfortably. "So, have you and Theodore bankrupted me yet?"

At this question, Justin disentangled himself from Brian and raised up, situating himself on the bed so they could all three see each other. Brian noticed the look passing between his partner and his employee - noticed that it held just a few beats too long.  

"What's going on?"

"Brian..." Justin began.

"Sunshine, I may be crazy as a loon, but I can still tell when someone's trying to not say something. What the fuck is going on."

"Christ, Bri. You're not crazy!"

"Semantics. Now. Tell me. What the FUCK is going on." The frustration and budding anger was evident in Brian's tone. He knew he couldn't be at work right now, knew he was fucked up. That didn't, however, ease his resentment about those facts. There were enough restrictions on his life right now, and he damned sure wasn't going to let talking about Kinnetik to be added to that list.

Cynthia gave a quick look toward Justin, who simply sighed and nodded. Turning her attention back to Brian and looking him in the eye, she began. "Things have been hectic. You laid a lot of responsibility on me there, Brian, but you taught me well." Brian smiled slightly and nodded his head for her to continue.

"I was able to work with the clients, even handling Brown and the continual fuck-ups on their end." She paused and rolled her eyes. They were both well aware of what ridiculous requests the Brown team could make. "But we ran into a bit of a... problem."

Brian shifted, tensing slightly as he asked, "What... problem?"

"The media." Cynthia stated flatly.

"The media?" Brian's brow furrowed for a moment as he considered the possibilities. The furrow became a stunned but steady glare as he realized exactlywhat his friend was telling him. "Fuck!"

"Brian," Justin reached out toward his lover, who shrugged off the touch.

"Tell. Me." He gritted out. Brian knew this could be bad. Very bad. He could feel the tension begin to gather behind his eyes, in his neck. Could hear the gentle urging, the quiet command as he ground his teeth together. Resist. Resist.

Justin blew out a heavy breath before turning and facing Brian. He could see the battle beginning. He had become more attuned to the signs, and he grasped Brian's hand to ground him.

"Brian, look at me." When there was no response, the young man gripped tighter and said more firmly, "Look at me!" Brian turned slowly toward the man beside him and said quietly, "I'm fine, Sunshine. Just... tell me."

There really was no way to avoid this situation and the pain it was going to cause Brian, and Justin knew it. Brian would react, in some manner, whether they gave him the truth or not. They could try to protect him and let him feel more impotent than he already felt about his life, or they could give him the respect he deserved and be honest. He looked into those round, pleading eyes and knew he could not - would not - deny Brian yet another layer of his dignity.  

"There were some articles," he began slowly. "Day before yesterday the first one came out. Full of lies and half-truths, but it... began a feeding frenzy. They were limited to the rags, mostly. But today..." he paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. "...today, the Post-Gazette ran a piece about... Kinnetik... in the business section."

Brian sat stoically, eyes closed, listening as Justin recounted the media's journey. He opened his eyes and looked over at Cynthia. "How many clients?" She knew what he was asking.

"We haven't lost anyone, Brian. They are... concerned, however. I've dealt with them all day."

"How? How did it get to the media?" And with that, Brian asked the one question neither one wanted to answer. Even more than the impact to Kinnetik, Michael's involvement would be a blow. But again, Justin made the decision to respect Brian, to not condescend or patronize him. To give him truth as he asked for it.

"Someone who had... information - wrong information - got a little drunk, a little loud at Woody's."

"Who was it, Justin?" He laid his head back on the pillow and again closed his eyes. Bracing himself. Brian knew it had to be one of the family or an employee of the hospital. God, please let it be the latter. When he noticed Justin's hesitation, however, that slight hope slipped away, and Brian could feel a part of himself slip away with it.

"Who was it?" he repeated, almost a whisper.

"Michael." That one softly spoken word altered so many things.

*******

We would like to thank you for flying with us this afternoon and hope you've had a pleasant flight. Welcome to Pittsburgh, everyone.

As the tinny voice of the flight attendant faded, the wheels rolled to a gentle stop and the roar of the engines quieted, Connie Simpson casually stood and retrieved his carry-on from the overhead bin. He hadn't brought much with him. A couple changes of clothes and his personal items. He wouldn't need much on this trip. He wouldn't be here that long. Just long enough to remind Kinney what his place was in the pecking order.

As he walked through the concourse he continued to seethe about the way he had been fucked over by his father. Of course he knew who was really to blame. If he'd just fucking answered the emails. If he'd just agreed to take Simpson Steel on as a client of Kinnetik, it wouldn't be Sam sitting in that goddamn CEO's office in a couple of weeks.  No, scoring Kinnetik would have been the final feather in his cap, Connie thought. The old man had been fucking thrilled with Kinney's work on the advertising for the company when he was working for Ryder. He'd never quit talking about the fucking genius and his fucking visionary campaigns. When the genius refused to work on any subsequent Simpson accounts, however, his father had broken off association with Ryder. He didn't want the company - he wanted Kinney. And Connie had planned on getting him, securing his place with the old man. If only that little bitch had remembered his place.

Now he wouldn't be using Kinnetik for his company, but he damned sure would be using Kinney. And this time the boy would never forget what he'd been taught.  

*******

Cynthia was only a bit nervous. She was used to the pressure of working in a fast paced environment with a tenacious boss who was occasionally mercurial with his emotions and temperament. She was even used to the dealing with the media to some degree. But that had always been for the client. This was a totally different game and required a totally different game face. This was for Kinnetik.

As she and Justin were relating to Brian all the issues being raised by the media and the potential threats to Kinnetik from those media reports, she could see the war being waged inside him. She knew that right now every defense he had ever erected to protect himself emotionally was being threatened. In some cases those defenses were already obliterated. The solid masks of cool indifference and practiced calm were now cracking. Although his reaction to hearing about Michael's betrayal was, at least on the surface, less extreme than she expected, she could read the truth in his eyes. The pain. The soul deep ache. Something permanent shifted with that one revelation. When she showed Brian what the legal department had prepared, he read it carefully. Word for word. He approved it - with one small addition, and an admonition that it be included just as he had written it.   

So here she was, on the threshold of Kinnetik, Inc., standing proudly in front of the building that still looked every bit the bath house it had been. At her side was Ted, as well as Mark Stein, head of the Kinnetik legal department. She had her dancing shoes on, but this was not going to be a waltz. This was a war dance.

She stepped up to the podium emblazoned with the Kinnetik logo and the buzz and chatter from the reporters and spectators slowly quieted. Before she spoke, she lowered her head for only a moment, closed her eyes and called upon the Brian Kinney mojo. Fuck them all, she said to herself, as she started to speak into the various microphones.

"My name is Cynthia Moore and I am Chief Operating Officer and acting Chief Executive Officer of Kinnetik, Inc. I will not be answering questions at any time during or after this statement.

"There has recently been a spate of news articles and news reports regarding Brian Kinney, founder, owner and CEO of Kinnetik. For the most part, those articles and reports have been filled with erroneous claims, misstatements, innuendo, speculation and, to some degree, out and out malicious lies. Yes, it is true that Mr. Kinney has been hospitalized, and remains so at this time. Of course I will not address any specifics of Mr. Kinney's health. As with any of you, that is a private matter. However, I can tell you this. It is patently untrue that Brian Kinney is either dead or dying. It is patently untrue that he is in rehab for drug and/or alcohol and/or sexual addiction. It is patently untrue that he is in treatment for HIV or AIDS. It is patently untrue that he has had a mental or nervous breakdown. All of these claims have been made repeatedly by various members of the media, and have engendered unnecessary concern and anxiety for many valued clients of Kinnetik, Inc.

"I spoke with Mr. Kinney earlier today and he is well aware of this press conference. He wanted me to impart a few words of his own. 

"I quote:

‘Don't believe everything some drunk shouts out in a bar. In vino veritas only applies if the drunken asshole actually knows the truth in the first place.'

"End quote.

"That being said, and so eloquently by my employer, I would like to add that Kinnetik, Inc. is a strong and vibrant company. Brian Kinney built this company with a specific vision and he has continually operated this company according to that vision. He employs only people who share his specific vision for Kinnetik. I am one of those employees. I have worked with Brian Kinney for more than ten years. I was the very first employee when he began Kinnetik out of his home. He has entrusted me to operate Kinnetik in his absence and that is what I have been doing and will continue to do until Mr. Kinney returns to his desk. I take great pride in his confidence in my abilities, and strive to meet every challenge, every opportunity utilizing the same visionary approach that Brian Kinney would use.

"On a final note, I have turned over to our legal department the matter of egregiously false claims regarding Mr. Kinney that have come forth in the media, and have asked them to seek cease and desist orders from the court. Some of you may be hearing from them."

Cynthia collected her notes, nodded to her companions and walked back through the doors of Kinnetik. She could hear the hum of the truck generators and almost sing-song chatter from the reporters as they worked to get their own faces on air. She had done what she could at this point, and knew that it was not nearly good enough. The story was out there and it could never be taken back, no matter how many press conferences were given. It had already caused damage and would no doubt continue to do so. She knew that Kinnetik would eventually survive the damage, perhaps a little battered and scarred.

She only hoped that in the end Brian would fare as well.

The reaction was almost immediate. None of them deluded themselves by thinking it would be otherwise. Justin and Brian had watched on the small TV set bolted to the wall of Brian's room as Cynthia gave her statement to the press. Even with the grainy reception and the garbled sound coming from a speaker embedded in a handset, they could both easily see the commanding presence of the tall woman - the determination in her voice and the steel in her spine. When Cynthia spoke Brian's words, he could see the small smirk on her lips and the devilish look in her eyes. That she had thoroughly enjoyed it was not lost through bad reception.

Justin had immediately focused on Brian during that particular part of the statement, however. He was certain he had done the right thing in admitting to Brian Michael's culpability in this whole media mess, in not concealing the truth from his partner as if he had somehow lost his adulthood and right to basic honesty with a single diagnosis. But still... he had seen Brian's fight against the alters, had felt the shudders run through his body with the stress of the moment - and was still frightened that this whole thing would blow up in his face.   

Now as he sat in the cafeteria waiting for Emmett, Justin looked down at the call log information on his cell phone and his hand hesitated. Cynthia had not even completely cleared the podium yesterday when his cell phone began vibrating in his pocket. The first call had been from Debbie, as had the second. Now, his eyes sweeping over the long list of missed calls - twenty-three in all - he was sure he didn't want to hear any of the messages. He took a long breath and wrinkled up his nose as he pressed the button that would access his voicemail. Then he simply muted the sound, lay the phone on the table, and let the messages play silently, sending them off to that virtual storage unit before mentally tossing away the key. 

Maybe he would be able to listen later. Much later. Just not now. 

*******

Brian wanted to go home. He fucking needed to go home. To be somewhere familiar with his own furniture, his own clothes, his own fucking food. And his own bed - with Justin. His entire body ached with the need for that, for him. This wasn't even about the sex - it was about the freedom. He wanted to be fucking free again!

Free.

Fuck.

Brian stood before the small window looking over the back side of some generic hospital parking lot and rubbed the back of his neck, laughing to himself. Laughing at the thought of being free. When the fuck had he ever been free? In control of his own life? He had learned a lot over the course of the last couple of days. The diagnosis, what it was, what he could look forward to. The doctor certainly wasn't painting him any happily ever after pictures. And he was stone cold sober taking in this shit. Shit.

He had watched the videos - of him. Or not him. Jesus. Just thinking about the images on that computer screen, obviously images of him, crying and cowering and singing for Christ's sake! He knew those images weren't of him. Yet he knew they were. And the confusion just makes it so fucking much more fun, doesn't it!

He was fully aware right now. Just Brian Kinney. And he'd been Just Brian Kinney for the better part of two days. Apparently, by all accounts, that's a real record for the past two weeks. But in an hour he was going to go into that office, sit with that doctor and probably trigger a whole lifetime worth of work for himself as a fast change artist.

He was going to talk. Maybe.

About his childhood. Maybe.

About...

Brian was not a stupid man. He knew what the causes of this condition most likely were. Causes that Just Brian Kinney couldn't recall - didn't want to recall. And he realized, as he stood looking out at the generic parking lot and rubbing the back of his neck, that he was fucking scared. Scared of what he would find out. Scared that he already knew. Just Fucking Scared.

He really just wanted to go home.

But he was Just Fucking Scared of that, too.

*******

Cynthia laid the file back on the desk and looked up when Martin knocked twice on the door and then stepped inside. Why didn't the man just use the intercom when he wanted to speak with her? Lord!

"Yes, Martin?"

"Ms. Moore, there's a man here who is asking to see Brian Kinney. I told him that Mr. Kinney is away from the office, but he doesn't seem to want to leave. Do you want to speak with him?" The handsome young receptionist had the terrified look of a wild animal caught in a trap, and Cynthia had to wonder if it was because of the man outside or because of her. Jesus. She had been trying to channel the Brian Kinney vibe, but maybe she was succeeding just a little too well.

"It's okay, Martin. Send him in. Did he give you his name?" She knew the security guards had a master list of clients, guests and employees, and no one who wasn't on that list was to enter the building.

"Yes, ma'am. Kind of a strange name for a man. Connie Simpson." Martin turned to leave the office as he said the name. He missed the pallor that had settled on Cynthia's face, and the shock that accompanied it.  

"Martin," She called out. "Wait." She held her hand out toward the young man as if to pause his actions, as she collapsed into the oversized office chair. She sat still for a moment listening to the increase in her heartbeat, trying to understand just what the fuck was happening here. Christ! He was here. God, she had to get herself under control. "Wait. Uh... give me five minutes. Then show Simpson in."

"Yes, ma'am." Martin stared at her, concerned.

"Five minutes, Martin. Go."

"Yes, Ms. Moore."

 Before the door had even closed behind the young man, Cynthia dialed a number that had quickly becoming very familiar to her.

"Kaz? Cynthia. You need to get over here now... Connie Simpson is in our waiting area... No, Christ! I don't know how he got in, but I will damned sure find out! Just please, get over here, now."

Her hands were shaking as she placed the phone back on the desk, and she realized that she had not a damned clue how to handle looking into the face of Connie Simpson - how to deal with the man who apparently held such a horrific place in the life of Brian Kinney. But one thing she did know. She would do whatever it took to make sure he never hurt him again. As that thought passed through her mind, she heard the door open once again.

She looked up from her seat at Brian's desk and took in the man entering her office. The first thing that struck her was just how handsome he was. Thick black hair and dark eyes. He looked almost patrician in his bearing - straight and tall, elegantly dressed in a gray silk shirt and dark blue suit that was obviously tailored for him. Although he was obviously around sixty, he carried it well with his tanned, smooth skin. Yes, he was a handsome man. And she hated him on sight.

"Ms. Moore, it's good to meet you. I'm Connie Simpson." He held out an impeccably manicured hand in greeting. Cynthia did not rise to greet him as custom would have dictated. She simply stared at the man for a moment longer than was actually comfortable before turning her eyes away without acknowledging the hand he had proferred.

 "How can I help you, Mr. Simpson? I'm afraid you caught me at a rather busy time." Her tone was crisp and clipped. She wanted to let this bastard know that she was not glad to meet him. If he wanted to interpret that as her being bothered at being interrupted during her busy day, so be it. She certainly didn't want to lay all her cards out on the table at this point, but there was no need to become chummy with the man.

"Well, I'm not sure you can, Ms. Moore," he purred. Actually purred. Cynthia's stomach churned at the sound. "I'm looking for Brian. Mr. Kinney."

"If this is a business matter, Mr. Simpson, then I am the one you wish to speak with. Mr. Kinney is out of the office for an extended time and I am handling all accounts until his return." She met his gaze head on and cocked her head slightly. "Is this a business matter, Mr. Simpson?"

She could see the slight darkening of his eyes. This was not a man used to being ‘handled', and she would place money on the fact he could tell she was doing just that. He shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, uncomfortably. It was only a slight move, but Cynthia caught it. She had purposely not invited him to take a seat, and was inwardly smirking at his discomfort.

"No, actually. I had thought it could become a business matter. Simpson Steel was a client of Brian's - Mr. Kinney - while he was with the Ryder Agency. He and I are... old friends, shall we say, and I just wanted to touch base with him while I was in town." The implication was intentional. Thrown out there to put this woman in her place. He was watching her as closely as she was watching him. Looking for the small tells, the hints that she understood just what the situation was - he and Brian Kinney were more than friends and he intended to see him.

Cynthia laughed heartily. "Mr. Kinney is, shall we say, old friends with many men, Mr. Simpson. Unfortunately, you will have to rekindle your friendship at another time. Mr. Kinney is, as my employee and I have already mentioned, out of the office for an extended period. If you will leave your contact information, he will be made aware of your visit." She folded her hands on the desk in front of her and leaned into them, simply watching him. She watched his face, his hands. The small tic at the corner of his eye, the slight tap of his fingers on his crossed leg gave away his impatience. She noticed him reassessing the whole situation and, again, she smirked inwardly. He didn't like this one bit. Finally, he spoke as he reached for a pocket inside his suit coat.

"Certainly. Here's my card." He laid it on the desk, not quite reaching it to her, his fingers lingering just beyond her own. "However, perhaps we could expedite this matter. Why not just give me Brian's number? I would very much like to see him while I'm in Pittsburgh."

Cynthia smiled indulgently at the man. "Mr. Simpson." She began, her voice filled with insincere disapproval. "As I said, I will make Mr. Kinney aware of your visit. If he wishes to contact you, he shall do so in his own time. Now," she said as she finally rose from the chair and moved to open the door, "...if you will excuse me, I have business matters to attend to."

