Brian

Mired down with work projects during the week following the little slip-up in bed with Rick, I had no time to call him, which was good because I hadn't decided if I wanted to call him - or anybody else, for that matter. Being alone has a lot of benefits; best of all, it makes life uncomplicated. When a client presentation took me to Cleveland in the middle of the week, it was a chance to blow off steam in a new city. Cleveland is not exactly a gay metropolis but I knew I'd have no trouble getting some action.

As it happened, a waiter at the restaurant where I took my client to lunch Wednesday afternoon gave me the eye, and when the client excused himself to use the men's room, I took advantage of his absence to ask the waiter about the local nightlife. He recommended a dance club called The Grid on St. Clair Avenue, which turned out to be very much like Babylon, only a bit smaller. Surprisingly there is no shortage of hot guys in Cleveland and I auditioned a couple tricks in the back room, then brought one of them back to the hotel with me. Not the young blond, instead, I chose the tall dark haired guy close to my own age. Away from the dim lights of the club, he wasn’t as hot as he’d seemed, and I got rid of him after a mediocre fuck.

Now it's not quite eleven and I sit at the desk in my room sipping a beer from the mini-bar and watching images on the tv screen with the volume turned down. I have a client meeting tomorrow but not till ten-thirty. I'm bored and contemplate returning to The Grid but feel too lazy to get dressed again. Out of sheer fucking boredom and for no other reason at all, I pick up the hotel phone and call Pittsburgh.

I think about calling Rick but I'm not sure of my reception; in person would be a better way to gauge that situation. I think about calling Michael but he is liable to be in bed playing Batman-and-Robin with Ben. Holding the receiver to my ear, my fingers hesitate over the telephone buttons, and sort of by their own volition, they tap out the numbers for Justin’s cell phone. I don’t expect him to answer - though I don’t know why, he’s kind of a night owl; but when he does and when I hear his voice, I almost hang up on him.

“Hello?”

I could still hang up, he wouldn’t recognize the hotel phone number.

“Umm, Brian?”

How did he guess it was me? “Hey, did I wake you?”

“No,” he denies it, “I’m in bed, but I’m reading.”

“Ah,” I exclaim, “In bed with a good book! How commendable.” When he says nothing, I ask, “What book?”

“It’s a biography of Van Gogh. Did you know it’s really pronounced ‘Van Gawk?’”

“Rhymes with ‘cock.’”

Predictably, Justin giggles. I can picture him tucked up in his little single bed, pillows propped behind his head while he holds the book open on his naked chest. “Are you naked?” I ask, and he giggles again.

“Brian, is this an obscene phone call?”

I consider for a moment, take a sip of beer. “Yeah. Are you naked?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “But I can get dressed really fast if you want to come get me.”

“I can’t. I’m a million miles away. In Cleveland.”

“Business trip?” I can hear rustling as if he’s sitting up in bed. When I agree, he says, “There must be a gay bar even in Cleveland, why are you alone in the hotel? Are you alone in the hotel?”

“Now I am. I wasn’t alone before, but I’m alone now.”

“A duddy?” Justin asks, making me smile. Duddy was his name for guys we’d brought home for a three-way that turned out to be losers. Sometimes we even forgot they were there.

“Yeah,” I admit, “I was choosing between two and I picked the wrong one.”

“Poor Brian. Hold on.”

I wait, and I can hear snuffling noises, Justin is blowing his nose. When he comes back on the line, I sigh, “Are you crying for me? All alone in Cleveland with a raging hard-on.”

“Actually, it’s my allergies. I sat next to some freaky old lady on the bus today who was wearing about three bottles of perfume.”

We’re quiet for a moment, then I hear myself asking, without my permission, “So, did you make up with your new boyfriend, what’s-his-name, Jamie?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. Did you make up with Rick?” When I don’t answer, Justin sighs. “Don’t ask nosy questions if you don’t want to be asked nosy questions right back.”

“So who is this guy anyway?” I shake my head, wanting to smack myself for doing this, why am I doing this? But I’m waiting for his answer.

“Brian, he’s just a guy. He’s in my graphics class.”

“PIFA must be loaded with queers. All you artsy types.”

“There’s a lot,” he admits. “Were there lots of queers at Penn State too?”

“I don’t know. A few.”

“Did you have a lot of boyfriends in school?”

We are NOT going there. “I asked about Jamie. Is he hot? If you’re done with him, can I have him?”

Justin laughed. “You’re not his type.”

“Fuck you, I’m everybody’s type.” I go over to the mini-bar and take out another beer, twist off the cap.

“I heard that,” Justin informs me pompously, “Another bottle of beer! Drinking alone is a really bad sign, Brian.”

“I’m not alone, you’re with me,” I reply, taking a long swallow of beer, the bitterness tingling the edges of my tongue.

“Wish I was,” Justin answers quietly.

Me, too. But I won’t tell him. Then I tell him. “Me, too.”

There’s silence for a few moments, then Justin asks, “When are you coming home?”

“Tomorrow, Thursday.”

“Maybe. . .” Justin hesitates, then says in a rush, “Maybe we could get together. Maybe I could cook dinner for you, at your place.”

“You haven’t done that for a long time,” I hedge.

“I just learned how to make quiche.” When I say nothing, he hurries on, “Mom and I made it last week, it was really good. With spinach and cheese. You like spinach.”

“Yeah,” I admit.

“Well,” he says, a bit impatiently, “Do you want me to, or not?”

No, I don’t. I’m just getting back to my comfortable, uncomplicated life. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Okay.”

“I could go over to your place after school, and have it ready when you get home.” When I say nothing, he adds quickly, “If it’s okay to use my key? I mean, the key I still have.”

“I don’t know what time I’ll be home.”

“Quiche can wait, it doesn’t go bad.”

For a moment I’m quiet. I don’t know how I got into this. I don’t want Justin to come over, to cook me dinner, to maybe spend the night. That’s too much like it used to be. We can’t go backward, things have changed too much. The best thing is just to tell him no. I can say no, it’s easy.

“Brian. . . never mind.” His voice is cool. “I need to work on a project tomorrow night anyway.” When I say nothing, he adds, “And I’d better go now, it’s late.”

“I’ll try to be there by six.” When he’s silent, I go on, “Open a bottle of the French Chardonnay. There’s a new case in the store room.”

“Okay. If you’re sure you want me to come over?”

Damn. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Justin says again. “It’s a date.”

“It’s not a date!”

Justin laughs. “You’re so hung up on WORDS. See you tomorrow. I need to sleep now.”

“Bye, Justin.”

“Bye.”

I hang up the phone and shake my head. How did that happen?



Justin

Why do I try so hard with Brian? Sometimes he is such an asshole, why do I want to be with him? Well, I don't exactly want to be with him. I just kind of need to. I just kind of need to be near him. It's not sex. Well, some of it is sex. Brian practically ruined me for having sex with other men.

Not that I don't like sleeping with other guys, I do. Sex with Ethan was beautiful, it was real love-making. Brian and I have made love lots of times (though he'd never admit it), but a lot of the time it's just fucking. With Ethan, it was always love-making: gentle, sweet, emotional, loving. It can be like that with Brian sometimes. But with Brian, it can also be hard and violent and almost unbearably urgent. He can push me way past what's comfortable and safe and pleasurable, way beyond that, to screaming fucking ecstasy. It's never been like that with any other man.

But if it was just sex, I could walk away. I really could. In fact, I did walk away from Brian, when it seemed like that was all it would ever be when I finally just gave up on him. I don't know for sure that anything's changed, but it feels different now. Maybe I'm just imagining it, though. Maybe I just want it to be true. Michael was always telling me that Brian will never change, yet Brian's changed a lot this past year. Michael can't see it, but I can. And not just because I want to.

The thought of seeing Brian tomorrow chases all sleepiness away from me. I put aside my book, turn off the light, and snuggle down in my blankets, trying to fall asleep. Instead, inside my brain, I’m shopping and cooking and filling Brian's loft with the scent of delicious home-made quiche, just for him. For us, dinner for two. I make a mental note to stop for flowers, to put on the table. Or maybe that would be too romantic? Then I shake my head, too bad. Too fucking bad. I'm not going to walk on eggshells for Brian anymore. I'm not going to be careful of everything I say, everything I do. I won't dissolve my personality, not for Brian, not for anybody.