The dismissal was so obvious, so blatant that Connie Simpson was left with no way around it. He wasn't used to being dismissed and he sure as hell didn't like being dismissed by this lackey. Surely she knew the kind of money that a Simpson Steel account had the potential of bringing to Kinnetik, and no one in this business would treat a potential client so shabbily. But she had no intention of giving in and he could see that. Short of beating the information out of the woman, he would simply have to bide his time. If that meant staying in Pittsburgh until Brian returned, that's what he'd do.

As he stood to leave the office, he turned and stared darkly into Cynthia's eyes, making sure she saw the full intent of his words. "Make sure you tell Brian that I have a special ticket for him to a Kings game. Won't you?"

The smirk he wore on his face chilled Cynthia to the core.

*******

Brian sat silently in the chair thinking about anything other than what was about to happen. He ran his fingertips lightly over the fabric of his hospital issue attire, the harsh poly-blend meting out a portion of calm as it pricked the sensitive nerve endings. The sensations reminded him of the cover of Gus's car seat, coarse and rough. God, he thought, I miss him. He wondered if he'd grown another inch. Kids seemed to grow so damned fast. Does he know I'm sick? Does he know I miss him? Does he miss his dad?

He had purposely avoided thinking of any part of the family, of what they knew, how they would feel about his diagnosis, how they would react. He knew what Justin had told them - exactly what Brian would have wanted him to tell them. Nothing specific, just that he was sick. Made it sound like he had the fucking psychiatric flu. Shit. But they never knew how to leave well enough alone, and Justin had known that. He'd known they would push and blame and meddle until Brian's business wasn't Brian's business anymore. It was ‘the family's business'. Christ, they never knew when to fucking back off.

Yesterday's revelation of Michael's actions, however, had made it clear that the partial truth hadn't worked. The family had been ‘the family'. Even knowing the damage that word of Brian Kinney having a mental health crisis could - would - do to his reputation, his business.  Fucking Michael. Fuck Michael.

"How are you doing today, Brian?" Dr. McCarthy noticed the absent and pained look on her patient's face and worried that he was overly anxious about the session today. "Are you up for this today?"

Brian laughed at that. Was he up for this today? Well, fuck no he wasn't up for this today. "You're quite the comic, Doc. Seems you missed your calling."

"Seriously, Brian. You seemed quite distant and anxious when I came in." When he turned his head away to avoid eye contact, she sat down in the chair next to Brian, elbows resting on knees, and prompted him again. "Listen. I know you don't trust psychiatry and therapy, or hell, doctors in general. But, Brian... you saw the videos. You've listened to Justin and have seen how this has affected him. You feel it. You know the situation you are dealing with... This is not something you can handle on your own... You do know that, don't you?"

Brian's body sank back into the chair, his head resting between the back and the small wing that cropped out from it, his hands gripping the armrests. His body literally didn't know whether to tense or relax, and his head was buzzing with denials and negations and nonono. Just escape. Just fucking escape. He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. He knew it was only a slight touch, but it felt like a block of cement to his frayed nerve endings. Like weighted sandpaper. And at the moment all he could do was pretend she wasn't there, that she wasn't touching him and talking to him and looking at him.

But she was.

"I know," he simply said.

"Tell me what you feel. Right now. This moment."

"I don't know." He whispered it into the safety of the chair.

"You know. Just feel. Tell me."

"This is... hard. I..." The pause was long. Interminable.

"Would you like me to call Justin in? Would that help you?"

"No! No." He didn't want Justin to hear... whatever it was he would say. He had seen enough, been through too much already. Not this, too.

"Okay. Just you and me. No one else is here." She knew she had to remain objective, clinical to a degree. But her heart broke a little more with every sigh, every battled thought that this beautiful and broken man endured. This was not just another case to her. Not anymore. As she had come to know Brian, meet some of his alters and recognize the protective force they wrapped him in, she knew she had met a most amazing being. He was the ultimate survivor with the gentlest of souls hidden safely beneath the fractured façade. And when he began speaking, she was riveted with the painful depth of his words.

"I'm so scared of what this is. Of who I am. I thought I knew me... it was me. But I ‘m them."

"They are you, Brian. They are parts of you that you've used to protect another, more sacred part. They are your shield and armor. And they helped you survive what you couldn't survive alone." She saw the tears course down his face, and noticed how they shone in the softened light filtering from the desk lamp.  

"What am I supposed to remember? He beat me and she didn't give a shit. What the fuck else am I supposed to remember?"

"You may not remember consciously. But the memories are there. Locked away so they can't hurt you as Brian. To heal, to integrate your selves into a whole, you will have to remember. And I wish I could save you from that... but I can't." Dr. McCarthy gripped Brian's arm a bit more tightly as she continued, her voice calm, quiet. "Justin told me about his amnesia, about the attack. You helped him heal, to overcome the panic that threatened to steal his freedom, his life. To heal, he had to remember the attack. It's very much the same with you. To heal, you have to remember what you are hiding."

At the reminder of the bashing, of blood on cement and pale, cool skin, of Justin's pain and courage and strength, Brian's body tensed. His face drew up in agony and a long, low cry flowed forth from his lungs as he had a flash of blood on tile and a cool gray body in his arms, and thoughts of red is the new gray and nonononono and... and it was almost there. The memory was almost his. And then it wasn't his...

"Please...please... don't..." the frightened whispered voice pleaded. "He doesn't know... he doesn't know... please."

"What doesn't Brian know?" She asked the unknown voice.

"He... I killed him. Don't let him know..." The last word trailed off into a haunting wail, begging her to protect Brian from the knowledge.

"What is your name? Can you tell me who you are?"

"Come here, Little Boy... you know what we want. Don't tell him...please..." Anxious hands clawed at hers and sad, foreign eyes begged her.

"Who did you kill, Little Boy? Can you tell me?"

"Patch... he was just a puppy!" Little Boy was now hysterical, caught up in his grief and pain. "He peed... don't tell him don't tell him... the kings... please!" A slight tremor ran through him and his body language changed from frantic to languid.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye..." The breathy sing-song voice was familiar to the doctor and she recognized it immediately.

"Trick?"

"Hey, chick. Now wasn't that a tasty dish to set before the kings?" he finished the nursery rhyme song. "Hmmmm?"

"Do you know Little Boy?"

"Some of us do. He told  you he killed the pup. Couldn't help it though." Trick wound a lock of hair around his finger absently. "The king made him. Him or the dog. Him or the dog," he sang. "I think he made the right decision. Don't you?"

"What did they do to him, Trick? The kings?"

"Love is like a stove, it burns you when it's hot. Love hurts, ooh, ooh, love hurts**" A coldness settled in Alice McCarthy at the words of the old song. This was no random choice of words, but a clear message from Trick. Dear god... love is like a stove...

"Trick, I need you to let Brian wake up now, okay?" God, please listen, Trick. "Let me speak with Brian."

There was no answer from Trick, but the body language changed and the eyes were again clear and focused.

"Went away again?" Brian asked.

"Yeah. But you're back now. How do you feel?" As she waited for Brian's answer, she wondered how to tell him what the last few minutes had revealed.

As Kaz walked toward the entrance to Kinnetik's offices, his eye caught the handsome older man getting into the silver Lexus. He was hard to miss with that air of entitlement and a thick shock of dark hair, suspiciously lacking in gray for a man at least in his mid to late fifties. He knew immediately that this was Connie Simpson. He studied the man and the vehicle, noticing by the tag that it was a rental car. Kaz debated for only a moment on whether to follow the man, but the distance already between them and the desire to find out from Cynthia what the meeting was about made up his mind.

He opened the door, greeted the security guard and Martin, and walked purposefully toward Brian's large inner office. He had to give the man credit. Brian knew how to make an impression with his surroundings. The sleek lines, the simplicity of it all gave off a very classy vibe. And underneath it all was an old bathhouse. But that, after all, was Kinney.  

He knocked once on the door and opened it to find a pensive Cynthia, glass of vodka in hand. She appeared intent on starting her evening a little early.

"Must have been a hell of a meeting," he said, nodding to the drink in her hand.

"How do you know it isn't water?" she asked the investigator.

"Experience," was all he said as he settled himself on the sofa near the cubed glass window. "So, tell me."

Cynthia swallowed back a mouthful and felt the soft burn against her throat. She closed her eyes as she said, "He was here for Brian."

"I figured."

"Wasn't exactly happy when I told him Brian would be unavailable for some time." She paused and looked into the glass in her hand. "He's going to hunt him down, Kaz. I could feel it."

"Figured that, too." Kaz got to his feet, walked to the cabinet, pouring himself a shot of twelve-year old scotch. He raised the glass toward no one in particular, as if making a toast, before he continued. "And now we have to make sure he doesn't get anywhere near him."    

*******

Alice McCarthy paused her hand over the computer mouse, looking anxiously toward the men waiting for her to begin playing the video. Up to this point, Brian had seen himself playing out various alters and was coming to understand that the actors were actually him. But so far nothing specific had being mentioned about any particular acts by or against Brian physically during his childhood. It had been strongly suggested and hinted at, but no particular act identified. That was about to change. The words spoken by both Little Boy and Trick had the potential to either shut Brian down into another near catatonic state, or to open the flood gates to his memories. Neither one would be pleasant for him or his young partner.

"I want you both to remember that nothing you see or hear on this video is occurring now. Brian, you presented as two separate alters, both talking about a particular instance from your past... I'll be honest with you - this is painful." Brian stiffened markedly at her words, but gave no other sign that they bothered him. She knew, of course, that his stoicism was an act.

She watched the unnecessary shame on Brian's face and the caring pain on Justin's as the screen showed her talking Brian through his fears. She saw the color disappear from both of them as Justin's bashing was referenced, giving her a greater insight into both men than they might ever realize. She watched the fascinated horror engulf Brian as he saw himself easily switch into the frightened Little Boy pleading with her to allow Brian's continued ignorance of the painfully recounted memory.  

Brian began to retch and Justin immediately handed over the waste can that sat beside him for that purpose. The doctor had known this revelation into his own past would most likely physically overwhelm Brian - knew the basic physiological reactions to this kind of sweepingly powerful insight. She had prepared as much as she could for this. As she paused the screen, she was reminded that there could never be enough preparation for this. Never enough.

Brian wiped his mouth and took a sip from the bottled water he held. Justin continued to watch his partner's reactions, saw the ashen pallor of his skin, the beads of perspiration trickling down his jaw line. "Do we have to continue this right now?" he asked.

"Turn it back on," Brian demanded hoarsely. "Turn it back on."

Justin winced as the video continued, and he wasn't sure whether it was from the pain he knew Brian was in or the shock of the intrusion from the familiar sing-song lilt of Trick's voice. He remembered the almost prophetic words Trick sang the first time Justin encountered this alter. Go ask Alice. I think she'll know.

Jesus.

Brian gripped the arms of his chair until the blood had stopped flowing, turning them chalky white. Tears ran down his face as he heard Trick say ‘Him or the dog. Him or the dog.' Alice heard a soft hum rise and saw Brian slowly rocking himself back and forth in his seat, his head shaking slowly side to side. As Trick finished, Brian stopped all movement and clenched his eyes shut, scrunching his face into a look of surprised agony.

"He...he had my hand... they had a... FUCK!" Brian jerked his hand to him, clenching it to his chest with the other. He screamed. "Stop! Please No Stop!" As the sobs wracked his body, Justin held him tightly. "I'm so sorry, Bri. God, I'm so sorry."

Brian could feel the heat from the metal rod held near his hand. Without even touching the skin it seared his palm. Do it, Sonny Boy... He pissed on the rug... Be a man... It's you or the damn dog. And the heat was hotter and he thinks he peed himself, and he held the knife...

A terrifying calm settled around Brian. He raised his broken face and stared emptily, seemingly at no one in particular. But he saw the face before him.That face. And he knew that his six year old self had somehow died that day.

"I killed him. The king made me kill him."

Alice McCarthy suddenly wished to be anywhere else.

*******

Carl Horvath studied the mess on his desk. It probably wasn't the best idea to meet Krawczynski here, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. As he picked up first one paper from the desk, then another, he tried to put some order to the pseudo-investigation he and his old friend were conducting.

"Okay. Here's what we know, or at least strongly suspect, so far," Carl stated as he placed the documents and notes into various piles. "We know that Brian suffered some serious abuse as a child, most likely at the hands of his parents. That'd be the most likely answer to his medical issues right now. How he managed to get through that and the rest of his life until now without this all crashing down around him is anybody's guess. I highly suspect that Connie Simpson had something to do with that, as well. We know from public school records and other public records that Connie Simpson began school in Pittsburgh shortly after Brian was born. The property records show he actually lived near Kinney all that time."

Putting it all together in one statement, showing the proximity of Simpson to Kinney from the beginning pulled at something in Carl's thoughts. There was just too damned much circumstantial evidence showing a strong connection between the two from day one to just dismiss it. He knew in his gut that Kinney's parents and Simpson were more than passing acquaintances. And knowing what he now did about Brian's childhood, it gave him a cold chill.

Kaz looked back over the documents in front of him. They had collected all the school, property, hospital and police records they could get their hands on, as well as the reports from Pete in Chicago. He had to be missing something that would tie it up in a bow for them. Shuman, Chicago and now Brian's sudden disappearance and collapse. He could definitely connect Simpson and Kinney in Chicago and the current situation. But without the juvenile records available, they had so far been unable to fit Simpson into Brian's time at Schuman.

He looked over the police records one last time when he saw it. Not an arrest record. An incident report. Vandalism at Simpson's house. Breaking and entering. Assault on Simpson. 235 King Avenue. Police responded. Dated... Holy shit... one month before Brian went to Schuman. The last week Brian attended school before his time at Schuman. He looked further at the document and noticed a small notation in the responding officer's own handwriting.Additional statement provided at scene from witness, Jack Kinney.

Fucking shit.

"Carl, look at this." He handed over the document, anticipation evident on his face.

Carl looked over the standard incident report. Date, time, place... Jesus...

"The final piece of the puzzle. This is what Brian went to Schuman for. Those goddamned bastards." Kaz raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic curse words from his friend. He grinned and patted Carl on the shoulder. "Stone cold heart you've got there, Horvath. Stone cold."

*******

Brian sat in the single chair, placed by the window, wrapped in a cheap hospital blanket. He was so fucking cold. His stomach clenched again. No. He had promised himself he would not vomit again. Not now. Even as he had the thought he leaned over and retched again into the waste can beside him.

Fuck. He tried to keep the images out of his head. Tried to replace them with  counting the cars in the goddamned parking lot, trying to name the year, made and model. Busy mind work. Idle hands. Idle mind. Devil's work. But he had met the devil and the devil didn't give a shit about idle hands and minds. As long as he got his pound of fucking flesh.

He was surprised that a flood of memories hadn't rushed back to him the moment he recalled what he had done that day as a small child. No! He hadn't done a damned thing! They had done it. They had done it. Not him.

He'd never before even recalled having a dog. They were nasty creatures, according to his mother. But he remembered now. Patches. Sleeping beside him on the floor. Licking wounds Brian had received from yet another fist to the side of his head. Six fucking years old. Almost the same age as...

Brian vomited again as he thought of his son.

Christ.

He felt a tug inside him. A small but distinctive pulling somewhere deep. A voice, a smooth baritone brogue. A lilting lullabye of a voice. "Brother, we have ya." He knew it was him. He knew it wasn't him. But he was surprised that he could reconcile the dichotomy so easily, accept the being and not-being as a reality.

Brian whispered a sincere, "Thank you."

*******

Connie held the paper in his hands, wondering if he should believe the things he read. He knew from experience just how erroneous and malicious the media could actually be. But... the article was in the business section, usually a bit above the cut where reporting was concerned. And it did reference a press conference held by Kinnetik confirming that Kinney was in the hospital for ‘undisclosed health reasons'. The article went on to list what he was notbeing treated for, but not what he was being treated for.

At least, Connie thought, it's a place to start. He dialed the first hospital he found in the directory.

"Can you connect me to Brian Kinney's room, please?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Kinney's room is not accepting calls."

Got it in one, Con, he thought as he picked up the keys to the rental car and left his suite.

There wasn't much to distinguish it from any other hospital lobby. Information desk and gift shop, a few sitting areas, the perfunctory health warnings and information posters on the wall. Only a few non-employees were milling around or chatting in quiet groups more fitting for a house of god than a house of medicine. Altogether too boring and, he hoped, too easy.

The woman behind the information desk continued to move the cursor around on the computer screen, effectively ignoring him. He doubted that she was actually doing any hospital work. More likely there was a game of solitaire going on. He cleared his throat for the second time and the woman continued to focus on the screen. Connie was a dominant man used to getting what he wanted without much question. Had always been. For the most part people recognized that quality in him and acquiesced without even realizing it. The world was teeming with submissive beings, and that just made things all that much easier for Connie. The blond bitch at Kinnetik was an exception.  Even though she had grated on his very last nerve, he at least admired the fact that she could piss him off to his face.

This little mouse behind the desk, however, was not an exception. She was merely a place filler. Not worth time or consideration. Connie reached across the waist high barrier and placed his hand on the monitor, turning it away from the woman's gaze and toward him enough to see that, indeed, there was a game of solitaire going on. 

"It's refreshing to see the American work ethic in practice," he commented dryly, taking in the sheepishly stunned look on the place holder's face.

"Excuse me, sir, but you can't..." she began to make her complaint at Connie's actions.

"But I can." Tapping his hand lightly on the monitor, he continued. "This is such an important task that you completely ignore a concerned family member seeking information about a patient's room number?"

"Um...no, sir. Who are you here to see?" She quickly brought up the patient information access screen.

"Mr. Brian Kinney."