Brian

My flight gets into Pittsburgh at two and when I pick up the jeep at the airport, I drive straight to the office, Vance wants a report on the Cleveland client before five. I give Cynthia the disk from my laptop and let her go to work fixing it up; I know it will be perfect. If she ever leaves the agency I’ll be up shit creek, it sucks how much I depend on her. And it sucks that she knows exactly how much I depend on her.

After I sort through a few dozen e-mails, I call my home phone to check for messages. There’s one from Clare, whining about the boys’ school fees; there’s one from Linds inviting me for dinner Sunday; there’s a couple sales calls; and the last message is from Rick.

“Hey, it’s Rick.” His voice is subdued. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, that you know, sometimes people say weird stuff during sex, and. . . and I want to apologize for telling you to fuck off. I was mad and. . .and I’m sorry. So, if you want to get together again, give me a call.” He hesitates, then adds, “Well, umm, goodbye.”

I check the time and date of the message, he’d called Tuesday night and today is Thursday. He must have decided by now that I wasn’t going to call him. It’s the perfect time to cut him loose. Do I want to, or not? I don’t know.

Apparently, I don’t, because I’m dialing his number. Luckily he doesn’t answer so I can just leave a voicemail. “Hey, it’s Brian. I’ve been out of town on business and I just got your message. Maybe we can hook up this weekend, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” I hang up the phone and sit there staring at it for a long time. I have no idea what I’m doing with Rick. I’ve got enough complications in my life. Glancing at the clock on my desk, I see that it’s quarter to four. One of those complications is probably unlocking the door to my loft right this minute.


Justin

I have to set down the shopping bags so I can use my key to open the loft door, then quickly turn off the alarm. The first thing I do is find the heavy crystal vase I like, arrange the bouquet of flowers I bought and set it on the table. Then I unpack my groceries and gather all the quiche ingredients on the counter. Glancing around the loft, it’s hard to believe that I lived here for almost a year, there’s nothing of me anywhere.

I like cooking. Mom says that’s because it’s creative, and in a way, it is sort of like drawing a sketch or painting a picture. You put yourself into it, even if you’re following a recipe, you’re making something with your hands, and good cooks put their heart into it too. It makes a difference for me somehow when I know I’m cooking for Brian. It’s this enormous pleasure to make something with my hands that I know he’s going to enjoy eating. He’s such a fanatic about his weight, but he bends his rules slightly for the dinners I make for him. When I lived here he only let me cook dinner once a week or even less, otherwise, he said he’d soon have a pot belly and jowls. I can't imagine Brian with jowls.

The quiche goes together quickly, it’s really very easy to make, and I put it in the oven so it will be done exactly at six o’clock. It needs to set a few minutes at least, and it really can keep a long time and be reheated, in case Brian’s late. I make a small salad, then go to get wine from the storage room next to the elevator.

It’s small and very crowded with all the stuff that would mess up Brian’s minimalist loft – the washer and dryer, vacuum, floor polisher, the case of wine, extra paper towels, and toilet paper, and a stack of boxes of Brian’s things. I don’t know what’s in them. He’s not a sentimental man so I don’t think he’d keep anything he doesn’t need, and he throws away anything that’s even slightly worn out. He never told me to stay out of his stuff but I’ve always known better than to go snooping. Well, once I lifted the lid on the top box but all I could see inside were textbooks, high school or college, I couldn’t tell. Why would Brian keep old schoolbooks? That was the only time I snooped when I lived here, though Brian let me play around on his computer. Or anyway, he knew I did, and he never told me not to.

Besides the case of Chardonnay, there’s a plain wooden wine rack attached to the wall, filled with mixed bottles, red and white. Brian knows a little bit about wine, but he’s not a snob – he says, if it tastes good, drink it. Brian knows about a lot of things but he doesn’t show off – I never even knew he spoke French till he took me to dinner in Harrisburg. I wish he’d talk to me about the time he was in college, I’d like to know about his classes and the guys he dated and I sure would like to know who it was that broke his heart. Who it was that made Brian climb that building and think about jumping off. Once again I’m wondering why Brian took me with him to Harrisburg. I wonder if he’ll ever tell me?

I open the wine, set the table, and then go and sit down cross-legged in front of the CD player, sorting through a stack of jewel boxes to find nice background music. He’s got a little of everything, and I pick out a few classical CDs. I never knew much about classical music till I met Ethan, I’ve always been more into rock and hip-hop and trance. Now I can tell Beethoven from Mozart at least. I load several CD’s into the turntable and set the volume low. Then I hear the loft door pushed open, and glancing over my shoulder I smile at Brian and say, “Hey, you’re early.”

He drops his keys and laptop on the desk and walks into the living room, leaving his leather suit bag on the sofa. “Hey,” he says, reaching down a hand to pull me to my feet. I just sort of melt against him and he circles me with both arms. “Hey,” he says again, and we kiss. Then the timer dings and I pull away, hurry to the kitchen to take the quiche out of the oven. He’s right behind me and says, “Mmm, smells good, I’m starving.”

“Go change your clothes,” I tell him, “Dinner’s almost ready.” Brian grabs his suit bag from the sofa and goes up to the bedroom to put away his clothes and change from his suit into jeans and a white tee. He’s barefoot as always – summer and winter - when he comes back to the kitchen. “You can pour the wine,” I tell him, “Then we’re ready to eat.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Brian says agreeably, grabbing a dish towel from the counter and folding it over his arm before he lifts the bottle and pours an inch of wine into a glass. With a raised eyebrow, Brian hands me the glass to taste.

“Mmm,” I say appreciatively, trying to look blasé. “It’s an unpretentious little wine,” then I hold the glass up to the light and close one eye to look closely at the Chardonnay I’m swishing around in the glass, “With good color and clarity, and just a hint of sophistication.” Then I sniff the wine and say, “Ahh, it’s got a great nose.”

Brian chokes on a laugh and grabs the glass from me, sets it on the table and pulls me into his arms. “You’ve got a great nose,” he growls, “And – “ he runs his hands down my back and squeezes my butt, “And, what’s more important, a great ass.” Then he pushes me away and demands, “Let’s eat, I’m starving.” He finishes pouring the wine and I bring the quiche to the table and cut it into wedges.

Brian eats two pieces and then sits nibbling on his salad while he watches me eat most of the rest of the quiche. “The French eat salad last,” he tells me, “To cleanse the palate.”

“Why do you need to cleanse it?”

Brian puts down his fork and leans back in the chair. “To prepare for the dessert course. What’s for dessert?”

“Ice cream,” I answer, through a mouthful of quiche. “Your favorite, chocolate chocolate-chip, from Danelli’s Creamery.” I push back my chair and stand up. “I’ll get it right now.”

“No,” Brian stops me, “Save it for later. Sit down and eat.”

I sit back down but say, “I think I’m full.” I’ve eaten most of the quiche and two bowls of salad. Only one glass of wine, so I don’t get sleepy. Because I hope Brian’s going to give me a reason to stay awake after dinner. “Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” he admits, “It wasn’t bad.”

“Wow,” I exclaim, “The highest compliment!”

"C'mon," he ignores my jibe and gets up from the table. "I'll help clean up," and together we carry dishes to the kitchen, put things away and load the dishwasher.

I put the last of the leftovers in the fridge and close the door. "Ready for dessert now?" I ask, with one hand on the freezer door.

"Yeah," Brian murmurs, "But what I want isn't in the freezer." He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me close, and my arms automatically slide around his neck. "Hey, little boy," he murmurs, "Wanna fuck?"