The woman's fingers hesitantly clicked over the keys, hunt and peck fashion, as Connie watched the still exposed screen closely. Flustered at this man's arrogance, and a bit embarrassed at having been so easily caught wasting time, the woman clicked through various pages. Connie's gaze never left the screen, even as the woman insincerely apologized, relaying that the patient was in a visitor-restricted room.  But he knew that already. He had seen the flag on the patient page. He had also seen the room number.

"I understand," Connie sighed. "It's not your fault. You were, after all, only doing your job." The woman glared at him as he walked away, smirking.

*******

"I was about the same age as Gus is now."

Justin's hand stilled over the unfinished sketch of Trick playfully twining a lock of hair between nimble fingers. After the earlier session, Justin had been compelled to draw Brian's alters - to document this painful journey. And he felt somehow guilty for that need. Laying aside the pencil and paper, he touched his partner's hand.

"I was about six, I think," Brian continued, his eyes focused on something Justin couldn't see, an abandoned magazine lying across his legs. Justin said nothing, knowing this wasn't about Brian's need to be validated by him. This was just about the telling.

"I can't believe I never remembered that. I had a damned dog, Jus." Painful confusion shadowed Brian's beautiful face as he struggled with the memory. "I... killed him." 

Brian's gaze never shifted, fixed on a phantom of one horrific moment.

"It wasn't our house. There was tile. We never had tile. It was cold, dark." He narrowed his eyes and raised his head slightly, as if toward the phantom image. "Dirty... I was so glad to see the light come on, but petrified by it ... ‘cause... Christ! I don't know! It's all just bits... pieces."

The young man moved to sit on the side of the bed with his lover. He would give anything - anything - to feel this for Brian. To just allow him a single fucking moment of feeling safe. He reached up and stroked the back of Brian's head, willing any ounce of strength he could into the man who leaned into the touch.

"I think I was asleep when they came in. On the floor... I heard Patches crying and somebody said ‘fucking dog' and shoved him toward me and made me..." He did close his eyes then, as he buried his face in his partner's chest. "Jesus Christ, Jus... They LEFT me there. With Patches... They turned out the fucking light and left me there in the dark with his... his..." Great sobs wracked Brian's shoulders as Justin held him, his own tears running onto dark chestnut hair.  

"I'm here, Bri," he whispered. "And I love you so fucking much."

Afternoon had become evening and Brian now slept, cocooned in Justin's arms, their bodies pressed tightly against each other on the small bed. His body exhausted, his soul so goddamned weary, the young man still found sleep eluding him. His artist's mind kept painting pictures of a tortured young Brian, huddling in the dark, terrified of what he had been made to do - abandoned to guilt and pain and fear in dark isolation. With the dead body of the pet he had just killed.

FUCKERS!

His mind screamed out his rage and he knew the only thing keeping him tethered to his own sanity was the soul of the man beside him. The kindest soul he had ever known. While the kindness seeped out of Justin's. Leeched out by motherfucking monsters, one heartbreaking revelation at a time. They had stolen Brian's entire fucking life! Justin vowed silently to his beautiful, gentle man that, if any of them were still alive, he would kill them himself.

*******

Dr. Alice McCarthy re-read her file notations for accuracy before finally closing the folder and placing it in her locked cabinet. She leaned back in her chair, removed the clip holding her hair in a twist and then took off her shoes. It had been a long, long day. Most of the issues she had run up against were run of the mill in her job - readjustments to meds, overly protective or in denial family members, panic attacks - but there had been a lot of them today.

And then there was Brian Kinney. This man was perhaps the most fascinating patient she had encountered in her career. The diagnosis wasn't that unusual for her to give. She had spent quite some time studying and treating patients diagnosed with DID, unlike many psychiatrists. She knew the rarity of it, but she also knew the instances of it. However Brian was... different. She suspected that he would finally discover a low number of alters. At least that's what the evidence has shown so far.  He had long periods of singularity and extended instances of rapid switching. He presented for treatment during an extended period of rapid switching in desperate need of some kind of stabilization. On paper, it was all fairly cut and dried.

What she found the most fascinating of all, however, was the pure protectiveness toward Brian that she had seen in each alter she encountered. So far none of them had been the least bit antagonistic to or defensive against him. She knew he created them to protect himself from the gross abuse, to escape. But they became protection personified. In so many cases, she knew, alters could evidence severely negative qualities. At the very least there was ‘discord in the family'. That had apparently not happened in Brian's case. Any discord appeared to be from external factors. That spoke well for a positive future.

And regarding that future... Was it time to release him? See him on an outpatient basis? She had been debating that question since Brian's mood had elevated and the generalized anxiety had eased off. The medications were working well. The switching was less frequent and less unsettling, usually occurring during therapy. When it did happen in a non-supportive environment, he was learning to resist, to recognize the signs. Brian had a superior support system in his partner and work associates. He was much less defensive about therapy itself and had begun to recognize the value it could provide to his recovery.  Most importantly, she didn't feel he was a danger to himself at this time.

Yes, she decided. I'll mention it to him in the morning.  She retrieved the file from the drawer and made new notations.

*******

When they had entered the doctor's office the next morning Brian and Justin both related the additional memories Brian had experienced the night before. Those had actually triggered a few more memories during the night, equally as frightening but less graphic.

"I don't even know if the things took place on the same day, weeks or months apart. It's just... fragmented stuff. Bits and pieces. Flashes of things I'd really like to think were some kind of sick delusion." Brian wiped his brow, the exertion of simply telling this causing him to sweat. "But they're not, are they?"

"Probably not," the doctor responded quietly.

"I could feel it more than see it. Like my body remembers better than my mind. A slap, a kick, being bound. And always dark. I could hear myself...begging. And then I just... didn't anymore." The last words were almost whispered, but seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. Brian's face showed how difficult the words had been to speak. He didn't say another word for several long, silent minutes.

"I remember... words... Sonny Boy up top... and I don't want to know what they mean. I don't want to know." His eyes were tightly shut, his head slightly back and turned to the side.

"You do know, though. Don't you?" The practiced calm in the doctor's voice gave away nothing of the pain she was herself feeling. She knew it would get to this point and she could see Brian struggling against what he knew.

Brian sighed. "Fuck, yeah. I know." He shifted slightly in his seat. "My body sure as shit knows."

They all sat silently, waiting. For Brian to continue. For him to process what he was feeling. He said as much with his silence as his words would say. Moments. Minutes. Silence.

"He... they... raped me."

 The truth - his truth - was spoken. And the world was changed, again.

"Yeah," was the only thing she could say.

He sat, silent again, for more than five minutes. Just remembering to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Raped.

A word he had always known. A word he just now fully understood.

"They raped me," he repeated. "They fucking raped me."

"Monsters exist, and sometimes we know them." The doctor paused briefly, unsure of Brian's reaction to her next question. "Who were they, Brian?"

Pain shot through Brian and he wrapped his arms around his stomach. He could feel that small commanding tug in the back of his mind, that gentle nudge to step aside and rest now. "Not now," he said quietly to himself. "I have to do this. Please." The tug eased and he heard that lilting brogue and a quiet sing-song voice in unison. "Brother." He nodded, just once.

"The kings. My fa... Jack... Connie." He gave a strange little smile. "I don't know if there was anyone else. Just... the fucking kings."

Justin had been sitting, speechless, hearing the truth that would never make sense to him. Knowing the truth and accepting that it made sense were different things. He had known. Just as Brian had known. But... now it was out there. Real. Not a phantom. He knew it was Jack and he had suspected the other man. And he thought back to that first night with Brian and the hollow look in his eyes.

But I don't remember anymore.

He felt fingers entwining with his, squeezing. I remember now, Sunshine, they said.

"Brian?" The doctor's voice pulled him back. He had said it.

"Yeah?"

"This was not your fault. They did this, Brian. They were wrong."

"I'll believe that...someday. Maybe."

"You were a child, Brian. A very vulnerable, small boy. You did nothing wrong." She had to impress this upon the man. Rape victims - survivors - so often felt as if they had done something wrong. "They did this. Not you. You were strong, you found a way to survive."

The alters. He had found a way to survive. They had taken it on themselves. "They call me ‘brother'," he said.

"Who?" Dr. McCarthy was confused by the abrupt change of subject. She saw Justin look at his partner questioningly, obviously confused as well.

"The alters. They call me ‘brother'," Brian responded. "I can hear them, in a way."

"They are communicating with you? That's amazing!" Brian's anxiety at revealing this was eased by the smile on the doctor's face.

"I didn't know if that was normal."

Dr. McCarthy let out a small laugh. "Brian, nothing about this situation is normal. But it is okay. It's a positive step. With communication it can be much easier to resist switching. And I noticed that you did that just now - resisted the switch."

Brian shrugged. "One, or two, wanted me to leave, to let them handle the... rape. I told them I needed to do this. They backed off." It sounded so insane, even to his own ears. Christ, he was crazy.

"There's something I want to discuss with you, and you've just given me even more reason to do so today." Brian was making amazing strides in dealing with, coming to terms with his diagnosis and his trauma. It was time. Noticing the concerned look on the faces of both men, she quickly added. "This is a good thing, I believe... Brian, you've been in the hospital for over two weeks. Even with your diagnosis, the main concern I had was stabilizing your emotional state. With help from the medications and therapy, and a hell of a lot of hard work on your part, that has pretty much been accomplished. I think it's time for you to return home."

"What? You're releasing him?" Justin was elated and worried at the same time. God he wanted Brian home. But... was he ready?

"You're serious?" God, please let her be serious, he thought to himself.

"Yes, and yes. You would still, of course, need to see me frequently on an outpatient basis and keep taking your medication. But you have made an amazing amount of progress, in great part, I believe, due to the supportive and protective nature of your alters. They are working with you now, allowing you access to them, and them to you. It will be difficult, but I don't think you need to be here any longer."

Brian laughed and gathered Justin into a strong embrace. "We're going home, Sunshine. We're going home."

Justin's mouth curved up into a quirky little smile when he noticed the pitcher of guava juice and the bowl of green apples. At least Brian's first day back at the loft would be a tasty one. Jennifer had agreed to stock up the cupboards and the fridge as soon as Brian had phoned her earlier, telling Justin that she wanted Brian to have everything he might need or want when he got home. Justin had a feeling that what Brian wanted and needed at the moment had little to do with food. Just being here, in his own home again, was almost enough for the man at the moment.

His eyes trailed over to see his partner touching each item as he passed by it - caressing every painting, running his fingers over books on the shelves, laying his palms against the sweaty condensation of the large windows. The sheer poignancy of the actions tore at Justin. Brian had spent most of his adult life in this loft. It was his home in the fullest meaning of the word. The evidence of his success, of his sexual prowess, of their love and relationship. It was his retreat and his status symbol, his comfort and his showcase. 

"I wondered if I'd ever see the outside of those pasty, ugly walls again, much less be here again. It feels... different. Like I've been away for years or I'm just passing through."  His hands gently touched the darkened light fixture above the loft bed and the melancholy in his voice gave a stutter to the words.

"It'll get better, Bri... You've been through a fucking lot of shit the last few weeks." As he walked up the steps toward his beautiful man, Justin added, "And I think I know how to make this place home again." He watched as the gleam sparked in Brian's eyes and his lips parted slightly, showing only the dark pink tip of a tongue. Justin stopped short of touching Brian. He stood just admiring the man - his beauty, his strength, his sensuality - as his own pulse began to race and both gratitude and desire burned behind his eyes.

They had held each other during the last few weeks, of course. Shared the infrequent sensual kiss. But neither of them had sought to turn their touches into something sexual. There was too much pain and heartbreak for both of them, too much fragility. These past weeks had just been about surviving. Brian's entire world had upended, his entire belief system had been called into question, and the hospital had represented all of that. Reminded them constantly of all of that. But now... They were home.

Both men had somehow expected this moment to be heavy with urgency and hurried lust, with fevered tearing of clothing and groping hands. What they experienced was so much more. Justin unhurriedly undid each button on his lover's shirt one by one, caressing the skin of Brian's shoulders as he let the fabric slide to the floor. Fingers slowly traced down the smooth skin of a strong chest, down the tautness of tensed abs, feeling the soft tremors there. Reacquainting. Relearning. Justin heard the sharp intake of a single breath, felt the slight shudder run through Brian's body. Blue eyes remained focused intently on hazel as Brian's hands caught up in Justin's hair and pulled their lips together.

"God, I've missed you, Sunshine." The words were a breath shared between them.

No, it hadn't been fevered and hurried as they'd anticipated. It had been slow and sanguine, worshipful and joyous. It had been a ceremony. A reclaiming. And when they came, bodies shaking from the sheer intensity of the moment, tears mingled with the sweat on their faces.

They both knew that it had never been like this, would never again be like this. 

Later, as they lay wrapped tightly together, Justin rested his head on Brian's chest. A serene smile settled on his lips as he closed his eyes and just listened to the thump-thump of Brian's heartbeat. He knew that that sound - that one extraordinary rhythm - grounded him more securely to earth than any law of physics ever could.

*******

"So, you're telling me he's been released?"

Kaz, checking his watch again in exasperation, had arrived at the psychiatric floor waiting room looking for Justin just minutes ago. Justin had told him he was usually in the waiting room every day at this time since Brian had a daily private therapy session scheduled. When he arrived and Justin was nowhere to be found, he checked with the nurse's station to have him located. They, of course, had become quite familiar with Kinney's young partner, who had been as much a fixture on the floor as the patient himself during the last two weeks. This was definitely, however, not the day to be playing tag with the man. Not with Simpson now in the equation.

The tired nurse looked down at the screen of the computer once again before answering the intense man.

"Yes, sir. Just as I told his uncle earlier, Mr. Kinney checked out on doctor's orders about three hours ago. Strange that Mr. Kinney becomes such a popular patient the day he leaves." The nurse chuckled to herself at her own bad joke.  

Kaz's eyes snapped toward the nurse. "His uncle?"

"Yes. Quite a handsome, elegant man. And he didn't seem to be any more pleased with the information than you are, sir."

"Fucker!" The nurse's back stiffened noticeably at the perceived insult and she opened her mouth to comment. Kaz hadn't seen her reaction, however. He was already on the elevator, phone in hand. By the time the elevator reached the lobby floor, he was on his third phone call.

 "Horvath here."

"Karl, we may have a problem. Kinney's been released, and apparently his ‘uncle' was made aware of that fact just a short time ago by the hospital." Fuck, fuck, fuck. He knew he should have been at the hospital yesterday, should have told Justin yesterday! Fuck!

"Christ. Sure they went to the loft. I'll call Justin's cell." The detective turned his car around and headed toward Tremont and Fuller.

"I already tried his cell, and Kinney's landline. Phones are off. Hope that means they're just securing some privacy there, detective."

"Shit. I'm on my way there now. Take me about ten."

"Already on my way."

As the call ended, both men were painfully aware of just what a major fuckup they could all be facing.

*******

He waited. Standing back some distance from the door to the old building, he just waited, vaguely wondering why anyone would put a security door at the entrance of such an apparent eyesore. Announcing his presence by using the intercom was out of the question, for obvious reasons. So, he thought, he would simply bide his time.

The thought had barely had time to cross his mind when he saw a woman at the door, packages falling clumsily to the ground as she struggled with the security code.

"Here," he drawled. "Looks like you're having a bit of a problem. Allow me." The exasperated woman smiled and nodded with her thanks as Connie Simpson collected the stray packages, and followed her into the building lobby.

"Thank you," the grateful woman laughed out. "I was about ready to scream."

"My pleasure, ma'am. Glad I was there to help." She had no way of knowing exactly how glad her good Samaritan actually was.

*******

Both Novotny's stared at Cynthia. They had arrived at Kinnetik hoping to get some information about Brian, and had been met with the stony resolve of a security guard who refused to let them enter. Neither one of them had heard a word about Brian in days, other than the news conference Cynthia had held on the steps of Brian's building.

"But you said you talked to Brian before the press conference. You've seen him. Lord knows Justin's been with him every minute. What about us? We want to see him, see for ourselves how he is. He's our family, for Christ's sake!"

"Mrs. Novotny, I have nothing to do with Brian's medical treatment or with who is or is not allowed access to him. That is between Brian, Justin and the medical team." Cynthia was in full protective mode. She had been called to the entrance of the building when the security team was unable to convince Michael and his mother to leave the premises. They were making their displeasure with that request known. Quite loudly. Jesus! What would these people do when they discovered Brian had been released this morning? Making a mental note to speak to Justin about security at the loft, she again addressed the pair in front of her.

"Mrs. Novotny. Michael. I'm sorry that you feel you are being left out of Brian's recovery, but you do realize that this is not about you... Don't you? This is about Brian and his health and his privacy." She emphasized the last word, noticing the slight grimace that crossed Michael's face.

"What the hell do you mean it isn't about us? Of course it's about us! Brian is family. He's been my best friend for over twenty years!"

"Justin won't listen to us. Won't even talk to us! I don't know what has happened to that boy, but he's completely left us out in the fucking cold!" Debbie chimed in. "You can talk with him, make him see reason. What if that was your family in the hospital, Ms. Moore?"

"Brian IS my family, Mrs. Novotny. And my employer. And my friend. And I want what is best for him. That's what loving families want. Period." She stared intently at the two irate people in front of her. "Now, if you will, excuse me, I have Brian's business to run. And you need to leave Kinnetik property. I would very much hate to call in the police to have you removed."

Without another word, Cynthia turned and entered the building, leaving both Debbie and Michael slightly stunned.

"Maybe she's right, Michael. Maybe we just need to let it be, let Brian come to us when he's ready." Debbie replayed the words Cynthia had used - that's what loving families want.

Michael stared at his mother.

"Fuck that," he said as he turned and left.

*******

Brian poured himself a glass of guava juice, smiling a bit at the joy of performing such a mundane task. His juice. His loft. His home. God, he was fucking home!