"Yes, please," I manage to answer before his mouth covers mine and I'm caught up in the fiery maelstrom that is Brian Kinney in major fuck-mode. When I come up for air, I realize that we're in the bedroom and he's pulling off my clothes, almost ripping them in his hurry. I get my hands under his tee shirt and try to pull it off, the touch of his skin under my eager fingers is almost unbearably exciting. Then he shoves me over the ledge into the middle of the bed, and he jumps right on top of me, straddling my hips and pulling off my shirt. My hands are lost in his twisted tee and he rips my hands loose, grabs his shirt and pulls it off over his head, tossing it over the side of the bed as he lunges his body downward onto my bare chest, and his lips attack my mouth again, I can hardly catch my breath. He grabs my hands and holds them prisoner on the pillow on either side of my head. "I want to be rough," his voice is harsh, almost a growl. "Say yes or no."

I can hardly breathe, but I manage to draw a shaky breath and gasp, “Yes.” His eyes get that hard glittery gleam of excitement I remember, we’ve done this a few times before, and I feel my body shiver in anticipation. He feels it too, and he laughs, deep in his throat, a thrilling sound that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. My cock’s standing up, too, and I shiver with almost unbearable excitement.


Brian

When we come, our bodies almost explode apart, and we fall onto the bed sweating and gasping for air, nearly dead from the most amazing pleasure in the whole fucking world. I have to wait a few minutes until I can speak, then I roll over and lean above Justin, propping my head on my hand as I look into his eyes.

“You okay?” I ask seriously, and he nods, he’s still breathing heavily but he’s with me. Christ, is he with me, my God. I’ve had rough sex with lots of men and some of them enjoyed it as much as me, but never have I been with anybody who arouses this absolutely crazy animal lust in me, as this boy, this man, did tonight. As he’s done several times before.

“You’re. . . amazing,” I tell him, reluctantly. Reluctantly, but he deserves to hear it.

He smiles and reaches for me, I bend down and kiss him gently on the mouth.

“Remember the first time?” he asks, and I do.

“New York.” I throw myself down on my back, slip off the condom which – amazingly – hasn’t broken and toss it in the wastebasket beside the bed, then Justin moves over close beside me, throws an arm over my chest and rests his head on my shoulder.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my chin.

“Go to sleep,” I tell him, “Stay tonight.” I want him to stay, I want him to sleep beside me.

“Can’t,” he answers softly. “I have to finish a project that’s due tomorrow. Will you take me home?”

“Okay.” I’m disappointed. “But not yet.”

“Not yet,” he agrees drowsily, and I feel him slip away into sleep, his muscles let go and he’s completely relaxed lying beside me. I can tell I’m not far behind him in falling asleep, but I order myself to wake up in an hour, and I do.

“Justin,” I shake his shoulder; he hasn’t moved an inch in his sleep. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?” his eyes struggle to open and he smiles at me. “I’m really here,” he says, still half-asleep, and something in the way he says it twists my gut. Realizing that he wants very much to be here with me.

And I want him to be here. But I don’t want him to be here. Both at the same time.

“I’m cold,” Justin shivers, so I reach for the comforter and pull it over us. “Have to go home,” he says.

“Soon.”

We’re quiet for a moment, then Justin says, “Brian, I need to ask you something. Probably you won’t answer, but I need to ask, anyway.”

Immediately I’m wary, and I pull away slightly so I can see his face. “What?”

“Who’d you have dinner with at that French restaurant?”

“In Harrisburg?” He says yeah and I consider answering. I never think about the past, and I absolutely never talk about it, to anybody. Not – the important stuff anyway. So I have no intention of answering Justin. And yet I do.

“A Frenchman. Henri. He was in Harrisburg on business.”

Justin nodded. “I know you didn’t love each other, you told me already. But somehow that was a happy memory, and I just wondered, why?”

I think for a moment, remembering Henri, remembering his kindness to me, his generosity, his gentleness. I was Justin’s age, nineteen, when I had my little affair with Henri.

“He was – a good man,” I say at last.

“You liked him, a lot.” When I nod, Justin goes on, “So when he left, you must have been very unhappy?”

That pulls me up short. So that’s it. Justin wants to find out why I’d been suicidal, why I’d climbed to the rooftop and planned to jump off. Of course, it is none of his fucking business.

Except that, I had dragged him back there with me, for reasons that still are not clear. I took him up on the roof and I let him into that secret part of me that I’d never told anyone about, not even Michael.

“It wasn’t him.”

“Who was it, then?”

I lie still, unmoving, wondering why I’m not cursing out Justin for being so damned nosy. Then I throw back the covers and slip out of bed, grab my black silk robe and tie it around me. I head into the living room, aiming for the liquor cart, but instead, I make a ninety-degree turn, go to my desk and grab my keys, then slide back the loft door and go out across the hall into the storeroom.

When I come back a few minutes later, Justin is sitting up in bed and he watches my face as I approach and sit down on the ledge beside him. I shove a piece of paper into his hands, and he looks down at it.

It’s an old photo. A photo of me and James, our arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing for the camera. I can’t believe I kept that picture. I can’t believe that I remembered that I kept that picture. And I really can't believe that I'm showing it to Justin.

He glances at the photo and back at me. “You’re even more beautiful now,” he whispers, and I almost laugh but I realize that he means it sincerely. I say nothing.

“What's his name?”

“James. And no more questions about him. Ever.”

“Okay,” Justin nods solemnly. Then he drops the photo on the bed, rises up on his knees, puts his arms around my neck and hugs me. Wordlessly, thank God.

“I’m taking you home now,” I tell him, and I hear the gruffness in my voice.

“Okay,” Justin agrees. He pulls away from the hug, and then he whispers, “Thanks, Brian.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me,” he says, and we look into each other's eyes for a long moment; then he turns away and slides off the bed, wandering around picking up his clothes off the floor and putting them on.

I get dressed too, and we’re quiet as we leave the loft and head downstairs to the jeep. The streets are crowded with traffic, there was a big game tonight, so I make a left onto Jackson and head for the freeway.

Brian

Pull-to-the-right-hit-the-gas, pull-to-the-right-hit-the-gas, pull-to-the-right-hit-the-gas!

The phrase repeats over and over in my head, sing-song, sing-song, I can almost see the words spinning around and around in circles, spinning and spinning, and loud, too loud, ear-piercing-loud, almost like the wail of a siren.

Wait. It is a siren. I think it's a siren.

My eyes are closed, but through my closed eyelids, I'm aware of bright light, painfully bright. One of my eyes is pried open and a light as bright as the sun pierces my vision. Behind the blinding light I can see darkness and strange shapes, moving shadows and shapes, and gradually I become aware of voices, murmuring voices, shouting voices, calm voices, and hysterical voices. I don't want to be here and I try to go away, but the voices won't let me.

"Stay with me," one voice says, and "Give him some oxygen, keep him awake," another voice says.

"Try to stay awake," the first voice tells me and "No," I refuse, but I can't make a sound. Inside my head, I'm shouting, but I can't make a sound. I want to go away, but the voice won't let me. I try to raise my arms, to push away the shadowy-shaped demanding voice, but I can't move my arms.

"Don't move, sir, stay still. Open your eyes, can you do that?"

I can but I don't want to. There's bright lights and shadowy shapes and something unbearably frightening right outside my awareness, I don’t want to see, I don't want to know, just let me go away for a while, I can open my eyes later, later, not now.

"Sir, open your eyes." I try to shake my head no, but I can't move my head, and when I feel something pressing down over my face, smothering me, finally sheer terror forces my eyes open.

"It's okay, relax," the voice tells me, "It's just oxygen, we're giving you some oxygen, breathe deeply, relax."

Now I can see the face of the voice, it's a man I think, or maybe it's a woman, I can't tell, somebody in a white uniform, and I become aware that the pressure on my face is a clear piece of plastic. It's an oxygen mask. The voice's hands press against my shoulders, making me lie back, and I take a deep breath, then another, of air pushing through the mask, and it's making me wake up, making me wake up and I don’t want to wake up.

"What?" I try to say, but my mouth isn't working right and it sounds like "Whuck?" I blink and take another deep breath, there’s a weight on my chest, it’s hard to breathe.