The hesitancy and insecurity he had felt when he and Justin walked through the door was all but gone.  All but. There were still traces of a vague strangeness to being here. As if it was a different room, a different building. But he knew the truth lay in him, not the real estate. The loft and the furnishings weren't different - he was. His whole life was something other than it was the last time he stood in this spot, pouring an identical glass of juice. He was not the same and never would be again.

He listened to the muted sounds of water starting in the shower and Justin humming a happy little tune, and he smiled to himself. God, he had missed Justin. His body, his touch, his smell. Brian couldn't remember a single time in his life when he had actually been afraid of fucking. He had been worried about it after Justin's bashing and after the cancer, but he hadn't been afraid. But so much had changed in his life - in their relationship - over the last several weeks; there were so many revelations and damned differences that he feared their sex life would be different, too. That it would somehow be affected, and he had been scared to death.

And it had been affected. But, Christ, it had been so much more than he had ever felt before! Oh, there had been need and fire. But there was such a fucking connection - a sensual spirituality to the act - a statement. It was the most love he had ever felt in his life. Just love.

Followed just now by a round of pure carnal lust.

He was lost in that thought, grinning wickedly to himself as he absentmindedly answered the knock on the door.

The grin faded as he stared at the man beyond the door, and Brian stood frozen, his hand still gripping the handle of the loft door. He tried to make his body respond, tried to turn and run, to shout - to... anything...

Frozen.

God. God. God. No. No! The fear, that so familiar, hated friend, wrapped its arms around him like a vise and any warm thought he had just been thinking evaporated. He was faintly aware that someone had spoken.

He spoke. "Wh...what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Is that how you greet a king, little boy?" There was no smirk accompanying the comment. It was a question firmly asked, as if it deserved some proper response.

And then there was only rain pelting the dark... the warmth of red running from his fingers and the sick smell of blistered skin and his throat burning from the screams... the cold and the kings and the darkness... rushing in on him as his body began to shake and his eyes blurred. The remembered pain - his mouth, his wrists, his head, his ass, his dick - brought him to his knees and he couldn't breathe.

"No, please, no," he whispered into the air. They wouldn't hear. They never heard. Brian scrabbled backwards until his back met with the cool leather of the sofa, instinctively seeking protection that he knew from ancient experience he wouldn't find. "No no no no no."

"God, you are still such a pretty little bitch." Connie sighed as he closed the loft door behind him and walked toward the huddled man. "But you've caused me so many problems, little boy."

Brother. We will protect you.

Brian could feel the whispers deep inside, the quiet tugs that he had tried so strongly to resist. "I can't...do this."

We are here.

Connie reached down and ran his hands through the thickness of Brian's dark hair. Curling his fingers he grasped and jerked Brian's head back, staring coldly into anxious hazel eyes. "But... you are going to make all that up to me now, aren't you, little boy?"

"You can't hurt him. The King commands the king," Mac's pious voice spoke out, enigmatically. "For as much as you have done this to the least of these, you've done this to me."*

"Everyone is going to know," the melodic voice of Trick sing-songed up into the confused eyes of Connie Simpson.  "‘Go blow them horns' cried Joshua. ‘The battle is in my hands.'"**

"What the fuck?" Connie smirked at the bizarre words, the songs coming from the man huddled before him and roughly released his head. "What? You've suddenly become a priest, little boy?"

"Not a priest, motherfucker." A harsh, lilting voice growled out. Sonny quickly rose to his feet and faced Connie. "A pissed off avengin' angel... but you can just call us Joshua." As he uttered the last words, Sonny's face slid into an angry smile, and he pinned Connie against the wall of the loft, one arm pressed tightly across his throat. Struggling for breath, his eyes wide, Connie saw a flash of silver in Sonny's hand.

"I burned Jack's picture in effigy. Just a small thing I could do. Made me feel a wee bit better...," he turns the silver lighter around and opens the lid, lighting it, "...to ‘Ignite the Rage'." He huffs out a small, ironic laugh. "But with you, fucker, there'll not be need of an effigy, will there?"

Sonny didn't react to the sound of the shower shutting off. He didn't react to Connie's struggles to free himself. He didn't react to Justin's voice calling him.

"Sonny!"

"Yer fuckin' kings are dead. You are now a dead man, motherfucker." He brought the blue flame next to Connie's cheek and laughed when the man whimpered. "You feel that, do ya? Does it make you hot? Hmmm? Does the fear, the anticipation of the pain make yer cock twitch? Made ya hard when you were on the givin' end of it, didn't it, ya fuckin' bastard?"

"No! Please stop." Justin would gladly have killed the bastard with his bare hands, but he didn't want Brian, even through an alter, to have this on his conscience. "Fuck! Stop. You're going to kill him!"

Kaz and Carl stood outside the door of the loft, Carl's hand poised to knock. At the sound of Justin's raised voice he halted and moved one hand to the butt of his holstered weapon, and the other to the cool metal of the door handle. Begging a small favor from a god he hadn't talked to in quite a while, he pulled and let out a great sigh of thanks as the door slowly slid open. Kaz quickly moved into a wing position as the door widened, his weapon readied to protect Kinney and his partner. What they found was that Kinney was in need of anything at the moment but protection.

"Leave me be, Justin. This is between me and the king, here." Sonny's voice was eerily calm - his eyes never left those of the man he pinned to the wall. Waving the flame in Connie's face, he continued, "Ya know why they called themselves kings? Thought they had some kinda sovereign right to do anythin' that pleased ‘em. Even named their fuckin' bowling team after it. Three of ‘em, there were. Jack, old Connie here and Drake Thompson." Sonny pressed his arm tighter on Connie's windpipe and watched as the man's eyes widened even more, listened as the man gasped for just one more breath.

"Kinney, let the man go." Carl calmly demanded, startling Justin. Sonny didn't move.

"It's not Brian!" Justin quickly recovered. "Please... Carl, let me handle this. Please." Carl looked over at the two men against the wall, then back at Justin, and nodded. "I'll have to stop him, Justin, if it gets..."

"I know. Just...just let me do this."

The young man approached Sonny slowly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Sonny. Please don't do this. The police are here. Let them deal with this bastard."

"The po-lice?" Sonny laughed, but there was not a hint of humor in the sound. "Shit lot of good the cops did ‘im, eh, kid? Drake Thompson was a fuckin' cop!"

Justin closed his eyes and tried to hold the churning acid in his stomach. Fuck fuck fuck! Does it ever stop, he asked himself. "Sonny, you protect Brian. You've always been there to keep him from being hurt. But... if you hurt this sack of shit now, Brian will be the one to suffer. You know that."

Sonny tightened his grip on the now gasping man. "Do ya know what they did to ‘im, Justin? Do ya have any real idea? He's rememberin' now, how they broke ‘is bones just ta hear ‘im scream. How they made ‘im do things wee boys should NEVER even KNOW about!" Sonny's brogue increased with the obvious level of his own anguish. This was their pain, too. This had been their burden to carry for so many years. They were the protectors, the guardians of all the knowledge, all the history. THEY were the final walls that separated Brian from his truth.

And the walls were all tumbling down.

"Sonny, let me have Brian now." Justin's finger gently grazed Sonny's cheek, stroking it lightly, begging him with the touch.

Tears streamed down Sonny's anguished face, down Brian's face. His words began to break as he spoke. "They... passed ‘im around... between ‘em. Like a nickel whore! They kept ‘im there for weeks... rapin' ‘im... torturin' ‘im in that dark fucking place. Makin' ‘im scream, ‘cause they enjoyed it oh so much more when I screamed, didn't you, you motherfucking piece of shit!" Brian's voice broke through Sonny's, as he raised his hands to curl around Connie's throat, thumbs at his windpipe, face pressed against face. "You. Didn't. Break. Me! We fucking survived!"

Brian squeezed his hands tightly, choking Connie Simpson into unconsciousness. Kaz and Carl rushed toward him and pried his hands from the man, catching Brian as he fell back with a word.

"Sunshine," he sobbed.

Justin fell to his knees on the hard loft floor and pulled his lover into his arms, rocking him. "I've got you, Bri. I've got you."

"I remember. Every goddamned minute of it. I remember," he whispered into Justin's chest.

And all Justin could offer him was, "I'm so sorry, baby. So fucking sorry."

The intensity of the emotions saturated the large open room as Brian struggled to recount to Alice McCarthy his encounter with one of the monsters from his childhood. When Justin had called, had told her that the man had shown up at their home, she felt her heart literally stop. For one brief moment she grieved for Brian, visualizing him so vastly broken mentally by the encounter that she didn't immediately connect the rest of Justin's words.

He had survived.

No - not survived. Triumphed! Fuck! He had used the resources he'd constructed for himself and had damned well won!  Now, sitting here with the two men holding each other lovingly in their own home, the tears were flowing freely down all their faces.

"I remember the day Jack took me there," Brian said distantly. He was putting some space between the reality and the telling of it. She knew he still had a long way to go to incorporate those memories, to claim them as his own and put them in a place that was neither locked away nor omnipresent. A proper place.

"He said we were going on a fishing trip." The laugh that escaped Brian at those words carried more pain than humor. "I was so fucking excited. He'd... he'd never done a goddamned thing with me before that, at least nothing that didn't involve a fist." Justin pulled his partner tighter against him, back to chest, as he and Alice listened silently to Brian's pain, to the first retelling of the most agonizing kind of betrayal - preying on a child's need for love and turning it in to the most grotesque kind of torture. "For the first time in my life, I think, I was happy, eager to be with my father. And I don't think my mother knew at all. Or she just fucking didn't want to know."

"When I first saw the cabin - I don't know where it was... we drove a long time - it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Just because it was me and my... and Jack." He wiped away a tear and rested his head back on Justin's shoulder. "Christ, I should have known. Even at six, I should have fucking known, but I just..."

"Brian, don't take this onto yourself. This was not your fault. None of this was your fault." Desperate to reinforce his lack of guilt in any of the abuse, Alice reached out and placed her hands on Brian's knees, just to connect her words, to reinforce them. "You were never at fault, Brian. Never."

Brian nodded slowly and placed his left hand over her right one, gripping it almost painfully. He continued to tell them of the best day his young self had experienced to that point. The fishing he did with Jack that day. Wading in the small lake next to the cabin. Eating the fish they had caught for dinner. And then the creeping fear that began as Jack drank beer after beer after beer.

Then the night fell and Brian's world ended as Jack left him alone, locked inside the darkened cabin, screaming his fear of the dark and the unfamiliar sounds surrounding the small house. Then the sound of tires crunching the gravel, a rush of raucous laughter outside the locked door, the moonlight shining through as the door was opened, and...

Brian's voice broke and his body started to seize violently, warding off an attack seen only in his memory, as Justin held him, whispering grounding words to the fragile man - I'm here. They can't hurt you anymore. I love you, baby.

Alice handed Brian a bottle of water she had taken from the side table. "Brian, do you want to stop now?"

"Yeah," came the hushed response. "I just want to sleep for awhile."

Justin and Alice sat in painful silence after Brian walked to the bedroom and collapsed into an exhausted sleep. The young man, his face swollen from crying, his eyes reflecting Brian's recalled pain, looked up at Alice McCarthy and asked, "Is it wrong that I see myself killing him?"

He didn't have to say the name. She knew. As she took the shaking young man in her arms, comforting him as a mother would, she shook her head. "If you are wrong, Justin, then we both are."

*******

Cynthia stood in the district attorney's office with Carl Horvath and Kaz Krawczynski, facing down the stolid looking man. She clasped her hands in front of her, hiding the angry tremors running through them. She wasn't so successful hiding it from her voice.

"Are you telling me there is nothing that can be done to this bastard?"

"Unless you have something else to offer me, my hands are tied. The statute of limitations has run on this particular event." He shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention to other documents on his desk, dismissing the trio.

Everyone jumped at the sound as a strong hand slapped harshly against the wood of the D.A.'s desk. "This ‘particular event', as you so succinctly phrased it, was the systematic and persistent gang rape and torture of a six year old boy!" Kaz's eyes seethed his anger and the startled D.A. felt every bit of it focused on him.

"Listen, Mr. Krawczynski. I don't mean to make light of this. It was... is... a heinous crime. No child should be subjected to that. But the Pennsylvania statutes are exceedingly clear. Unfortunately, the statute ran out about five years ago. A victim of child sexual abuse, at the time of this crime was perpetrated, had twelve years from the day he or she turned eighteen to seek charges in criminal court. Mr. Kinney, as you have said, is now thirty-five." He wasn't unfeeling. He'd encountered enough of these sick bastards to want them all off the street. However, his hands were legally tied on this one.

"What about today? He came into Brian's home and terrorized him, knowing he would terrorize him." Cynthia was searching for anything that would send that fucker to jail. Anything.

"That is one possibility. But the penalties on that are nominal compared to what child rape would procure," the district attorney mused. "And you say that Mr. Simpson is a man of some importance, a businessman in Chicago?"

"Yeah, an executive with his father's company, Simpson Steel." Carl, having worked with this man on several cases could see where his line of thinking was heading. "He probably wouldn't like having something like this leak out to the press, now, would he? Especially if it came out as to exactly why Brian Kinney would feel intimidated by him."

"Detective Horvath, you are treading on dangerous ground here," the prosecutor smirked. "Remember, there can be a fine line between slander and proving someone's remembered truth."

"But if he was charged - and tried - for assault and it happened to come out in some complex court proceeding... or if the defendant thought it might come out..." The prosecutor shrugged again and left the thought hanging. "But it may not even come to that. If this man is as obsessed as you hint he is, he'll fuck himself up."

"He'll be out on bail within twenty-four hours, Carl. You know that. I'm sure he's already on the phone to his attorney." Kaz wanted nothing more than for this monster to be locked up, but he saw the potential for more danger to Brian Kinney when the man was released.

"And Kinnetik will pay for whatever resources we need to make sure he's watched. Every minute of every day." The smug look on Cynthia's face told them that she knew exactly what they were all alluding to.

"Okay, then," Carl sighed, running his hands over his face. "Anyone here have any proof that Kinney voluntarily let him into the loft?" He turned and with a faint smile crinkling the sides of his eyes, said to the group, "Yeah, me either. Looks like I've got some more processing to do down at the office."

*******

It had been nearly two weeks since Emmett had stepped foot inside the Liberty Diner. As far as he was concerned the quaint little restaurant was a part of his past, as securely held in that position as was Hazelhurst High School. They both held fond memories, as well as painful reminders. But... he had promised Theodore and this was a special event. The battle royale was about to begin. He could feel it.

As he jingled the bell over the diner door with his entrance, the proud queen looked around quickly and spotted Teddy sitting alone, staring into a cup in a far back booth. No one else had arrived. Emmett let out a sigh of relief, knowing he had at least a moment of reprieve before he had to face the others.

"Hey, Teddy. Ready for the showdown?" Emmett asked the question as he slid in beside his friend. The pained, knowing look he received in response was enough. They were both dreading today. It would not be pleasant. Brian had been released from the hospital over a week ago and the ‘family' had been hounding both Justin and Cynthia in their relentless campaign to be allowed access to the man. He had fierce protectors in his partner and his business associate, however, and even Teddy and Emmett had not been able to see him. Unlike the rest of the old gang, however, they actually understood - and accepted - the need for Brian's privacy. Today, hopefully, the others would begin to get a clue.

Two by two the rest of the gang arrived. Michael and Ben. Lindsey and Mel. The girls had returned to Pittsburg upon hearing of Brian's release, hoping to get some information, as well as to tell Brian exactly what they had decided on their son's behalf. Today, because they believed this would be an intense and rather adult meeting, they had left Gus and JR with a friend for the day.  Debbie, of course, was already present. Ever-present, actually, Emmett thought.

No one had yet approached the booth where Emmett and Ted were sitting. The separation of Emmett from the family group had been painful for all involved, and the tension was still very much evident. Ted gripped his friend's hand supportively, giving it a squeeze when he felt the slight nervous tremor. "It's okay, Em. It's just the gang. Remember that."

"I think I'll just remember Brian," Emmett sighed. "He's the reason we are all here, after all." Emmett knew Brian was in a therapy session right now, probably another painful one, and he sent as much positive energy out to him as he could. There was really little else he could do for his friend other than support him with his heart and soul.

The bell above the door sounded once again as Justin entered, accompanied by Cynthia, Kaz, Carl and an unfamiliar heavyset, middle-aged man. After they had all entered, Justin turned over the sign, indicating that the business was closed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Michael jumped to attention. "You can't close the restaurant like that!"

"Actually, Michael, I just did. The owner knows, and we have one hour." The determination on the young man's face was obvious to everyone in the room. One by one he spoke quietly to the remaining few patrons, who nodded their heads silently, and made their exits. He reached into his pocket, taking out several bills and handed them to Debbie. "I think this should more than cover their food, Deb." The stunned woman took the money, staring blankly at it as Justin made his way over to greet Emmett and Ted.

"Well, well. Looks like the asshole finally rubbed off on you." Melanie made her disgust of Brian evident, and the look of disapproval she gave Justin was sharp. The young man simply shook his head and turned his back to his old friend, at once angered and saddened by the way the family had fractured. He faced the rest of the group, his back still to Melanie as he began speaking.

"First, I want to introduce you to Charles Orwin. He is Brian's, and my, personal attorney. Now, I need to say a few things, as does Mr. Orwin, and then - then - you can ask what questions you may have." He paused, collecting his emotions. He just didn't want to lose it today. Not here. Standing next to Justin, Kaz could feel the strain Justin was under and placed a friendly hand on the young man's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

"Okay, well... I want to start by telling you all how much everything you've done for me over the last several years has meant to me. You became my friends - my family when my own tossed me away. For that, if for nothing else, I owe you all so much. And for being there for Brian when he was young..." Justin's voice broke slightly with emotion, knowing damn well what young Brian went through. "...well... nothing could ever repay you for that. We both have much to thank you for, and we do thank you... But any friendship, any family relationship has boundaries that have to be respected. And right now... now when Brian so desperately needs to feel the respect of those boundaries, several of you are choosing to ignore them. That's why I asked you all to meet me here today, at the diner, because it is somewhat neutral to all of us. It reflects and belongs to all of us. It's no one's ‘territory'."

"You make it sound like some kind of war zone out there, Justin. We aren't fucking enemies here." Debbie couldn't help but feel a bit protective toward this young man who had stolen so much of her heart. But this was family, and family didn't hold out on each other.

"You're right, Debbie. And you are wrong, too. We aren't enemies, we are just really fucking dysfunctional." He actually chuckled a bit at how true that statement was. "But it actually is a war zone out there - for Brian, at least. He may be out of the hospital, but he is far from winning his war."

Kaz guided his exhausted young friend to an empty booth, whispering to him that he probably should sit down for this encounter. Justin nodded his agreement and sat on the edge of the bench seat facing the group of friends he had to address. He was more than a bit surprised at the latitude they were offering him in letting him speak uninterrupted. He didn't expect it to last, but maybe - just maybe they would begin to understand. He made a silent wish for that understanding as he continued speaking.

"Brian and I have struggled, a lot, about whether we should be completely open with you all about what's happening with him. After discussions with each other, with his doctor, as well as with Cynthia and Carl, we decided that I should meet with you all and let you know the basics. There will be nodetails, so don't even ask, please." Justin gratefully accepted the glass of water Cynthia had poured for him. This was much harder than even he thought it would be. "Brian has a... shit - for lack of a better term, a mental illness. He... just isn't himself sometimes and he is learning how to limit those times, to maintain his own identity and stability. His entire understanding of himself had been upended. He desperately needs privacy and security to heal from this. Desperately needs you to respect those needs. Every time you try to interfere, to demand from him, every interruption to his status quo right now causes him a lot of pain and setback... And he's been hurt - deeply hurt - by the thoughtless actions of some of you," Justin's eyes focused on Michael, who rolled his eyes in response, "...and by the inability of others of you to accept that he will talk with you when, and if, he is ready to do so."

"Justin, he's important to us," Lindsey claimed, "...and we have a right to..."

"I'm sorry, Lindsey, the only rights I'm concerned with  at all  right now, are Brian's. And he has the right to choose getting well over everything else. Over everyone else. And you and others are not allowing him to make that choice easily. Brian is a proud man. You all know that. But he is also a very sensitive and vulnerable person, and you not respecting his needs - his fucking medical needs - is actually hurting him." 

"Bullshit. Sensitive and vulnerable? Brian? He's always been an asshole, Justin. You should know that better than anyone." The pure anger and acid in Melanie's words ran through Justin like a sharp blade. Surely they weren't all that ignorant of who Brian really was? The answer, of course, had been apparent for a long time.

Yeah. They were, just that ignorant.

As Justin's body tensed with his own growing anger, he again felt Kaz's reassuring hand.

"I think you need to shut up now, Mel." Emmett got up from his seat next to Ted and stepped closer to his younger friend, showing his support, as well as his own anger. "You really need to shut the fuck up now." 

"Who the fuck are you to tell me to shut up, Emmett? We all know that whatever problems Brian has, mental or otherwise, Brian has brought on himself with a lifetime of fucking everything with a dick and literally sucking down the entire pharmaceutical industry on a nightly basis! Christ!" Mel threw her body back in her seat in frustration.

Justin slowly rose and approached the woman he had thought of as a friend for so many years. He leaned in toward her, his nose nearly touching hers as he hissed, "You know FUCK, Mel."

"Yeah, right," she spit out.

"Brian didn't do a thing to cause the problems he's dealing with right now. Not a damned thing." Of course, Carl knew what the causes were. All too well. And he wanted to spit out the pettiness and cruelty he heard just now.

"Wait a minute, Carl. Mel may be right. All we have is Boy Wonder's word here. We don't even really know what's wrong with Brian." 

"Jesus Christ, Michael!" Justin laughed in frustration, simply not believing the incredible hatred pouring off of these two ‘friends' of Brian's, one full of hatred for Brian and the other full of hatred for Justin. "Do you even realize what you're saying? If Mel is right, then YOU have been pushing Brian into this since you were teenagers!"

"Fuck you, Justin!"

"Enough!" Lindsey stood up and moved to the center of the room. She was angry with her wife for being so callous with her words, but she wasn't entirely convinced that they were untrue. Brian had lived a very provocative life, one that simply screamed ‘danger ahead'. "We need to all calm down. This yelling and blaming will get us nowhere... Justin. Bottom line. When can we speak with Brian? We've been trying to contact him every day for the last week."

"You can't. Not right now."

"The fuck we can't, Justin." Michael's voice was low, angry.

"Excuse me." Mr. Orwin stepped forward. "I think this is where I should step in. As Justin mentioned I am attorney for both Brian and Justin. You have been told repeatedly, here today and on various occasions over the last few weeks, that Brian is not going to be addressing you, any of you, at any point in the near future. But I am addressing you. On the recommendation of Brian's partner and doctor, and having obtained sworn Affidavits from them, I am holding in my office motions to the court requesting Restraining Orders for Michael Novotny and Debra Novotny, as well as for Lindsey Peterson and Melanie Marcus, on the basis that your repeated attempts to contact my clients following their requests that you not do so, are interfering with the medical recovery of Brian Kinney and constitutes harassment. Should you attempt to contact Brian Kinney, Justin Taylor, or Cynthia Moore after this date, the motions will immediately be filed with the court. Believe me, we will obtain the Orders of Restraint. After that time, should any contact be made with any of the above mentioned parties, you will be arrested. Are we clear on this point?" 

"You goddamned assholes!" Melanie stood up and stepped toward Justin. Kaz and Carl moved to flank him.

"You can't fucking do this!" Debbie shouted. "Carl?"

"I'm sorry, Red. They have every legal right to do this. Believe me, this is much more complicated than you know." Carl crossed the room to take Debbie into his arms. He loved the stubborn, hot headed woman more than anything, but she had refused to listen to anything he told her. Brian needed them to stay out of things.

"You tell the great Mr. Kinney that he just lost any hope of seeing Gus again. I'll make sure of that. He can't threaten us with legal action one hand and still think he has any right to see Gus." As she put her arm around her wife's shoulder, she repeated to her, "I'll make sure of that, babe."

"Mel, what about Gus's future? This is his father!" The thought of writing Brian out of Gus's life had never occurred to her. It was not what she wanted. She and Melanie had fought so much over this very issue. She merely wanted Gus's financial future to be secured, for his legacy from Brian to be assured.

"Ms. Marcus, I would rethink that threat if I were you." Mr. Orwin stepped forward, toward Melanie and Lindsey, punctuating his statement. "As I understand it, Brian signed over his parental rights but continued supporting his son financially, which he would not have been required to do by any court of law. I am well aware of the amount Brian has paid during the course of Gus's life, and believe me, even if he had retained parental rights, the amount far exceeds what he would have been required to pay for child support. He has also, according to the financial records, paid for schooling, vacations and even repairs on the house owned by you and Ms. Peterson. The documents relinquishing Brian's rights as a parent were very precise - I believe you prepared those documents yourself, Ms. Marcus - in that there would be no monetary support due, expected or asked for from Brian for the minor child. Accepting, and at times even requesting such child support could be considered an informal contract, or even a nullification of portions of the relinquishment document." He paused for only a moment before adding, "And of course Brian is under no legal compulsion to continue any payments at this time. Is he?"

"That's all bullshit and you know it." Being the lawyer she had been, Melanie was well aware of the potential legal ramifications of accepting the amount of money they had accepted from Brian. At the very least, it could be construed as an agreement to allow a relationship to continue between father and son. She had not, however, in her wildest imaginings considered that Brian would ever force such potential.

"And you certainly know better, Ms. Marcus. As I said, I would rethink your threat." As Charles Orwin finished speaking Justin was left with two realizations - Lindsey and Melanie were not above using their child as a bargaining chip, and they were here for money. He didn't think his spirits could sink any lower after the weeks he and Brian had endured, but... well... he found out they could.

"You came here for money, didn't you?" Justin posed the question directly to Lindsey, no longer even bothering to pretend to like either woman. "You thought Kinnetik would be in trouble and you wanted to get money now. Christ, Linds. You would use Gus? Prey on Brian when he's ill? Who the FUCK are you, Lindsey?"

"I'm Gus's mother!" Lindsey yelled in response. Everyone in the room remained silent, watching the sad drama unfold.

"Fuck you!" Turning to the lawyer, Justin barked, "Make sure you file those motions tomorrow. Don't wait another day. And make sure you include one that restrains anyone of them from contacting any member of Kinnetik's staff about company matters." He stood up and walked toward the door. "Now this meeting is over."

"Justin!" Debbie called to him as he opened the diner door. "Tell me, why us? We have all been family, but you aren't punishing Emmett and Ted. Why us and why not them? I don't understand."

Justin walked over to Debbie and put his arms around her. He truly loved this woman, regardless of the problems she could cause. He kissed her cheek, hugged her tightly and then released her.

"Because they understand, Deb. Because for them, it is about Brian." As he turned to walk out the door, he sadly realized that his earlier wish for their understanding would probably never come true.

The fallout from the painful meeting at the Liberty Diner was harsh for Brian. The phone calls did stop. The attempts to see Brian did stop. But it was a bittersweet victory, as they all knew it would be. Telling Brian even a portion of what had been said was difficult, both for him and Justin. But Justin wouldn't compromise Brian's dignity by withholding the truth. He deserved at least that. They had gone through too fucking much, had come too far to jeopardize it with lies of omission. And the truths he heard from Justin, the reactions of Michael and Deb and Lindsey agonized him. But the threats of withholding his son... that rift, he knew, would never be mended. The betrayal of his two best friends - Michael's callous disregard for Brian's privacy and Lindsey's heartless manipulations of his feelings for his son - cut through him to the marrow.   

But the days passed with a steady focus on therapy and remembering and processing betrayals of every kind. With each new revelation of the weeks he had been tortured, Brian's pain was palpable. At times he gave up the fight to remain Just Brian Kinney and Justin learned to live temporarily with Trick or Sonny or Mac. Never Little Boy. That one was a special case, protected by the others even more ferociously than Brian had been and only seen during the most intensive therapy sessions. Little Boy lived in a loop of time consisting of a two week period, held in a heartbreaking repeat of torture from which he couldn't escape.

On the good days, the days when Brian was simply Brian, Justin would often hear him talking quietly to himself, or laughing at some unspoken joke, or closing his eyes as if in prayer. And Justin knew they were talking among themselves, bonding on a different, familiarizing level. Getting to know each other. Justin had come to respect and like the distinct personalities for their uniqueness. They were, after all, Brian. Parts of him, anyway. The scattered pieces of that Chinese tangram, finally fitting together and making the puzzle whole.

"Justin." Brian had been at the computer, intently searching for new information on DID. "Come here, I want to show you something."

"Nine and a half inches, cut? I've seen it." Justin teased.

"You've more than seen it, baby. You've sucked it." Brian rolled the chair over to his partner and gave him a passionate kiss. As Justin let out a soft moan and reached for his partner's cock, Brian pulled back. "Fucking after. Looking now."

With an exaggerated sigh, Justin followed Brian back to the computer. "Okay, what are we finding out today, old man?"

"Fuck you, Sunshine!"

"Make up your mind, Brian. To fuck or not to fuck." Brian slapped his lover's abundant ass.

"Seriously," Brian said and pulled Justin onto his lap. "I think I've found something."

Justin began to read the page on the screen and his eyes grew wide. He cocked his head and grinned at the beautiful, happy man holding him. "Are you serious? You're thinking about doing this?"

"Thinking about it." Brian's face grew serious as he pulled Justin more tightly to him. "I don't think I want to lose them, baby. They've...saved me."

Justin studied the article more closely. Living in cooperation with one's alters rather than integrating them. Jesus... Could Brian do that? Live the rest of his life with the alters? Could Justin do it?

"Alice and I have been talking about integration. What it means to me, to the others. It would essentially... kill them off, Jus. They would just fucking disappear. How can I do that? They... Christ! They kept me alive, Justin! They kept me sane all those years. They allowed me to live and I can't take their lives now. Not after that. I know it sounds crazy to talk about them like they are entirely different people, but I guess to me they are. I talk with them, laugh with them, cry... I just can't..."

"Brian, you don't have to convince me. This is your choice - your fucking life. And I owe them a shit load of gratitude, too, you know." He rested his forehead on Brian's. "I'm here with you, regardless of your decision, Brian. I'm here."

*******

Connie Simpson had indeed bailed himself out of jail as soon as possible. It took a couple of days for that to happen, thanks to some creative paperwork on Carl's behalf, and a few incidental charges laid over the original assault charge. He had contacted the corporate attorneys, essentially bringing his personal life into the company. To say that his father and daughter were displeased would be the most absurd kind of understatement.

And, Connie thought, it was all Brian Kinney's fault. Every fucking bit of it. He remained in Pittsburgh, seeking another opportunity to confront, and deal with, the little bitch. On the third day after his release, he sat outside Brian's Tremont loft. Waiting. He knew the risks. Out on bail, essentially stalking his ‘victim'. He laughed to himself at the word. Brian Kinney was no victim. He was goddamned property. Connie fucking owned him. He was a king and he owned Brian Kinney, and he would damn well have him.

As he sat in his car in front of the dry cleaner across the street, he watched carefully as Justin and Brian walked out of the building and got into the vintage Corvette. He knew the exact time they would appear. He knew the routine. It had been the same for the last two days. As he turned on the ignition of the car, intent on pulling out of the parking spot to follow the pair, a black sedan pulled in front of him. Cursing, he attempted to back out of the space. A white sedan pulled in tightly behind him. As he saw the uniformed man pulling himself out of the second sedan, he knew what was about to happen.

Fuck.

*******

Charles Orwin sat in his tenth floor office looking over the registered letter his paralegal had just handed him. A letter with a Canadian postal endorsement. As he opened the flap on the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper, two names - Melanie Marcus and Lindsey Peterson - jumped out at him in bold typeface. The couple had apparently petitioned the Crown for a peace bond to keep Brian and Justin away from Gus, and he was holding in his hand a courtesy copy of a motion commanding the appearance of both men at a hearing on the matter in Toronto in two weeks. Shit. He knew little about the Canadian couple, but based upon what he was reading, they apparently weren't above a bit of angry quid pro quo. Whether what they sought would be granted by the court, he didn't know, but the first matter at hand was getting around having either Justin or Brian physically appear. Facing either of those women, or facing a trip out of the country was the last thing Brian Kinney needed right now.

Shit.

He pressed a button on the intercom. "Sarah, get me someone who knows Canadian law."

"Right away, Mr. Orwin. And there is a Justin Taylor holding for you on line two."

Shit. Shit.

*******

Brian stood by the large loft window, his now ever present bottle of water in one hand and a crumpled court document in the other. He wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time lately, what exactly his past life incarnation had done to be thrust into this existence. Alice and Justin had gone to exaggerated lengths both in and out of therapy, to reassure Brian that all of the things that had happened to him in this life were just that - things that had happened. Heinous and horrible as his life may have been for the most part, he was slowly trying to accept the complex concept of the vagaries of fate. But when his mind ran through images of his son, all wide eyed and fresh and clean and innocent, wrapped in a soft blue blanket or forming a ball of Pla-Dough with pudgy and clumsy fingers, all laughing eyes and frozen small lips circling a blueberry sno-cone, he knew there was at least one good thing he had consciously chosen to do in this life. He had a son. And he loved him unconditionally.

He straightened out the crushed paper in his hand and again focused on one of the two names bolded on the official document. It may have been some kind of tenuous turn of fate that had introduced the woman into his life in the first place, but the bond that had developed between Brian and Lindsey through the years had been, he thought, unshakable. She would, he had known from the beginning of their relationship, always be there for him, always understand him, always be firmly on his side. Having that belief stripped away from him was as agonizing to his mind as rape had been to his child-body. But realizing that this woman he had trusted so deeply was capable of ripping his son from him in every way possible was threatening to crush him. Again.

God he needed to talk with Alice.

Somewhere behind him in the open expanse of the loft he heard the soft but obviously angry voice of his partner. I don't care what you have to do. There's no way Brian can go to Canada for that hearing... He's too important to me to take that chance... Just make it happen, Charles. Justin, Brian thought, had been through more than any lover - any partner - should ever have had to go through. And the only thing now, the only damned thing in Brian's life now that he was sure of was Justin.

Brian took a deep, cleansing breath and whispered inwardly, "Brothers, we have to take care of him."

He's part of us all now, Brother. We understand.   

*******

Connie Simpson stood, soberly taking in the now familiar process of the intake procedure at the Pittsburgh police station. He had been in here before and, at least on the surface, this time seemed pretty much be the same. Goddamned Kinney! Everything... every goddamned negative thing that had happened in Connie's life he could trace back to Brian fucking Kinney. But that fucking little bitch slipped through every damned crack he could find, and Connie was caught in the middle. Again.

The officer who had arrested him on Tremont had not been gentle. Connie's head sported the evidence of a rough entry into the back seat of the unmarked police sedan, and he had the crushing headache to go with it. He was again being fingerprinted, searched and left with no personal possessions. He was again being walked toward a holding cell. He was again allowed that one phone call. And he was sure he was again going to be posting bail. He would be out within a day. As the door clanged shut behind him he smirked and he knew he just had to be patient. It's just more waiting.  

"Kinney will pay for this, the little bitch," he thought to himself.