"There's been an accident," the man-or-woman voice tells me, "You're hurt but we're taking care of you now, it's important for you to stay awake, okay?"

"Hurk?" I don't feel hurt. "Whuck?"

The man-or-woman is busy doing things to me and doesn't answer. Gradually I become aware that I'm lying on the ground, on some kind of board on the ground, I'm strapped to the board. It's dark all around except for lights, white lights and red lights and yellow lights, some of them blinking on and off, and the monotonous loud scream of the siren is driving me mad.

"Whuck?" I demand again, my voice is louder, and the man-or-woman turns back to look at me.

"Whuck?"

"You were in a car accident," the person says, "You were hurt but you'll be okay, we're going to take you to the hospital."

The information stuns me, silences me, and I strain to look around me, I can make out shapes of cars parked at strange angles and I realize that I'm lying on the verge of the roadway. I was in a car accident and I'm hurt. I feel nothing, nothing at all, except for the pain in my ears from the wailing sirens.

Suddenly I feel my body go stone-cold, suddenly an unbearable fear grabs hold of me, and once again I struggle against the straps tying me to the board, and I try to get the man-woman's attention. He-she turns back to me, once again pressing my shoulders and murmuring, "Lie still sir - "

"Juckin?" I demand, my voice getting stronger, "Juckin? Juckin? Juckin?"

"Let me go!" I hear his voice coming from behind the man-woman's shoulder. "Let me see him, damn it!"

Suddenly over the man-woman's shoulder, I see his face, Justin's face, like a moon rising in the sky behind the man-woman's shoulder. He squeezes around and the man-woman makes room for him on the ground next to where I’m lying.

"Juckin!" I cry, so relieved to see him I can't catch my breath.

"Shh, Brian, it's okay, everything's okay!" Justin touches my cheek and leans over me, he's got something around his neck and there's blood on his face, but he whispers, "Shh, it's going to be okay, we're going to the hospital soon, you're okay, shh."

"Juckin, whuck habben?"

"A car accident, but we're both okay, so just relax, all right?"

"Stay," I tell him, and he says, "Yes, I'll stay with you, don't worry about anything, I'll stay with you."

And then I just really need to go away, I close my eyes and let the darkness take me away, I can't stick around any longer.


Justin

They let me ride in Brian's ambulance to the hospital, it's crowded but I'm squeezed into a seat in the corner and strapped in tight, the neck brace they insisted on putting on me keeps my head from flopping sideways as the ambulance sways back and forth, changing lanes and speeding like a bullet on the freeway, the siren deafeningly loud, my head is hurting so bad I have to grit my teeth together not to scream from the pain.

It's a nightmare at the hospital, they rush off with Brian's stretcher but they won't let me follow, they force me into a wheelchair and wheel me through the emergency doors but I lose track of Brian, I don't know where they've taken him. A dozen people descend upon me, lifting me from the wheelchair onto a high table and cutting off my clothes, I try to insist I can undress myself but nobody pays any attention to me, they just keep pushing me down and shoving needles in me and turning me over and examining every inch of my naked body and finally I give up and close my eyes and let them have their way with me, let them get it over with. And all the time I want to scream, "I promised Brian I wouldn't leave him!"

After what seems like hours most of the people working over me disappear, I open my eyes and there's just three people around my table now. I've got a needle taped to my left arm and someone's covered me with a blanket, I'm warming up, I was freezing for such a long time. One of the workers, a nurse I guess, is swabbing the left side of my face by my ear, and I feel stinging pain there. "Ow," I sputter at him, pulling away slightly, "What are you doing?"

"Only a few stitches, honey," he murmurs, "Hold still now." He's got a lilting accent and fuzzy dreads. "I'll make the stitches nice and tiny so you don't have an ugly scar to mess up that pretty face." His own face is very close to me and his breath smells like garlic but not unpleasantly. "First you'll feel a little prick," he says, and I know he's going to give me a shot, so I look the other way; if I don't see needles, they don’t hurt so much.

It hurts anyway but I bite my lips together and try not to move. Another white-coated man is standing nearby, his back to me, and I realize that he's studying an x-ray stuck into a flat light fixture attached to the wall. "Some slight tissue damage and swelling, but no broken bones or vertebrae damage" he says, but he's not talking to me, there's another white coat also peering at the x-ray. "You can remove the neck brace when the stitches are done, Luke," the taller man says.

"Sure, I'll be doing that in a jiffy," answers the guy who's sewing up the cut on my face.

The shorter white-coat moves away and the taller man turns toward me. "How are you feeling, Mr. Taylor? I'm Dr. Jennings."

"Okay, I guess," I answer, my voice is gruff and my throat feels sore. "I'm awfully thirsty, and I kind of hurt all over. But what about my - my friend, the one I came in with, Brian Kinney? He was a lot worse than me, is he okay, can I see him? Where is he?"

The doctor smiles slightly. "I believe your friend's still in surgery, you can probably see him pretty soon. As for you, well, you'll likely be sore for a few days, but you don't have any major injuries - "

"Surgery? Brian's in surgery?" I'm starting to get scared again, I've been numb for a while, my helplessness made me tune out everything but the pain in my head while the crowd of doctors and nurses held me captive, but now I’m waking up and I'm scared for Brian.

"Dr. Kuchner's in charge of your friend's case I think, I'll ask him to come see you when he's available. I believe the patient's injuries are serious but not life-threatening. Just try to rest quietly. We'll find you a room eventually, you'll need to stay overnight for observation, but we'll probably release you tomorrow."

"Okay," I agree somewhat breathlessly, "Could I please use a telephone, I need to call my mom and our friends, and - "

"Luke," Dr. Jennings addresses the nurse who's now applying a bandage to the side of my head, "Has Mr. Taylor's family been contacted, do you know?"

"Yes, yes, there's a whole passel of his people in the waiting room," Luke assures the doctor, and he pats my shoulder reassuringly. "We'll get you ready for visitors in a very few minutes - you don't want folks seeing you all naked and bloody, now do we?"

"No. Yes. Thanks." Dr. Jennings also pats my shoulder and turns to go, but luckily I think to ask him, "Oh please, could I have a Tylenol or something? My head hurts so much."

"Of course," the doctor agrees, waving a hand at Luke. "Two Tylenol with codeine for Mr. Taylor, when you get a chance."

"I'm allergic to codeine, but I can take regular Tylenol," I call after the doctor, he stops and glances back at Luke. "Right away, doctor," Luke calls after him. He's swabbing the side of my face with a wet cloth.

"You have to do all the work, don't you, Luke," I comment, and that makes him laugh.

"Ah, you catch on quick, boy," he laughs. "Let's get this collar off you, I bet it's very uncomfortable by now, eh?" I agree and sigh with relief as Luke releases me from the torture of the neck brace. Luke disappears for a moment but comes right back, holding a blue-checked hospital gown, a paper cup with two Tylenol, and a glass of water. After I swallow the pills and drink the glass of water in one swallow, Luke raises the head of the bed at an angle so I can sit up, and he releases the IV needle as he helps me slip my arms into the gown which he ties in the back, then he reattaches the IV and arranges the blanket over my legs and tucks it in the bottom.

"Now, then," Luke smiles at me, "I'll just go fetch your family, shall I?"

"Oh yes, please! And thanks for taking care of me. Oh - Luke," I call after him, and he turns back once more. "Could you please find out how my friend is doing? His name is Brian Kinney."

"Sure, of course, Mr. Taylor, I'll be doing that as soon as I can." Then he winks and turns away, his dreads swinging gently against his neck. I barely have time to run a hand through my hair, which is sticky with dried sweat and who-knows-what-else, when the curtain around my cubicle is thrown open and here's Mom, rushing toward me and throwing her arms - carefully - around me in a hug.

"Sweetheart!" she exclaims, "Are you all right?" She pulls away before I can answer and stares hard at me, then smiles. "You look good, I was so afraid - " She does not finish that thought and I don't even have time to answer her before Debbie surges forward on the other side of my bed, she takes my hand - careful of the IV needle, and reaches her other hand to caress my cheek. Not surprisingly, she's smiling and crying at the same time.