"What's he going to pay for?"

Connie looked at the two other men in the holding cell with him. They were... large. Both of them were muscled and leather clad - or rather what clothes they actually had on were leather. "Excuse me?" Connie questioned.

"You said ‘Kinney will pay for this', then you called him a little bitch," the deep, rough voice of one of the men clarified. Connie hadn't realized until then that his words were spoken aloud.

"I'm afraid that's none of your business." The dismissive tone in the words was evident to all as Connie walked toward an empty bench along the far wall and sat down, leaning back against the paint chipped wall.

The two tall friends of Brian Kinney sat down on either side of the well dressed man. Adrenaline began seeping into Connie's system as one of the men cupped his face with a large, calloused hand. "Aw, don't be like that, sweetness. You're all Clay and I have for entertainment at the moment," the man drawled as the other man chuckled lightly. "Now, tell us what the Big Bad has done to rain on your sunshiny day."

In the background, outside the walls of the holding cell, Connie could have sworn he heard a loud guffaw. He had no idea just how well respected Carl Horvath was at this particular precinct. Nor did he know just how creative the friends of Brian Kinney could be.

*******

Samantha Simpson sat behind the great oak desk, the same one her grandfather had sat behind as he forged the name of Simpson into something respected in Chicago. She listened to the cold recitation from the company lawyer standing before her, and not for the first time in her thirty-five years she was ashamed of her name. No, not ashamed of her name, exactly, just ashamed of the man who had bestowed it upon her.

"Do I post the bail?" The tall figure put one more note in front of the newly placed CEO of Simpson Steel and waited for her answer.

"No," came the sharp reply.

"No?"

"I am not going to use company funds on this. Let him figure it out some other way." Sam appeared to rifle aimlessly through a file before her as the lawyer waited, not knowing whether or not he was dismissed.

"Is there anything else, Sam?"

"Yes, actually. Terminate him. Find some way and get him off the company rolls. He has embarrassed this company, and me personally, for the last time. Make sure you have him locked out of the computer system and freeze any financial resources he may have access to through Simpson Steel." She looked up at the man. "That's all, Tom."

"Will do, Sam." He hesitated and then asked, "Are you sure about this, Sammy? He is your father."

"Yeah, well, he may be my bio, but I'm done with him, babe. Let's just say we won't be buying him a tie for Father's Day next year." She stood up and kissed the man gently on the lips. "I have to get ready for a meeting. See you later at home?"

*******

Cynthia answered the phone on the third ring without looking at the caller ID.

"Cynthia Moore."

"Cyn, Kaz here. I...have some information you should be interested in." The hesitation in his voice immediately put her on alert, her anxious thoughts going immediately to Brian's safety.

"How bad?"

"Depends on how you define ‘bad'. Simpson's in the hospital," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Shit! What happened?" Cynthia couldn't help the small grin that graced her face at the revelation. She didn't even try to keep the smug glee from her voice. Kaz understood.

"Officially? He sustained a severe head injury when he tripped and fell in a holding cell after he was arrested for breaking the terms of his bail. He's in a coma at the moment."

"And unofficially?"

"Let's just say his cellmates seemed to have some very fond memories of a particular night with one Brian Kinney."

Cynthia's laugh filled the otherwise silent room.

*******

"From what you are telling me the motion will most likely be denied, but if Brian and Justin don't appear... they could lose by default." The two attorneys toyed with the food on their plates. Sarah had lived up to her usual efficiency and had quickly found an attorney licensed to practice in both the U.S. and Canada. Charles had filled the young man in as they lingered over spicy shrimp and curried meatballs in the small Pacific rim restaurant.

"Do they have to appear in person?" Charles knew there was simply no way either man could risk the trip to Canada or the strain it would place on Brian's recovery.

"That would be optimal, but the Crown should be lenient given your client's medical situation. Just as here in the states, Canada recognizes that there are times when legal representation must suffice. But they will need to respond in some way or they will lose by default."

"And that would essentially be the nail in the coffin for Brian's hopes to see his son again." Charles sighed and pushed away the plate in front of him. "I've known Brian Kinney for years, Adam. He's always been ridiculously and blatantly unapologetic for his lifestyle and his actions. A lot of people resent that arrogant out, proud and loud aspect of the man. But he loves his son unconditionally, so much that he gave up his rights as a father because he thought that was best for the child in the long run. His concern for the boy and his complete trust of the mother, Lindsey, caused Brian to make one of the few big mistakes I've ever known him to make. He got nothing in writing allowing him access to his son."

"Yeah, funny things love and trust make us do, eh?" They'd all been there, Adam knew, in one way or another.

"Yeah. And they most often come back to bite us squarely in the ass. But... this is worse than any broken heart, my friend. The peace bond works like a restraining order, right? He would be restrained from seeing the child, from even talking to him on the phone... Can't let that happen."

Adam nodded. He didn't know Kinney and had never even met the man. But the horrific story related by his colleague wasn't easily dismissed. He could only imagine what a blow like this could do to someone fighting for their literal life.

"Charles, how about I make a little jaunt to Toronto, get reacquainted with the legal system there. Say, in a couple of weeks?"

"All expenses well paid, of course," came the pleased reply.

A few pillows of cumulus clouds dripped from the background, giving a patchwork feel to a perfect azure sky. Justin stood in the middle of the wide field, looking up at the windblown battle of the dragon and the phoenix, tails whipping wildly in the middle of their flight. The young man had to laugh out loud at the sheer absurdity of it all. The first day Brian leaves the loft for something other than a therapy appointment and this is what he wants to do. Jesus.

"Kites, Brian?" He yelled at the man running up and down the field. "You wanted to fly kites?"

"Why not?" Breathless, Brian stopped near his partner, making sure to keep his kite string taut, with just the right amount of give and take. "I've never flown a kite before... and Trick suggested it. Well... actually it was something in one of those songs he likes to sing, kites flying above the sadness and fear,"* Brian said, a touch of bittersweet in his voice. Then with a laugh, he added, "He's got a fucking song for everything."

"Yeah, I know," Justin responded a bit absently. He was awed by the graceful air dance being performed above their heads. Simple paper. Simple forms.

They had merely taken the first kites handed to them at the small Asian emporium. But the fates spoke once again. Loud and clear.

A dragon and a phoenix.

How utterly appropriate, the young man thought. He did feel like a dragon. Breathing fire to protect the man he loved. And Brian was certainly the personification of a phoenix - he had been reborn in the fire, had risen to a whole new life.

He watched Brian. The pure childlike joy on his face. No harsh lines or shadows of worry could be found today. He was a boy, doing something he should have been able to do as a boy. Justin listened to the light laughter as Brian fought a downdraft and struggled to keep his phoenix airborne. Brian was simply in the moment. No thoughts of past abuse or current struggles to cope or future battles to see his son. Just this one magical moment of pure freedom.

And a kite.

The changes in Just Brian, as they had both started to call this personality - the one they both considered to be the real Brian - were subtle at first. An openness about his own vulnerability. A simple, but previously avoided, term of endearment for Justin. A tenderness running through every touch, every word. Nothing earth shattering. Just... subtle. But the overall change, the cumulative effect of the understated, small differences astounded Justin daily. The walls were simply gone. The masks were put away. Whether it was the result of the crushing return of memories, the positive effects of therapy, the newfound connection with Brian's Brotherhood... Justin couldn't pinpoint a single genesis. But the Brian that Justin had seen flashes of from the first moment their eyes met on Liberty Avenue, the man Justin knew Brian could be - Brian was now becoming. Like the phoenix.

Justin reached down and tied off the string of his own kite, anchoring it to a stake in the ground and ran to wrap his arms around his partner. He simply needed to touch this amazing man.

"Promise me something?" he asked.

"Promise you what?" Brian leaned back into Justin's arms, soaking up the sun, the wind, the warmth of his Sunshine.

"Talk to me before you decide to act on any of Trick's songs about sex. He's got some strange tastes in music."

Brian roared with laughter before turning and kissing the boy soundly.

*******

The young attorney placed the file folder back into his briefcase and snapped it shut. He'd done everything he knew to convince the Crown that Brian Kinney was not a danger to his son. The evidence of any actual violence was nil, but the fact that Brian had voluntarily given up his child, that he had lived a ‘debauched' lifestyle, that he was suffering from mental illness all added up to a question of stability in the eyes of the judiciary. The Crown was leaning heavily toward granting the bond. But when presented with evidence of Brian's continual and generous financial support of his son, as well as Affidavits regarding the character of Brian from his doctor, co-workers, business associates and friends, the Crown decided that there was not enough evidence to take the last legal step in granting a Peace Bond. Adam Ritchie was surprised it had even been that close a close call.

Melanie Marcus approached the young man as he was leaving the courtroom. "The least he could have done was show up," she hissed.

"Ms. Marcus, you've made your attempt and lost. There is nothing further to discuss."

"Don't think this matter is closed, Mr. Ritchie. Brian still has no legal right to see Gus, and I intend to make sure he doesn't see him." She glared at the man standing cool and confident before her.

"That's your prerogative, Ms. Marcus. If Mr. Kinney should choose to take any further legal action on this matter, I'm sure you will be one of the first to know. As it stands, without any surety that visitation with his son will occur, I intend to advise my client that he should stop sending support payment to you or Ms. Peterson immediately."

"I assure you, Mr. Ritchie, that won't happen. One thing I do know about Brian Kinney - he won't stop supporting his son. That would make him look bad. And Brian Kinney is all about image." The smug look on the woman's face irritated the young lawyer.

"I said nothing about advising him to stop financially supporting his son. As I said, I will advise him to stop sending the support to you and Ms. Peterson. Good day, Ms. Marcus." With a final snap of his briefcase he walked away.

*******

Sam stood behind the man sitting at the window, both of them looking out over a small well manicured lawn. She was surprised that she felt so very little, under the circumstances. Well... if the truth was told, she wasn't surprised at all. A little sadden and disappointed that she wasn't able to feel more, but not truly saddened.

She had always believed in karma. Life rewards and life punishes. What goes around, comes around. And, lord knows, her father had certainly gone around. Now his karma was coming back to soundly kick his ass.

She could honestly think of no one who deserved it more.

"The stroke really did a number on him, huh?" Sam turned to wrap her arm around the waist of the elderly man who had spoken.

"Yeah, Grandad, it did. The neurologist said there was little they could do to stop the bleeding once the vessel ruptured. Apparently the fall damaged the blood vessel and with the pressure build up from the added trauma of medications and waking from the coma... Well, here he is, and in all likelihood he won't improve." God, she thought, she should feel something... more. But she knew that neither one of them felt much beyond a basic level of pity for a fellow being trapped inside his own body. Connie Simpson wasn't the kind of man who made people feel sympathy for him.

"I guess it's a miracle of some kind that he didn't die," the elder Simpson sighed. "Or a curse. Either way, all we can do is make sure he's seen to." Greg Simpson kissed the top of his granddaughter's head and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Come on. Nothing we can do here. Let's let the nurses take care of him, now."

He could hear them. Talking about him. I'm in here! Can't you see I'm in here! He could feel the sling of the wheelchair seat beneath his ass, the pressure of the blanket across his legs. He could see the variations of green on the lawn through the window, broken by small clusters of white and red where flowers were cultivated. Using every bit of willpower he possessed he willed his voice to call to them, to let them know he was here, he hadn't gone anywhere! I'm being held hostage by my own fucking body, goddammit! Listen to me!

The only sound that escaped the handsome face was a muted grunt. But there was not a single ear around to hear it.

*******

Brian's face paled as he heard the news from Alice and she could see the signs of his panic building. Justin had heard from Carl just a short time ago and knew that learning of the bastard's stroke would be almost as traumatic for Brian as facing him unexpectedly in the loft. Connie Simpson had been a huge part of Brian's life. He had called Alice immediately.

"He can never hurt you again, Brian. Never again." Alice's soft, calming voice was lost to Brian, drowned out by the agonized scream rising from deep within him. Little Boy had heard. Lost in that loop of excruciating torture, he had been held in place by the mere existence of three men. Two now dead, and the third as good as. He had lost his place. As evilly constructed as it had been, it had been his reason for existing. And he screamed.

The sound erupting from Brian's chest was nearly inhuman. As pain and agony and fucking relief flooded through Little Boy/Brian, their body curled into the now familiar tight ball - head resting on drawn up knees, arms wrapped tightly around. They rocked back and forth, keening that long, high keen.

Both Alice and Justin sobbed with them. It seemed an hour, and could have been, that they watched helplessly as the two gentle beings, so intertwined as one, expelled their demons. They both knew that at this moment Little Boy and Brian were gathering what comfort they could from each other - grieving for what could have been, anguishing for what had been.

And saying their goodbyes.

Little Boy could rest. His reason for existing was now over. He had protected Brian with his very being and was sacrificing himself to Brian's healing.

And Brian grieved so much for his little brother.

The poignant words of the softly breathed song coming from the man beside him broke Justin's heart again and again with every breath. He wrapped his arms around his partner, his own shoulder heaving with the pain as he listened to the gentle sing-song as Trick sang a eulogy - Fly, fly fly away. You let me fly so high. You, you, you, the wind beneath my wings.**

*******

Ted and Emmett sat quietly, sipping the herbal tea Emmett had prepared. Neither man knew exactly what to say, or even think, at a time like this. Neither man had any point of reference for the pain their friends were experiencing. They only knew they were in pain. Emmett had called Justin, hoping that he and Brian would be up to at least a few minutes of visiting with old friends. God, he had missed them, worried about them. When Justin told him about Brian's alter, he could hear the sadness and grief in the young man's voice.

"Teddy, I want so badly to do something for them. I just don't know what to do." Emmett reached up and wiped away at the tears that had been falling for the past several minutes. "God, losing a part of yourself. Someone dying, but not. It seems like science fiction, but... it's Brian's life."

"There's not much we can do, Em.  We just have to let them know we care about them. That's all." Ted was as much at a loss as his friend was, but he remembered Vic's death and what that had been like for Debbie. The circumstances were different in every possible way, but it was all Ted had to draw on.

"We need to let Brian know that we respect his grief, Teddy. Somehow. Whether it makes sense to us or not, he's lost someone. A bunch of flowers doesn't quite seem appropriate, though." He sighed a bit at the absurdity of this situation.

"Perhaps we should just let him know we respect what he's dealing with. He'll know we don't really understand, but we don't have to. Just let him know we're here. When he needs us we'll be here."

Emmett smiled, his face still wet from crying. "I love you, Teddy. You are a good man."

*******

Justin walked into the loft, laying the mail and the newspaper on the kitchen island. It had been two days since the ‘death' of Little Boy and Brian had barely said ten words. None of the alters had appeared, and Justin took that as a sign they were also adjusting to the loss of that brave young boy. Even having been present through every moment of this journey with Brian, the young man was still trying to cope with the intensity of the connection Brian felt for the others. Brian's reaction clarified for Justin the wisdom of cooperating and co-existing with the alters as opposed to integration. He couldn't imagine Brian surviving another staggering loss like this.

"Bri, let me fix you something to eat?" He knew it was little use, but Brian hadn't eaten this morning, and it was almost noon. But the man just shook his head and rolled over onto his side, facing away from Justin on the bed. Justin smoothed down the silky hair on the back of his partner's head, letting his hand linger just a moment. "I wish you'd just talk to me, Brian. Please... let me help you." He wasn't at all surprised by the lack of an answer.

For the rest of that afternoon Justin thought he would simply draw. While Brian was in the hospital he had begun a series of sketches of the alters - the brothers - but with the stress of coming home and the pain of therapy and the confrontation with Connie Simpson, his art had gone by the wayside. Brian had been his first priority.

He picked up his sketchbook and flipped through the pages, a bit stunned by the drawings he had already begun. They were all obviously sketches of Brian, but they were all obviously not. Trick, with the boyish grin and the apparent playfulness, his eyes dancing with a bit of mirth and a lot of mischief. Mac, so solemn and pious, eyes downcast and lips virtually trembling with the awe of the unseen. Sonny, anger simmering just under the skin, his eyes sharp, his lips drawn and taut, the muscles of his jaw and neck tensed in anticipation of a confrontation. And Little Boy. That rounded face of childhood held such haunted eyes, such pain and sorrow, arms wrapped protectively around his body. All so very different and so very much the same.

Looking at the images in front of him, Justin suddenly felt the depth of Brian's pain more deeply than he could have imagined. Brian had lost his childhood self with the disappearance of Little Boy. He had lost his brother-in-arms in a joint war. This was no ordinary grief. A part of his soul had died and there was no mourning site, no grave that he could visit to ease his pain, no group of friends with which to trade tales and shared memories. He was absolutely alone in this grief - except for the remaining alters. And Brian's withdrawal from Justin, from Alice, from everything external over the last two days made sense. The silence of the alters made sense. They were grieving. Together. Because they were the only ones who knew.

Justin put aside his sketchbook and walked back toward the bedroom, toward the loneliness of the man he shared his life with. As he lay down beside him, spooning his back and wrapping him in his arms, he understood that Brian would be back. He did need Justin, did love him. Right now he just needed his brothers more.     

The loss of Little Boy had deeply affected Brian and his brothers. He no longer referred to them as alters. They were his family, tied together by a bond even stronger than blood or love. They were joint survivors, creators of a different world, an alternate way of life. As Brian sat in Alice's office a month after that fateful day when he heard the news of Connie's massive stroke, Brian made their intentions known to her.

"We're not going to integrate, Alice. And I know your feelings on the matter. Lord knows, woman, you've made them clear enough." Brian smirked at the doctor who had led him through this strange valley. They had become close friends as well as doctor/patient, neither one of them caring a bit that it wasn't the most ethical move. It was the right move for them.

"Brian, do you realize what you are letting yourself in for? For the rest of your life?" She knew of the movement within the ‘plural community' to dismiss integration and she wasn't fond of the idea. "I know integration is a long, arduous process, but really Brian..."

"I honestly think we are in a better position than you are, Alice, to judge our ability to co-exist. We've decided." The look on Brian's face told the experienced doctor that the matter was closed. There would be no discussion on this.

"Okay... So, have you thought about the rest of what we talked about last week?" Brian's stability had improved to the point that they were now at bi-weekly sessions, one strictly focusing on his abuse recovery, and the other focusing on the DID and other life issues - work, his son, the loss of his friends and family, and coming out publicly with his diagnosis. If he was indeed going to live cooperatively with the alters, being open and honest would be absolutely necessary.

"We have." The doctor noticed his increased use of the plural ‘we' when discussing certain issues. She knew he wasn't talking about Justin. "First of all, I'm going to retire from Kinnetik. When we do come out it's bound to have a negative effect on many clients. I want the company and its reputation to be the focus for the clients, not whether or not we are going to start switching in the middle of a presentation."

"That's a huge step, Brian. Are you really willing to give up your business, the one you created?"

"Financially, we're set for life. Money won't be an issue. And the company is important... was important. It's less so now. There are other things in life that are much more important. And Cynthia and Ted... well they've not only run the place for the last few months, they've made it thrive. They can handle it... take care of it." He looked down at his hands, intently studying every vein and freckle. She could see this was not as easy as he was trying to make it sound.

"I want to fight to get my son back in my life. We want to travel with Justin, let him focus on his art and see the world for awhile. He's given up his life for us and we owe him that." He paused momentarily, thinking before he continued. "And we want to build a... foundation of sorts. Something to promote more awareness to the connection between child abuse and mental illness. Particularly DID. It is kind of the bastard child of the industry." He laughed shyly.

"Well, well... you don't plan on retiring at all, do you? You're just shifting careers!" Alice laughed along with Brian. "And that should be right up your alley, my friend. After all, from what I hear you are a hell of a pitch man."

She watched as Brian blushed slightly. This was a humble man. A caring man. The cocky lothario she had heard so much about, the Brian fucking Kinney persona, had never revealed itself to her, and she wondered if he had ever really existed. She recalled Justin, early on, mentioning the masks Brian wore - his protective armor.

No, he had really never existed at all.

"So," he began to ask quietly, "...how do we go about coming out as a plural man?"

*******

Justin stood at the kitchen island dicing and slicing vegetables for the dinner he was preparing.

"Shit!" he exclaimed and grabbed a cloth from the counter to staunch the trickle of blood from his fingertip. He hadn't been this nervous in the kitchen in years, probably not since he had first made that crazy jambalaya for Brian when he was seventeen. Even then he hadn't been nervous enough to slice his finger open. Running cold water over the admittedly small cut, he realized he only had half an hour before their guests would arrive.

Their guests.

Shit.

This was the first time since before he had gone to New York that he and Brian were having guests. Visits from Alice, as sometimes pleasant as they were, didn't count. She was his doctor. This was entertaining.

Christ. Brian was ‘coming out'... again. Justin had to laugh loudly at the image of this openly gay, unapologetically gay man coming out of the closet. But this was a whole other closet - and he wasn't coming out alone.

"I'm not sure I want to eat that if it's that fucking funny to prepare, Sunshine," Brian teased as he reached over the counter to grab a handful of carrots.

"The dinner isn't funny. The closet is," Justin said enigmatically.

Brian raised one eyebrow, looking questioningly at his partner.

"Never mind. It's only funny in my head. Why don't you open a bottle of that malbec to go with the beef."

"How many bottles of this stuff did ya buy?" Justin noticed the slightest hint of brogue in Brian's words. It wasn't Sonny, he knew. He could always tell now, even without the vocal differences. There was no change in posture, no change in attitude. This was Just Brian. But more and more he had taken on a vestige of Sonny's lilt in his own speech. The two had developed the closest relationship of any of the brothers.

"Only four. They were on sale."

"Christ, Jus. Ya don't buy wine because it's on sale! You churl!" Justin wadded up the towel he had been using for his cut finger and tossed it at Brian, hitting him squarely in the face just as the buzzer sounded.

"Don't think the bell saved you, young man. You will pay for this later." The young man in question laughed and stuck out his tongue. Brian kissed the blond head as he walked over to let their guests in.

*******

Adam Ritchie calmly ended the call, tossed his phone on the sofa cushion beside him and sipped his wine. He couldn't resist letting a small grin curl up the corners of his mouth as the thought of the frustration of the women who had been the subject of that phone call. They just weren't about to give up, but truthfully, there was shit they could do. And they knew it.

Melanie Marcus and Lindsey Peterson had, metaphorically speaking, shot their wads.

Upon his return from Toronto after quashing the attempt at obtaining a peace bond against Brian Kinney, Adam had advised his client to have a third party take possession of any support funds he presented for Gus Peterson-Marcus by creating a liberal trust to handle any of the boy's financial needs. Although Brian had wanted Adam to be that third party, they finally agreed that an intermediary easily accessible to the child would be preferable. Adam immediately contacted an old friend from university.

Clara Jacobson had experience in handling small trusts, with the added bonus of being a friend of the court social worker. Every bill for Kinney's son - every medical bill, tuition expense, clothing bill - was paid out of the trust directly to the provider only after receiving proof of need. The stipulation that particularly galled the boy's mothers was the requirement that the trustee meet personally with the child at least twice a month. Since there was no legal requirement for his client to even pay support in the first place, Brian could essentially attach any stipulation he wished. If they didn't agree to meet the stipulation, no funds were released. It worked.

Yes, the collaboration was working out well for everyone - except for Marcus and Peterson. They had apparently relied a little too heavily on Brian Kinney's money for their personal use. And the well had dried up.

Adam's grin widened slightly as he sipped his wine and thought about karma.

*******

The dinner had gone well. The food was delicious, the wine robust and freely flowing, and the company was supportive and loving. Brian's first foray into the world as a plurality was a success. Justin had wanted to make this first move on Brian's part as seamless as possible. Everyone he had asked to join them tonight already knew the basics of Brian's condition - his mother and Daphne, Kaz and Cynthia, Emmett and Theodore. He knew each and every of them would be proud of Brian's progress. Happy for him. And they were.

With the exception of Jennifer, Kaz and Cynthia, however, none of them had actually seen Brian during or after a switch, and those three had only seen it momentarily. Everyone knew the mechanics - the technical aspects of DID. Justin had made certain of that. But none of them had really accepted thereality of it. When Trick began to sing as they were sipping an after dinner wine, there was a tense moment - until Emmett recognized the song and began singing with him. After the two had finished the song, with an accompanying badly executed little dance, Justin made the introductions. Neither Sonny or Mac made an appearance. This wasn't their kind of gig, apparently.

Justin walked through the loft, picking up the last of the abandoned glasses and napkins, and turning off the lights.

"How did we do?" Brian asked, almost shyly. He seemed a bit awkward with the request for feedback.

"I think it was perfect," Justin reassured his partner. "Well... except..."

"What?" Brian's voice was apprehensive. What did he do wrong?

"I just wish that Trick was a better dancer than you," the younger man said as he stood on his toes to kiss his lover. "He can sing, but he can't dance."

"Jesus, Justin... You had me freaking out for a minute." Brian rubbed his face with his hands. "He really can't dance?"

Justin laughed as he led Brian up the steps to their bedroom. "No, dahling... He cannot."

"Hmmm... well, I know a dance you and I execute pretty damned well. Care ta join me?" Brian pulled Justin close, his fingers sifting through the long, blond hair, his lips trailing kisses along the pale neck. He was once again amazed at the pure beauty of this man, of the fucking strength he carried in that compact frame.

"Only... if I get... to lead," Justin gasped out, his heartbeat quickening, his hands burning over the skin beneath Brian's shirt. "God, Brian..."

Brian's lips met Justin's feverishly as hands unbuttoned, explored, undressed. "I'll follow you anytime, baby," he whispered into his partner's ear as they collapsed onto the low bed, each man overwhelmed with this powerful need to celebrate their evening, their bodies, their lives...to dance this oh so fucking sweet and frantic dance. Every step familiar and new, every touch erotically tender and demanding - they fucked and made love and they had been here so many times but still it was the first time. Again. Always again...

They breathed out the other's name as one, bodies sharing every nerve ending, orgasms crashing over them in waves of again and again - and they both knew it didn't matter who was inside whom. They just were...

*******

The thumpa-thumpa pulsed around and through the bodies of the dancers. It wasn't Babylon. That dream had exploded in a fury of anger and now lay in bits and pieces waiting halfway to its rebirth.

But Popperz thrived, bursting at the seams with throngs of dancing men. At least there was that. Emmett was pulled away from the safety of the bar by the driving heartbeat of the club, pulling Teddy along with him. The taller man smiled as he watched the surprisingly talented moves of the mild-mannered accountant.

"You know, Brian doesn't dance well even when he isn't Brian," he yelled over the thumping beat. "But, lord, I didn't know he could sing!"

"He can't sing. Remember that was Trick, not Brian," Teddy yelled in response.

Neither man noticed Michael in the wash of bodies nearby. The background gave way as the familiar name caught his attention. They were talking about Brian. They had been with Brian?  

"You were with Brian?" Emmett turned at the voice and the suddenly harsh pressure of the hand on his shoulder.

"Michael," was all the tall queen said. He had not seen Michael in more than passing since the horrific meeting at the diner weeks ago. He wasn't really interested in speaking with his former friend now. As painful as it had been - as it still was - that friendship boat had sailed and was clean out of the harbor by now.

"You were with Brian!" Repeated as an exclamation now. The hurt and irritation in the man's face was hard to miss.

"C'mon, Emmett, let's get out of here." Theodore didn't want a showdown with their former friend on the dance floor of a club. He didn't want a showdown at all. He held Emmett's hand as they made their way toward the exit, Michael unfortunately right on their heels.

"What? You are walking away from me now? Tell me about Brian!" Michael's words sounded out much too loudly as the group walked out into the nearly empty night.

"Don't even start with us, Michael!" Emmett spun around to face this man who had been his roommate and friend for so many years. Before... "You have no right to even speak the man's name. You gave up that right."

"Christ... It was a fucking mistake, Emmett!"

"That was no mistake, Michael Novotny. Betraying your best damned friend is NOT a mistake!"

Theodore grabbed his friend's shoulders, pulling him away from a potential fight. "C'mon, Em, I'm taking you home." Emmett stood still, just looking at the dark haired man confronting him. Slowly he nodded his head and started to retreat, Teddy still holding him.

"But nobody sees Brian these days!" Michael continued to whine.

Theodore halted his steps and turned around slowly. "His friends do, Michael. His friends do."

Michael stood, a resigned look on his boyish face, as he watched the apparent friends of Brian Kinney walk away.

Sonny looked at the young man beside him, wiping away the last of the shaving cream from his youthful face. The boy didn't need to shave as often as he did, and Sonny snickered - just a little - at the sudden image of this man/boy with a long flowing blond beard.

"Took me a bit ta understand what drew ‘im to ya."

"Shit! Sonny... I need to put a bell on you guys." Justin picked up the face towel he had dropped in the basin of water, wringing out the excess water. "Give me some warning, will you?"

He could tell Justin wasn't really upset, merely startled. Brian had chosen this man well. He was a very gentle minded, accepting lad, beautiful inside and out. He truly cared for his Brother.

"Our apologies, Justin. We should'a warned ya, but I asked Brian to let me speak my piece." There was a perpetually serious look about Sonny. He was always on guard, though Justin could see a slight softening in the face lately.

"It's okay. I'm... just still getting used to all this. I mean... um... it's not like we didn't actually meet each other years ago. I just didn't know it, then. I live with all these men, but I don't... Christ, I... it's okay, Sonny, really." Justin's face turned red. He knew he was rambling and he honestly didn't know why. Sonny had most certainly seen him without a shirt before. Hell, they'd fucked. Of that, Justin was certain. He had to fucking get over being startled when the Brothers showed up so unexpectedly.

"Brian is happy, Justin. Ya need ta know that. Even with all he's remembered, all he's endured... Ya make ‘im happy. That makes us happy." Sonny lightly touched the still damp hair on the young man's head. "Ya belong to all of us, now, yanno." Justin squinted his eyes and looked sharply at the man next to him, concerned. Sonny gave a small growl. "Not that way, lad. Unless... well, we'd all have ta agree for that."

Justin shook his head, his face growing more scarlet by the moment. "God, Sonny... I'd not thought about that. About what you need... Jesus!... I..." The young man drew the towel tighter around his waist and backed away slightly.

"Justin! Don't... don't ever be afraid of us hurtin' ya. Trick ‘n Mac, they aren't interested in any of that for their own reasons... and I'd never hurt ya, lad.Never. And I'll never put ya in danger any other way, either." Sonny's voice had softened, his gentle brogue lilting out, soothing. He saw the faint smile and nod of the bright head. "Yer all my Brother needs. I won't endanger that for either of ya. Protectin' Brian is what we are, Justin, it's why we are... We wanted ta thank ya, for understandin', for helpin' us to live."

"How the hell could I not want you to live, Sonny? You are all part of him, you are him." Justin traced the chiseled jaw with his hand, his eyes searching out the differences in this man. "So much the same and so different... I love him, Sonny, and I want him happy. That's my reason to live."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Sunshine. I love you, too." Brian's face beamed down on Justin, the strong brogue gone. "He loves you, too, and I'm... working on dealing with that. But you can trust him, baby. We promise."

Justin buried his face in the strong muscles of Brian's chest. "I trust you, Bri, and Sonny. But... right now we need to hurry. We have a date with Kinnetik."

Brian rested his chin on the mass of soft, blond hair and closed his eyes. What in the hell did he ever do to deserve this man? His heart filled with the light laughter of Trick singing - You must have been Gandhi or Buddha, or someone like that...*

*******

One could actually hear the silence as the two men walked through the double doors of Kinnetik, Inc. It had been months since any of these employees had seen Brian Kinney, the man they owed their jobs and livelihoods to. They all stood, mouths agape, surprised into silence not only from their boss's mere presence in the lobby after all this time, but by the way he looked. Gone was the dapper, Armani clad, untouchable executive they knew and feared. Walking in front of them, hand in hand with the beautiful blond at his side, was a very laid back man. His hair was longer and unstyled, almost brushing the shoulders of his light leather jacket. The tailored slacks and tie had given way to a beautifully fitted pair of distressed jeans and logo tee-shirt. They had all heard the rumors of illness, death's door... but this man was hale and healthy and beautiful. And looking more relaxed than they could ever remember seeing him. And... fuck... he was smiling!

"Good day, Mr. Kinney. It's good to have you back."

"Hey, Dorothy, good to see you again. How's the grandson?" Brian smiled a genuine smile at the receptionist greeting him. "He should be walking by now, right?"

Dorothy sat behind her desk, stunned for a moment. Had he ever asked her about her life before today? "Um... oh, yeah...he's fine. And walking, yeah." She felt like an idiot but... who was this man?

Justin chuckled under his breath, knowing that Brian had a serious reputation for being the typical driven and distant boss, totally unaware of his employees' names, much less the make-up of their families. The reality was always different, though. Brian had sincerely cared for his employees, knew who each and every one was, even down to their birthdates. He just didn't let them know that he knew.

Another mask. Gone.

"Glad to hear that, Dorothy. Take good care of him." There was a deep sincerity in Brian's words. Every child should be taken care of, adored.

"I will, sir. Thank you." The older woman smiled warmly back at this new and improved Mr. Kinney as his young partner pulled him along down the short hallway. She watched him with that smile still on her face as he disappeared through his office door.

"Brian! God, it's good to see you back in this room!" Cynthia gave him a warm hug. She motioned for him to sit in his place behind his own desk. He shook his head, opting to take one of the wing chairs normally reserved for clients.

"Thanks for inviting me to dinner the other night, guys. Justin, the food was wonderful, and where did you find that wine? I love it!"

Justin rolled his eyes at the mention of the wine, and stuck his tongue out at his partner. "Churl, eh?"

"Twat."

Cynthia laughed at the two of them, delighted by the lightness of their banter. It had been a damned long, hard trip for Brian up to this point and she couldn't be more proud of him. And purely happy for her friend. 

"So, Ted should be here in a couple of minutes. He wanted to get some financials together for you to go over, just in case you wanted to see how things are running." She paused when Brian held up his hand, indicating that the financials weren't really necessary. "Brian... what's all this about. Are you finally ready to take the reins again? I'll gladly give you back your saddle," she teased just as Ted walked through the door, files in hand.

"Brian, Justin. Good to see you both. And thanks for dinner the other night." He smiled, his eyes growing wide as Brian stood and pulled him into a warm embrace.

"You're both welcome any time. And bring Blake by. We haven't seen him for some time, I'm afraid." Now that Brian was ‘coming out' he was actually looking forward to expanding their circle of friends again. Some of them.

"Thanks, Bri. We'll plan on that." He leaned against the edge of the desk, laying the files down carefully. "So, what's up?"

"What's up is me," Brian smirked as Justin dusted his fingers across the man's arm in a light smack. "I was talking about my time here, Sunshine," Brian said, his voice full of mock hurt.

"As you can both see, he hasn't changed completely," the young man laughed and thought ‘thank god.'

"Seriously. My time here is done, guys. I'm officially retiring as CEO of Kinnetik." Brian watched as disbelief settled on the faces of his trusted employees. "I will still own the company, but Cynthia, Ted... I want you both to run it. If you agree."

"Brian...you can't be serious! This company has been your life!" She knew there would be changes, probably fewer work hours on Brian's part, but to leave the company altogether? Cynthia was stunned.