"Sunshine, you're okay! Oh God, we've been so worried! As soon as we heard, we all headed for the hospital, everybody's outside in the waiting room, they'd only let two of us in at a time, and we - "

"Did they tell you anything about Brian?" I interrupt Debbie, "All I know is that he's in surgery, do you know anything at all?"

Deb glances at Mom who says, "That's all we know too, darling - the doctor said he's in serious-but-stable condition, and they'll let us know as soon as he's out of surgery."

"What's the surgery for?" I exclaim, "What's wrong with him?"

"A broken leg, or broken hip, something like that I think," Deb answers me. "Don't worry, honey, he's going to be fine."

"Why is he so much worse than me? Why does he need surgery for a broken leg? I can't stand not knowing anything!" I turn my head too quickly, whack it into the pillow and a cry escapes my lips.

"Justin!"

"I'm okay, Mom," I reassure her, "Just the worst fucking headache of my life. Or second-worst," I correct myself, remembering how I felt when I came out of my coma over a year ago.

"The doctor wants to keep you overnight, so you need to try and relax, and- "

I shake my head, "I can't relax till I see Brian, I promised I would stay with him and they dragged me away."

"Knock-knock," says a man coming into my cubicle, there's two of them, uniformed police officers. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to get some information about the accident. Can you speak to us now?"

"Yes, okay," I sigh deeply; I'm so tired, but I want to ask them questions myself. "What happened? I mean," I added quickly, "I know a car hit us, but - "

Mom and Debbie move to the back of the cubicle and the policemen flank my bed. The one who seems to be in charge is a tall black man with a mustache, carrying a clipboard. "Why don’t you tell us what happened, whatever you can remember."

"Well," I try to think back, "Brian was driving me home from his place, it was about eleven or eleven-thirty I guess."

"That’s - Brian Kinney? Okay." He scribbles a note, then looks at me again. "Had he been drinking?"

"No." I think for a minute. "Well, he had a glass of wine with dinner, but nothing after that."

The cop nods.

"He decided to take the freeway, there was so much traffic on the streets because of the big game. We were headed south, and I was telling him about this mural I'm working on at school, and I looked out the side window for a minute and when I looked back at him, suddenly I could see these headlights coming right toward us."

"Head on?"

I start to nod, then stop. "No," I correct myself, "The lights were coming at an angle. Really fast. Brian said, "Hold on!" and I think he was turning the steering wheel away, turning to the right. But I don't really remember, that part's kind of blurry now."

"And what happened then?"

"Well, the car hit us. There was a loud crashing noise and - and I think I was screaming." I blush, having to admit that I screamed like an idiot. "I was scared, you know?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"And then everything went black. That's all I remember, maybe I passed out? I don’t really know. Then when I woke up, somebody was pulling me from the jeep. I think it was upside down?"

The cop scribbles something on his clipboard and looks back at me. "Remember anything else?"

"No. I'm kind of blurry after that, till the police got there, and I know they had to cut Brian out of the jeep. I think his door was all bashed in?"

"Mmm-hmm. Then what happened?”

“Well, finally the ambulance people got there and started checking us out. I was okay - I TOLD them I was okay, but they put that neck thing on me and made me sit down on the ground. There were a lot of people all around, but I don't know what they were doing."

The cop continues to scribble and I glance at the other one, who’s white and very short, he looks too short to be a cop. He’s balding and kind of chubby. He reminds me of Joe Pesci, and I find myself wishing he’d smile so I could see if he had a gold tooth like Joe Pesci did in “Home Alone.”

“Officer,” Debbie steps forward and rests her hand on my top of my blanket-covered foot. When the cop turns to look at her with raised brows, she asks, “Can you tell us what happened, what caused the accident?”

“Well, ma’am, there’ll be an official report of the scene of the accident and follow-up investigation released later, but we do know right now that the other vehicle, for reasons unknown, crossed the center line and smashed into Mister – “ he pauses, consulting his notes, “Into Mr. Kinney’s vehicle, smashing the driver’s side door and flipping the jeep over – at least once, probably twice, where it landed upside down on the verge of the freeway. Luckily traffic was fairly light, and other vehicles were able to avoid the accident. Some good Samaritan stopped and set off flares, which helped too.”

“Was the other driver hurt?” Debbie asks, and the cop nods. “That driver wasn’t wearing a seatbelt – he was thrown out of his vehicle, and he’s probably not going to make it.”

“Oh, dear lord,” Debbie cries, crossing herself. Then she turns to me. “Thank God you boys were wearing seat belts!”

“Yes,” the Joe Pesci cop pipes up, “The seatbelts held and both airbags deployed, otherwise – “

“Ahem,” coughs the black cop, giving Joe Pesci a harsh look. He says, “Thank you for your statement, Mr. Taylor. We may have more questions later, but otherwise, good luck on your recovery.”

“Thank you.” I slump down in the bed, it's just starting to hit home to me the enormity of the car crash.

The policemen turn and part the curtains of my cubicle and slip out, just as Luke moves past them and comes up to my bed. “Mr. Taylor, we have a room ready for you now, and the doctor wants you to sleep – no more visitors tonight.” He smiles at Mom and Debbie. “We’ll take good care of him,” he promises.

“No,” Mom corrects Luke politely, “I’ll be spending the night in Justin’s room, please let me know when you’ve got him settled in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Luke smiles at her, giving up without a fight; a wise move. Another nurse comes into the cubicle and rolls back the curtains; together she and Luke fuss around with my bed and the IV cart and begin to wheel me out of the ER.

“Mom, please find out what’s happening with Brian?”

“Yes, sweetheart, and I’ll be up to see you once you’re settled in.”

“What time is it?” I ask Luke. He glances at his watch and tells me it's about three a.m. God, I am so tired, and the Tylenol's beginning to work, my head hurts slightly less and I'm getting sleepy. But I can’t sleep till I find out about Brian. I want to see Brian, damn it!

Brian

Jeep fell through a hole in the ice, freezing cold water, must get out, must swim to the surface, swim up. . .

“Wake up.”

Trying to.

“Wake up, Mr. Kinney.”

Trying.

“Open your eyes. Wake up now, Mr. Kinney. Open your eyes.”

I open my eyes and I’m looking right into the close-up face of a stranger in a white jacket. I’m not underwater, but I’m still freezing. “Cold,” I say, in a voice that isn’t mine, a mumbly voice. “Cold,” I repeat and the stranger nods.

“You’re in post-op, Mr. Kinney, the room has to be cold, would you like another blanket?”

“Whuck?”

“You’ve been in surgery and now you’re in post-op.”

“Hoppital?” I can’t talk right, and I’m so confused, my eyes try to see around and past the stranger, it looks like a hospital, maybe he’s a doctor. Bright lights.

”Yes,” he confirms, “You’re in the hospital, you were in an accident. You’ve had surgery and you’re doing fine.”

Surgery? I had surgery? I want to close my eyes again, wake up someplace else. Home. Home in my bed. Turn over and put my arms around –

Suddenly I’m awake, and I try looking around the man again, try to see the room, see if he’s here’s somewhere in this big, bright, freezing cold room. Where is he? Where is he? “Whay i’ he?”

"Pardon?" says the doctor.

"Whay i' Juckin?"

"Who?"

I could scream with frustration, I can't talk right, then I realize I can raise my arm, and I move my hand toward my face, I feel a bandage there, on my chin, and it hurts to touch it. Pushing down my frustration and fear, I try to enunciate clearly, "Boy wi' me, whay i' he? Juckin!"

"A boy with you in the car?"

Yes, yes, you moron, I want to yell at him. "Yeck!"

The doctor/moron disappears, I can't turn my head to see where he's gone, but in a moment he's back and he puts a hand on my arm and squeezes. "The boy is okay, he's here in the hospital, but apparently his injuries are mild."

"He okay? Juckin?"

"Yes," he assures me, and I allow myself to relax slightly. I don't trust him to tell me the truth, but suddenly I remember talking to Justin on the side of the road. He was bleeding, his face was bloody, but he was talking to me, he was moving around.

"Mr. Kinney, we're going to give you some oxygen now, help you wake up. Just relax and breathe normally, okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer but puts a plastic mask over my face and I can feel the air coming into the mask, so I take a few shallow breaths. It hurts to breathe, but I don't want to sleep anymore, I need to wake up. I need to see for myself that Justin is okay.

Time passes, eons go by while I lie there helpless, freezing cold, every breath of oxygen hurts my chest, I'm a mass of pain, I can't tell what parts of me hurt, it feels like everything hurts, like my body is one big fucking bruise. Dozens of people dressed in white or green dart back and forth in the vicinity of my bed but no one pays any attention to me, I'm thirsty, I'm dizzy, I hurt like fucking hell, and more than anything else, the overriding worry in my mind is: where the fuck is Justin, is he really okay, and why do I have to be so fucking helpless, imprisoned on this hard narrow bed in the middle of a freezing cold room with blinding bright lights?

Gradually, as I wake up bit by bit, I become aware of individual pains all over my body. I'd already discovered the bandage on my chin, and I gingerly raise my hand to feel the outlines of the bandage and discover that my lower lip has become puffy and very sore; no wonder I can't speak properly, my bottom lip is the size of Texas. There's some kind of very tight bandage on my chest, which makes it necessary to take shallow breaths, and every breath hurts. Worst of all is an enormous bandage on my left side starting just at my waist and encompassing my upper leg, stopping, from what I can tell, just above the knee. The pain in my hip is incredible, amazing really, I've never felt pain this intense.

I want to sit up, I want to get up, I need a drink of water, but more than anything else, I need to see Justin. The longer I lie here helpless and frustrated, the more worried I become. The doctor said he's okay, but how do I know if he's telling the truth? How do I know if he even knows who Justin is? Maybe he was just placating me. Maybe he didn't want me to worry. Where the fuck is Justin?



Justin

"You don't understand, I HAVE TO see him, I can't possibly wait any longer!"

"He's been moved from post-op to ICU," the blond nurse whose name badge proclaims that she is Wendy Harper but who looks like Ted in drag tells me, "There's no visitors in ICU."

"I'm not a visitor, I was with him in the car, I HAVE TO see him, he has to see me!"

"Justin," Mom interrupts in her deceptively gentle way, "Everyone has assured you that Brian's doing fine, so you need to sleep now like the doctor told you. You can probably see Brian when you wake up."

"No." I turn to look at my mother. How can she think I'd fall asleep, knowing Brian's lying somewhere in this hospital? "I promised I wouldn't leave him, and he must think I left him all alone. I have to see him, I have to."

"Mr. Taylor," Wendy says ever-so-patiently in the most condescendingly sickly-sweet voice, "I've explained that you cannot see your friend now. I checked with the doctor, and he assured me the patient is doing fine, and he cannot have visitors."

"I'm not a visitor," I insist, but I look away from her. I'm getting nowhere and I just want her to go away and leave me alone.

"Mr. Taylor, take your medication, please." Wendy holds a paper cup with two Tylenol in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Feeling like a bad actor in a very bad play, I pretend to swallow the pills, holding them under my tongue while I take a drink of water. When Wendy turns away, I glance at my mom, who's getting something - a tissue - from her purse, and I palm the tablets and shove them down beside me under the covers. I'm afraid the pills will make me fall asleep, and I really cannot sleep until I see Brian.

When Wendy's gone, I turn to look at Mom and plaintively I say, "Why don’t you go home now? You've been up all night, you must be exhausted."

"No," she shakes her head, "I want to stay with you."

"Well, I'd rather be alone." I know that sounds mean, but I need to get rid of her. "I just want to sleep, make the time pass more quickly, and I can't sleep if I know you're sitting there staring at me."

"Justin - "

"I'm sorry, Mom, but it's the truth. Please go home, I'll call you later today when I wake up. Okay?"

Mom shakes her head and sighs; I know I've hurt her feelings. "Okay, sweetheart, I'll leave you alone. But I'll be back this afternoon. And call if you need anything from home."

"I'll need something to wear," I tell her. "They ruined my brand new khakis, they cut off all my clothes." It still galls me that the ER staff wouldn't let me get undressed by myself.

"Okay." Mom comes over to the bed and bends down to kiss my cheek. "Sleep well, sweetheart."

"Thanks, Mom. See you later." I give her a slight smile and watch her walk out of the room. I wonder how long I should wait before making my move?

I let half an hour pass; I'm afraid if I wait longer, I really will fall asleep. I’d watched Luke disconnect the IV line in my arm when he was putting the hospital gown on me in the ER, so I’m able to disconnect it without dislodging the needle taped into my vein. Then I find the little paper slippers they gave me, and re-tie the blue checked gown. Luckily it's quite large and I pray it won't come undone in the back, exposing my butt to anyone walking behind me. I stand in the open doorway for a few minutes, till I get a feel for the hallway, till it seems that all the nurses are away from the nurses' station, just a few yards down the hall, and I slip by and get into the elevator.

That's one hurdle overcome, and I decide to go downstairs, see if I can find the lobby, see if I can find out where ICU is located. The elevator stops at the second floor and two doctors get on. I freeze, waiting for them to demand what I'm doing, but they pay no attention to me, they're deep in conversation about somebody's bowel obstruction. The doctors get off on the first floor, I can see the hospital lobby and there’s quite a few people there, doctors and nurses too, I'm afraid to get off. So I stay on the elevator and go down to the basement.

Stepping out of the elevator, I smell food, what smells like roast beef and onions and gravy, and my stomach growls, I haven't eaten anything since dinner many hours ago. A few yards along the hallway is an entrance to the hospital cafeteria and I peer inside, like the lobby there’s a lot of people sitting at round tables, but no one pays any attention to me. Or that's what I think anyway as I turn away and start down the hall in the opposite direction.

"Hey," I hear somebody call out behind me, but I ignore it and keep on going. "Hey, wait," the voice calls again, and it's closer. Reluctantly I stop and turn around. I'm not a very good secret agent, I've been caught already. Then I see the man who's following me, and it's Luke, the nurse from the ER.

"Hey, Luke," I say, as casually as possible, "How's it going?"

"What you doing wandering around the hospital?" Luke asks. He's carrying a bottle of Dr. Pepper and he drains the last drops and then tosses it into a nearby garbage can. "Lost?"

"Umm, yeah," I admit, "I'm looking for ICU."

"ICU? Why? You're supposed to be in bed asleep, aren't you?"

Sighing, I confess, "I escaped."

Luke laughs then and shakes his head at me, his fuzzy dreads fly around his face. "Bad boy! They need to tie you down, eh? Come on, I'll take you back."

"No!" I pull away from the hand Luke's put on my arm. "Luke, I have to find ICU. My - my friend's there, I have to see him."

No longer laughing, Luke tells me, "No visitors in ICU, sweetie, sorry."

"I'm not a visitor!" I insist, my voice rising. "I have to see Brian, I HAVE TO."

"Shh," Luke warns me, glancing around the hall. "Why you have to see him, boy?"

"After the accident, he was really freaking out," I confide in Luke, "He was scared for me. I know he needs to see me right away, and I need to see him too."

Luke's studying my face, and after a moment he says solemnly, "He's more than a friend, eh?"

I raise my head and stare him in the eye. "He's my lover," I say proudly. Surprisingly, Luke laughs again.

"Well, why didn’t you say so, boy? We got to stick together, right?"

"Oh," I'm surprised, "You too?"

"Sure," Luke nods his head up and down quickly, "Sure. And you got to see your man, right? Well, okay," he says decisively, "I'll help you, but we'll probably both get in trouble."

"Oh, thanks - " I start to say, but he shushes me again. "Wait here, no better yet, go in there." He leads the way a few feet down the hall to a unisex restroom. "Wait here, lock the door, I'll be right back."