"This company was my life. Actually it was a refuge, a great place to hide. I don't really need that anymore, Cyn. I've... found other things that are vastly more important than making another dollar. I have plenty of those." Brian reached over and locked his fingers with his partner's. "You two, on the other hand, still have your millions to make. So? Full partners? Equally?" Brian pulled his lips between his teeth and turned his doe eyes on the two, batting his lashes flirtatiously.

Cynthia laughed and Ted cleared his throat. "Uh... that look never worked on either one of us, boss," he said. "And as attractive as you are..." he laughed this time, "...uh... as the offer is, I don't think either one of us is in a financial position to buy into full partnerships, Bri."

"Christ, Theodore. Always looking a gift horse in the mouth," Brian mumbled to himself. He stood up and walked toward the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot. His voice softened, humbled as he continued. "Ted, you and Cynthia have more than paid any price for what I'm offering you. In fact, I could never hope to repay you for what you've both done for me. For us. You picked up the gauntlet and ran this company when we disappeared. No questions asked - you both just did it. You honored our friendship with your trust in me. You..." Brian's voice broke. "You respected us. Our privacy, our wishes. And you are both more than capable of running this company. You two are this company now."

Cynthia walked over to her friend and employer. She took both of his hands in hers, bringing them to her lips and holding them there while she gathered her own thoughts. After a long moment she spoke. "Nothing that we did, Brian, was done for any other reason than that we love you and trust you. If you need us to continue running Kinnetik for you while you heal, we will do that. But neither of us had any ulterior motive for anything we did. We simply did it because you are our friend."

He took her in his arms, kissing her deeply on the lips and hugging her closely to him as he replied simply, "I know."

"There are so many things that Brian wants to do now," Justin spoke up, knowing the emotions running through his lover at the moment. "The past few months have been difficult, and his - our - priorities have shifted. This isn't a payment for services rendered, guys. This is a thank you. And a hope that you will accept that thanks."

Cynthia pulled back and looked deeply into the beautiful hazel eyes. "Okay."

"Okay?" Brian asked simply, reminded of another time when this play had been performed.

"I accept."

He tilted his head and looked at her questioningly as Justin hid a small smirk behind his hand.

"I accept your offer to run Kinnetik as a full partner," Cynthia finally stated.

"I accept as well, Brian. Thank you for the opportunity, for everything." Ted's eyes were uncharacteristically moist.

"Good," Brian stated, a wide smile on his face. "Then let's get this party on the road!"

*******

He really didn't want to do this, but he knew it had to be done. Coming off the emotional high he had received from his visit to Kinnetik, this seemed like walking into the lion's den. Maybe it was. Maybe he was setting himself up in a trap, but... he had to. And now was the time.

Brian looked over at the building he knew so well. Knew every picture on the wall, every stain on the tables, every line of the menu by heart. Strange that it felt so foreign to him. That was another lifetime, another Brian Kinney. That man hadn't cared about himself, much less about anyone else. This man cared. And felt. And hurt openly. And wondered if he could actually do this. He blew out the breath he forgot he was holding.

"You sure you've got Alice's number programmed in case we need it?" He gripped the steering wheel more tightly, laying his forehead against the hard plastic.

"Yeah, but we won't need it." Justin gripped the back of Brian's neck, giving it a small squeeze. "You don't need to do this today, Bri."

"Yeah, yeah, I do," he said, sitting straight up in the seat again. "No time like the present."

Justin simply nodded and reached to open his door. "Remember, you are never alone, Brian. Never."

Brian smiled at the reminder, and opened his door.

There weren't many customers in the diner and Brian thanked the powers that be for the small favor. He led Justin to a booth in the far back corner, away from the heavy traffic area, just in case.

"Oh, my god."

Justin cringed at the volume of the familiar voice. He had scooted in beside Brian, essentially blocking him from the main aisle, but the eager woman slid in across from them and reached her body over the table to smack Brian lightly on the face.

"Fucking shit, Deb. Stop that," Justin faced down the surprised woman as Brian backed away from her.

"You don't see us, allow us to see you for months, you even get a fucking restraining order against us. You should consider a little slap a blessing, asshole." Debbie's anger and hurt were present in every word she spoke.

"By the way, Deb, I'm doing better. Thanks for asking." None of them missed the sarcasm. Maybe, Brian thought, this wasn't such a good idea after all.

"Well, you certainly look healthy. From the reports of Sunshine here I thought you were sick as shit. Too sick to see your family, apparently." Ahhh, Deb, Brian thought. When all else fails use a little maternal guilt.

"Not everyone bleeds when they are dying, Deb. Some things you just don't see. This was one of them."

"So, what are you doing here?" Right to the point. Deb never missed a trick on that front.

"I..." Brian struggled to put his reason for being here into words, into some form that his surrogate mother would understand. "I came to see if I was right. Whether or not we'd made a mistake. Looks like we didn't."

"What exactly does that mean, Brian? We were your family. You shut us out. How was that right?" Although Debbie's hurt and anger were still obvious, her voice had softened. God, she loved these boys. Why didn't they just understand that?

"What we were going through, Deb, was... difficult. We needed the seclusion, the separation from the family and its demands. We needed total support. We didn't need to be reminded that I'm an asshole. We didn't need to be slapped in the face or hit on the head. We didn't need to be torn because this person was jealous of the time that person spent with us. We needed peace, Deb, not toxins. We needed our family to respect our decisions, not second guess them as if you knew better than we did!" Brian's voice got louder as he spoke.

"Of course we would have supported you, Brian. We love you. I love you. We only want what's best for you..."

"No, Deb... Justin told you, again and again what was going on. He told you what the doctors said was best. And you refused to listen to him. Ignored him at every turn. If you really... really wanted what was best for us, you would've listened to him. But it wasn't about me, was it, Deb? Was it? It was aboutyour feeling's. Just like Michael's... his betrayal was about his feelings. It was never out of real concern for me, for us." Brian rested his face in his hands, his frustration and sadness with the whole matter evident. Justin touched his partner's thigh with his hand, just reminding him he wasn't alone. Never alone.

"I would never hurt you, Brian. You know that..."

"I love you, Deb. Always will. But more than anything I needed you to believe in me, as something more than a punk kid you took pity on. I know you loved me, Deb. I do. But I've also learned how conditional that love always was. I had to be what you wanted, do what you wanted..."

"No, Brian, that's not..."

"Today, Deb...when you saw me today, what's the first thing you did and said?" He paused for a moment and then answered his own question. "You slapped me, Deb. It was light, I know, and didn't really hurt me, but it wasn't a hug from a concerned mother. You called me an asshole. Didn't even ask how I was doing. You were focused on your hurt feelings. Focused on you... not on me. Even when you knew I had been... ill for a long time. Toxic love, Deb. Conditional."

Brian could see the pain he was causing this woman, and he hated it. Hated it. The things Deb and done and said were just business as usual in their relationship. But time, medication, therapy...whatever... had pointed out to Brian just how unloving some love can be. He let his fingers touch Deb's on the table. He watched the tears roll down the face of this woman who was the only real mother he'd ever known, his own tears matching hers. "It's going to take time."

"Brian?"

Brian and Justin both stiffened slightly at the sound of the voice behind them.

"Michael," Brian simply replied.

"You look good." Michael had finally realized just what he had lost after seen Emmett and Ted at the club. Ted's words - His friends do, Michael. His friends do - had become a sick mantra, running through Michael's every waking thought. He understood. He was no longer Brian's friend, no longer part of his circle, his life. Michael still didn't accept his own part in the loss of that friendship, however. Like his mother, he was often too busy beating his fists against a single tree to recognize he was lost in a forest. 

"Thanks. I feel good." Without making eye contact with his former friend, he turned to Justin. "We should get going."

Justin nodded in agreement and stood up, backing away to allow Brian to get out of the booth. Brian stood and turned to reach for his partner's hand. His eyes met the brown ones he knew so well. The ones that had laughed with him and cried with him so many times growing up. The ones that had betrayed him.

Michael had betrayed him, and he had been stung by that betrayal. And suddenly every slight, every dismissal that had ever been uttered by Michael during their friendship was right there, burning at the edges of Brian's emotions. All the times Michael had allowed Brian to take the blame for his own wrongdoings, all the times Michael had urged Brian to continue on a self destructive and dangerous path, all the times Michael had manipulated him, all the times Michael had dismissed Justin and negated his relationship with Brian... Everything... Right There. And Brian knew Michael had never really been a true friend. He had been conditional as well.

The conditional Novotny's.

Brian's eyes said everything Michael didn't want to hear, until he couldn't listen to those eyes any longer. 

"Good bye, Deb." Brian said quietly as he clasped the hand of his partner and let the door bell punctuate his words.

Brian panted and lay back heavily on the downy pillows, waiting for his heartbeat to return to somewhere near normal. Damn, his ass was going to be sore. Their boy knew how to work it. We taught him well.

He watched as the light began to break through the drapes of the hotel room. He and Justin were due to make a speech on cooperative living with alters at a meeting of the Canadian Mental Health Association Toronto later this morning, and they had arrived at the hotel too late and too exhausted to thoroughly enjoy the oversized bed. They quickly remedied the lapse upon waking, however. Gliding his hand slowly over smooth white skin and hard muscle, he tenderly intertwined his fingers with Justin's. He fucking loved this man who had given up everything in his life to simply love him back.

"Jus?"

"Hmm?" Justin lazily tossed a sweaty leg across Brian's groin and buried his head in Brian's neck. He may still have a big youthful advantage, but after their late arrival and early wake-up, he was fucked out and fucking tired.

"Babe..." Brian hesitated, a bit uncertain as to how to preface what he wanted to say. "Ya know we're never goin' ta be completely okay, right?  We're...I'm... never goin' ta be that guy ya thought ya met under that streetlamp."

At the lilt of the soft brogue, Justin shifted out of Brian's arms and propped himself up one elbow. He gazed down at the joined hands, bringing them up for a gentle kiss before meeting the uncertainty in a pair of hazel eyes. Brian slipped in and out of Sonny's speech patterns more and more as time passed. They were the closest of the Brothers and it still bothered Justin a bit that he sometimes needed to decipher who exactly he was in bed with. The switching was so instantaneous, so seamless now.

"I know, Bri."

"We'd understand, ya know." The words were whispered so softly against Justin's ear that he wasn't completely certain they had even been spoken. A shuddered sigh. And louder now, "We'd understand if you stepped away, wanted ta find something... more for yourself."

Justin sighed. "One more time, Kinney... There could never be more for me. You...all of you..." Justin's words trailed off as he struggled to collect his thoughts, his words. He climbed on top of the man next to him, chest to chest, trying to connect them at as many physical points as possible. He placed a hand on either side of Brian's face, holding it in place, holding his gaze. He needed Brian to see the truth of his next words.

"I thought I fell in love with you that first night on Liberty Avenue, Brian. In a way, I suppose I did. But it was a very immature kind of love, all flame and flash and need and lust. It was a love based on a dream. A wet dream." They smirked at each other, and Justin blushed a bit at the thought of his own youthful naïveté. "I thought I knew it all then. But I had no idea, Bri. I had no fucking idea what real love was. I fell in love with an idea, an image. The ad man sold himself and I wanted the product."

"Hey, I was that good." A tongue in cheek smirk, a brogue dropped, and Justin knew that Sonny had ceded the body to Just Brian completely. Seamlessly. Brian wrapped his long leg around Justin and quickly flipped him onto his back, now hovering above the young man, but never breaking their eye contact.

"Yeah, you were. Still are. But you're not an idea, not an image anymore, Bri. You are more real than anyone I've ever met. Complex, beautiful, fractured, vulnerable, but with a strength and will that astounds me. I truly fell in love with Brian Kinney when I saw him fall apart and pull himself together again, time after time. When I saw him struggle just to survive. When he let me meet his Brothers... And I'll never let him go again. I love you, Brian. All of you."

Brian rested his forehead on that of the remarkable young man lying below him. With one finger he traced soft, full lips and then captured them with his own briefly. Pulling back, letting Justin see the tears and the emotion in his eyes, he felt he could finally breathe again.

"We love you, too, Sunshine."

"Enough to get off me and call room service?  We, love, have a speech to give in three hours. And then tomorrow?  A date with our Gus."

Brian grinned brightly at the mention of the boy. It had been a year and a half since he had last seen his son. At first, Brian was hesitant to actually file the legal papers seeking visitation. He had still felt so unstable in his new reality and worried about the psychological effects it would have on a small child. It took a full year of convincing by both Justin and Alice to change his mind. Adam Ritchie and Charles Orwin had been relentless in their work on his behalf, and the family court had finally - finally - agreed to allow limited visitation. Not the outcome they had hoped for, but it was still a work in progress.

"I guess you'd better give me that phone then, eh?" He kissed is partner and ordered breakfast.  

*******

The two men stood at the lectern, patiently waiting for the last smatter of applause to disappear, as they looked out over the large audience of doctors, students, counselors. Their story wasn't routine even in this company and the very novelty of it, the preposterous concept of non-integration was a draw to the psychiatric community. Justin smiled as he spotted the familiar face of Alice McCarthy sitting in the fourth row back, dead center. He nudged his partner and pointed out their friend, who they both knew was sitting there merely for moral support. She knew their spiel first hand. She had helped them live through it.

As the applause and chatter died out, Brian cleared his throat, taking a moment for the adman Brian Kinney to arrive. Part of their purpose was to sell a concept. And that the two men did well.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Brian Kinney. My partner, Justin Taylor and I would like to thank you all for the opportunity to speak to you today. We are both aware that the subject of our presentation today is a controversial one within the psychiatric community. Be that as it may, it is a reality that we live, every second of every day.

"Nearly two years ago I disappeared, literally and figuratively. It wasn't the first time I had disappeared, but it was the first time I had anyone who cared enough to find out why." Brian looked over at his partner. Justin smiled and lowered his head, humbled by the love shining from that hazel eyed gaze. 

*******

 They had come so far since that terrifying first discovery. But there was a true shitload of work still left ahead of them - ahead of Brian. A lifetime of it, perhaps. At least the Brothers fully communicated with each other. For the most part, they worked interchangeably and together.

Life wasn't easy by any means. Sometimes they battled. But they continued on and the co-existence became less complicated. Justin was still a little thrown by the development of his own relationship with Sonny. He had learned to love the Brother deeply - nowhere near the powerful feelings Justin held for Brian - but Sonny accepted that. The protective feelings Sonny had toward Brian would always allow him to gladly accept second place in Justin's life. They made it work. A unique type of polyamory.

Through it all, however, Brian had finally learned to proudly accept himself as he was - flawed, plural and loved unconditionally.

There were many losses along the way. Brian and Justin's relationship with Debbie was irreconcilably altered. They had hoped that with time something of that could be salvaged. But there was just too much pain, co-dependence, enabling and abuse involved to untangle it all and they drifted further and further apart. Michael's betrayal, of course, had struck Brian at his very core and they never spoke again after that last meeting in the diner.  Lindsey's own betrayal of Brian, and her manipulative use of their son in the process, had forever destroyed their close relationship - they communicated now only through attorneys.  In the process of all these alterations, Emmett and Ted had severed their ties to the original Liberty Avenue family as well. It was the end of an era.

And after all this time they all still mourned for their Little Boy.

But they focused on the future. With Alice's friendship and guidance they worked hard to regain their perspective - and to carry on one day at a time. And with the losses came wonderful gains. Emmett, Ted, Blake, Cynthia, Kaz, Jennifer and Molly, and Daphne had become a close knit family for Justin and the Brothers. They all accepted them and their non-conventional life unconditionally.

Brian Kinney never returned to the helm of Kinnetik or to his position as Stud of Liberty Avenue. He no longer felt that unparalleled drive to succeed in the corporate or the sexual world. He now knew these actions for what they were, sublimation of other drives and desires for control in his life, and the stresses they involved were counterproductive to his healing.  Cynthia and Theodore were more than succeeding with the company, industriously trying to fill their predecessor's rather large shoes. And there were more than a few studs trying desperately to fill their predecessor's rather large condoms.

The Brothers now channeled their drive into telling their story. Every. Chance. They. Got. In as many ways as they could tell it. They lectured about it. They wrote about it. With the help of Kinnetik, Alice, a few well-to-do investors, and a name proudly provided by Trick, Brian and Justin began Step out of the Ordinary, a foundation focusing on stripping away the stigma surrounding childhood abuse and the subsequent ways in which abuse survivors cope with their reality. With Mac's help, they had even convinced the religious community to provide sponsorship and training for clergy.

No, Brian Kinney didn't become an instant celebrity or a best-selling author.

But he was proud.

And he had stepped out of the ordinary.

And he could feel his soul ascending.

And he was happy.

Finally.

Proud : Martin Colin Sutton, Pixie Lott, Chris Neil

I look into the window of my mind
Reflections of the fears I know I've left behind
I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending
I am on my way
Can't stop me now
And you can do the same

What have you done today to make you feel proud?
It's never too late to try
What have you done today to make you feel proud?
You could be so many people
If you make that break for freedom
What have you done today to make you feel proud?

Still so many answers I don't know
Realise that to question is how we grow
So I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending
I am on my way
Can't stop me now
And you can do the same

What have you done today to make you feel proud?
It's never too late to try
What have you done today to make you feel proud?
You could be so many people
If you make that break for freedom
What have you done today to make you feel proud?

We need a change
Do it today
I can feel my spirit rising
We need a change
So do it today
'Cause I can see a clear horizon

What have you done today to make you feel proud?
So what have you done today to make you feel proud?
'Cause you could be so many people
If you make that break for freedom
So what have you done today to make you feel proud?
What have you done today to make you feel proud?
What have you done today
You could be so many people?
Just make that break for freedom
So what have you done today to make you feel proud?