Inside the restroom, which has only one toilet and sink, I turn the lock on the door and wait. In just a few minutes there's a soft knock, and I hear Luke say, "It's me, open up." When I open the door, Luke beckons me out and points at a wheelchair he's gotten from somewhere. "Sit here," he instructs me, "And I'll wheel you to ICU. This looks more official than a boy running around the corridors with his ass hanging out, right?"

"Oh!" I exclaim as I sit down on the chair, "It wasn't, was it?" He only laughs and won't answer, then he turns the chair a hundred and eighty degrees and pushes me back down the way I came, then around a few corners till I'm totally lost. We stop at a different bank of elevators, and then Luke pushes me inside and hits the button for the fifth floor. We're alone on the elevator, so he tells me that ICU is on five, close to the OR on six. "Let me do the talking," he warns me as the doors open and he pushes me out onto the floor.

Right outside the elevator door is the nurses' station, and I see several nurses busy there, two talking together and a third off to one side reading something, a patient chart maybe. "Miss Lisa!" Luke addresses her, I can hear the smile in his voice, and when she looks up, she smiles back at him.

"Hi, Luke, what brings you up here?" Lisa is pretty, a small black woman with large red-framed glasses.

"It's like this, darling," Luke lowers his voice. "This poor boy was in a terrible car crash last night, and he just can't relax till he's seen his friend, who's up here in ICU. Can you help us out?"

Lisa glances down at me. "Is your friend Brian Kinney?" she asks me, and the serious look on her face is scaring me. I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and nod my head.

Then she smiles and I feel such relief I almost fall out of the chair. "Oh, thank God you've come!" she tells me, "Mr. Kinney is driving everyone CRAZY, asking over and over and over about 'Juckin.' Are you Juckin?

"Justin," I correct her, "Yes, yes I am, can I see him? Please?"

"Absolutely," she agrees, then she turns to the other nurses and says, "Ladies, here is the one-and-only, world-famous Juckin!" The other women glance at me and start laughing.

"Hooray!" one of them exclaims, and the other rolls her eyes and says, “Thank God, maybe now we can get that patient to calm down and go to sleep!"

Lisa directs Luke to turn my chair around, and says, “He’s in 6B, right this way.” She comes along with us. There's no individual rooms here it seems, just beds in little alcoves. Anxiously I ask the nurse, "Is he badly hurt? Is he going to be okay?"

Lisa puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "He's going to be fine. He has some serious injuries, but with good care from his family, he should make a full recovery. Dr. Kuchner can tell you more if you see him after rounds this afternoon."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and then, following Lisa's directions, Luke pushes me down an aisle and over to a bed in the corner. There’s a long lumpy sheet-covered shape surrounded by machines and two stands with IV bags. Lisa precedes us to the bed and says quietly, “Mr. Kinney, are you still awake?”

“Yeck, yeck!” an angry voice answers her; Brian’s voice, but flabby and strange. He says something else to the nurse, but I can’t understand him, then Lisa interrupts and, patting Brian’s arm, she informs him, “Good news, Mr. Kinney, here is your Juckin, come to visit you!”

“Juckin?”

On cue, I stand up and approach the bed; I’m unsteady on my feet, partly from exhaustion, partly because I’m afraid of what I will see. But it’s okay, it’s Brian; it’s just so strange to see him lying flat out, immobilized, with a large bandage on his chin and IV tubes running into his arms.

“Brian,” I say, but no sound comes out, I clear my throat and try again, louder, “Brian!”

“Juckin!” he exclaims, then shoots out his right arm and grabs my wrist. “Jeezuh Cride! You okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I assure him, “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you, they took me away!” Suddenly I’m horrified to discover that I’ve started to cry, and I bite down hard on my tongue to make myself stop, but it’s not working.

“S’okay,” he says, pulling on my wrist, pulling me closer to the bed, and I turn my hand in his so we can hold onto each other. “S’okay, Juckin, s’okay now.”

I nod but I can’t speak. I’m vaguely aware that Luke and the nurse have moved away, but still, I cannot speak.

“Juckin,” Brian squeezes my hand in his, “Sowwy you got hurk, you head okay?”

I nod again, snuffling as hard as I can. “It’s my fault, for making you drive me home.” That starts me off crying again, and Brian squeezes my hand harder, yanking my arm.

“Don’ be stoobug,” he orders me, then he laughs, a choppy, chortling sound. Brian shakes his head and moans, “I soun’ like Elma Fugg!”

“Elmer Fudd?” I ask and he nods.

“Yeah, you do,” I confirm, and he moans, “Don’ make me lagg, it hurks!”

Lisa comes back to the bed and tells me I have to leave now before a doctor comes by, there’s no visitors allowed in ICU, the nurses could get in trouble. I don’t want to leave, and I feel tears gearing up again behind my eyes. “Don’t worry,” Lisa pats my shoulder, “Mr. Kinney will probably be moved to a regular room tomorrow, then you can visit him all you want to.”

“S’okay, Juckin,” Brian assures me, “You sleeb now, see you tomowwow.”

“You sleeb too, Brian!” I order him and he nods his head.

“Come on, Juckin,” Lisa beckons me, and I follow her out of the ICU, though I keep looking over my shoulder at Brian and waving, though I know he can’t see me once I’m a few feet away from his bed. Luke is waiting for me with the wheelchair, and gratefully I almost fall into it. I’m so exhausted, I manage to thank Lisa and the other nurses, who smile sweetly at me, then I’m half asleep in the chair before Luke wheels me into my room. He helps me get back into bed, reattaches my IV, and by the time he pulls the covers up over me, I’m gone.

Brian

"TREE MUNTS?"

"Yes," the doctor repeats, "Two to three months for the bones to heal, it's a very nasty compound fracture of the femur. Then physical therapy, and - "

"Fugg you! No. No." I turn my head away, I can't look at him any more. He keeps talking but I stop listening. No fucking way.

He talks some more, Red Glasses talks too, I can hear her voice. But I stop listening to the words, and finally the doctor goes away. I thought Red Glasses went away too, but when I turn my head back against the pillow, she's still there, staring at me.

"Would you like a glass of water?" she asks conversationally.

I want to tell her to fuck off but I don't. Suddenly I am so tired, I don't have the energy to fight anymore. I shake my head no, look away from her again.

"Self-pity's a bitch," Red Glasses murmurs, which makes me twist my head around to glare at her.

"Is not selv biddy."

"Sure it is," she insists. "You survived a serious accident and the doctor has just told you that you'll make a full recovery, as long as you do what's necessary. Now you feel sorry for yourself because you'll be in a cast for three months and your family will have to take care of you."

Stung by the nurse's unconcern, I say tersely, “No family.”

"Oh." She comes closer to the side of my bed, absently tucking in a fold of sheet. Then she asks, "What about Juckin, isn't he family?"

"Stob calling him Juckin, his name's Juckin."

"Is he family?"

Red Glasses waits for me to answer, but I can't answer, I have to look away from those piercing eyes. Christ, I don't know what Justin is. Nobody. Nothing. He's nothing to me. Nothing.

"Well," she says at last, "There are other alternatives than living with family. There's convalescent hospitals, visiting nurses. . ."

I swing my head around to glare at her, I really want to tell her to fuck off. She reads the message in my eyes but doesn't blink, she's one tough bitch all right. "Go away."

Surprisingly she doesn't get mad. Instead, she smiles at me, it's a real smile, and she pats my shoulder. Then before she walks away, she draws the curtain partway around my bed, concealing me from the rest of the room. Somehow she knows I need to be alone.

I've always been alone, and mostly I've liked it that way. I wasn't always glad to be alone, back when I was a kid. I found Michael or he found me, and then I didn't have to be alone if I didn't want to. We were inseparable as kids, and I spent as much time at his house as I possibly could. But away from the Novotnys, I was alone. In my family, we all lived in the same house, ate meals at the same table, but basically, we were each alone. It was necessary for survival.

You get used to it and after while, even embrace it. Alone on your own terms is the best way to live. You can always find people to spend time with if you want to. But except for Michael, I've never needed anybody. Not really. Not essentially. Now the thought of needing people just to survive is unbearable. It's really unbearable. I feel pressure building up behind my eyeballs, burning hot and aching to leak out of my eyes. I won't let it, though.

Instead, I'll think about Justin. It was such a relief to finally see him and to know he's all right. He seemed okay, though I can't help but worry about his head - he said it was fine, but it can't be good to have another head injury after last year. I need to talk to his doctor about it. Not to Jennifer. I don't want to see Jennifer. She's going to blame me for this one too.

If only she knew that she does not need to blame me. I'm doing a good job of that on my own. I shouldn’t have let Justin come over. I should have talked him into staying overnight. I should not have gone on the freeway - so what if the streets were crowded, it would only have taken a few extra minutes. When I saw the car coming at us, I should have turned the wheel sooner, I should have stepped on the gas faster, I should have gotten the jeep out of the way. Now here I am, once again responsible for Justin getting hurt.

He was crying. Sometimes I forget how young he is, how vulnerable he sometimes can be. Other times, like last night when we were fucking, Justin feels totally my equal. He's always managed to keep up with me in bed, to the point that after that first few times, I stopped considering Justin's youth and inexperience. He was hungry for sex, from the very first moment I saw him. Justin gave off the strongest fuck-me vibes I've ever felt. That's how I remember it, anyway. As if Justin had been standing under that street lamp waving a sign that said, 'Come and get it.'

That thought makes me laugh, and it fucking hurts to laugh.

After Justin left this morning, I asked Red Glasses to call the fucking doctor, but she refused. Red Glasses is the head nurse, a small black woman whose eyes burn with impatience whenever I harass her. She insisted I could wait for the doctor's rounds later in the day, and finally she declared that the only way she'd call him is if I faked cardiac arrest. I was angry but I almost laughed at that. She's a sharp one all right. Probably all the nurses in ICU have to be sharp or they wouldn't be here. I recognize competence when I see it, even when I loathe it, even when it makes me crazy.

Red Glasses told me I have a broken leg, three broken ribs and a cut below my mouth. No details. I wanted to know how soon I could get out of this fucking bed. How long it takes a broken bone to heal. She would tell me nothing, and I remember that I cursed her.

Concentrating on the pain kept me from thinking about almost anything else. There’s a red machine on wheels that drips morphine into my IV, and they gave me a little button to push to self-dose. But it won’t let you have all you want. Red Glasses says it’s set to ten-minute intervals. You can push the button as much as you want in between and nothing happens. Something else to make me angry.

But Christ, I was so tired. Finally, I gave in and went to sleep. I loathe giving in to the nurses, doing what I'm told, yet I was so tired I couldn't keep my eyes open. I couldn't stop thinking about the accident, about the blood on Justin's face; I couldn't stop trying to turn that wheel a little harder, to step on the gas a little faster. I couldn't stop seeing his tears.

Usually, tears have no effect on me. Usually, tears turn me off, I'm not into sympathy, I'm not into empathy and all that emotional blackmail shit. So I don't know why Justin's tears affected me this morning.

Now I need to see him again. I need to know that he's really okay. Christ, I need to get out of this fucking bed!



Justin

My first thought when I open my eyes is that I'm just waking up from the coma, and everything that's happened in the past year is a dream. In some ways, I wish it had been. Not that I'd want to go through all that physical therapy again, no way.

It’s dinner time, the smell of food trays being delivered up and down the hall wakes me up. Mom is here and she helps the nurse set up the table over my bed. My dinner and my doctor arrive at the same time, and all the while I'm talking to Dr. Jennings, I'm glancing over at the dinner tray, an opaque glass dome concealing the food but not preventing delicious smells from wafting toward me. I'm embarrassed by the sound of my stomach rumbling.

I remember Dr. Jennings from last night. Or early this morning I guess.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” he says, "How are you feeling this evening?"

"Fine. Sore, but fine. And hungry."

He smiles. "I'll only keep you from your dinner for a few minutes." He sets the clipboard he was carrying down on the foot of my bed, then peels the bandage off the side of my face and I resist the urge to say ouch! It stings and is very sore, but he doesn't touch it, just nods and says, "Good." Then he puts his hands on my neck and presses his fingers into my neck and shoulders, and I'm reminded just how sore they are.

"Is it whiplash?" Mom asks, and he nods.

"Yes," the doctor glances at Mom, "But the x-rays and cat-scan show no major damage, just slight swelling, and Justin will be sore for a few days." He turns back to me and adds, "The ambulance staff reported that the vehicle's airbag deployed properly, which no doubt saved you from serious injury."

"Do you know anything about my friend, Brian Kinney? He was driving, I know he's in ICU, and - "

"Sorry," he shakes his head, picking up the clipboard and writing something on it. "That patient has a different doctor, I haven't followed his case."

"Dr. Kuchner," I tell him, "You said his name last night. Or this morning. I'm all confused on what time it is."

"Excellent man, Dr. Kuchner. Perhaps the nurse can page him for you, if you'd like." The doctor clicks his pen closed and shoves it in his pocket.

"Oh yes," I say quickly, "I asked the nurse to do that, but I don't think she did."

"Mmm-hmm. Well, Mr. Taylor, I'm going to release you now, there'll be some papers to sign and so forth, but you should be able to go home later tonight. Try ice packs on your neck every fifteen or twenty minutes for a few days. And be sure to check in with your regular doctor - ummm," he consulted the notes on his clipboard, "Dr. Mayfield. The hospital will send him a copy of your file." He straightens up and smiles at me, then at Mom.

"Thank you, Dr. Jennings," Mom says politely, and I echo her.

"Enjoy your dinner." And he's gone out the door.

Mom starts to move the tray-table toward the bed, but I interrupt her and insist on pushing the call button for the nurse first, and when she finally arrives, I tell her that my doctor said it was okay to page Brian's doctor. She agrees to call him, and then at last, I can lift the dome over my dinner plate. Sliced beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans. Mmm, I wonder if they'd bring me another tray?


Brian

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I’m abruptly awakened next morning by the sound of rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the floor by my bed. “Good morning, Mr. Kinney,” a nurse greets me with unnecessary cheerfulness; she has curly red hair and broad cheeks sprinkled liberally with freckles. “How do you feel this morning?” She’s checking the IV bags and I try to see around her, looking for Red Glasses.

Red Hair turns from the IV stand and lifts my left arm, then my right, studying the IV needles. I still haven’t answered her, and she glances at my face.

“Where’z udder nurz?” I ask, looking over her shoulder at the nurses’ station.

“You mean Lisa?”

How the hell should I know her name? “Wed glazzes.”

“Red glasses? That’s Lisa. She’s gone home, of course, her shift ended hours ago. How do you feel this morning?”

I realize that I’m disappointed not to have Red Glasses to harass. “I’m vabuluss,” I answer sourly.

Red Hair’s professional nurse-smile falters slightly, then she says, with determined cheerfulness, “Your chart says you ate nothing yesterday, so you need to eat breakfast. You’re being moved from ICU shortly.”

“Wheh?”

“Down to three, Orthopedics.” She’s holding the control thing, pushing a button to raise the head of my bed till I’m sitting almost upright. It hurts my hip to move, but I bite my lip till I can’t help but say, “Jezuh Cride, stob!”

“Too high?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but hits the down button and lowers me a few inches, which takes some of the pressure off my leg. “Okay?”

I nod, and she turns away to pull a high tray table on wheels over the middle of my bed. She disappears for a moment, then returns carrying a blue tray with a dome-covered plate. I have no desire to eat anything, but when she pulls off the lid, I see a mound of scrambled eggs and my stomach betrays me by growling in anticipation.

“Soft foods for a few days, till the swelling in your mouth goes down,” the nurse says. “Eggs, oatmeal, fruit cocktail, and orange juice. Would you like some help eating?”

“No,” I mumble ungraciously, glaring at Red Hair till she leaves my cubicle. Then I watch my right hand reach for the fork and raise a mound of eggs to my mouth. “Oww,” I exclaim when the fork tines stab my revoltingly swollen lower lip. I can look down my nose and SEE my lip, that’s how enormous it is. Dropping the fork, I pick up a spoon instead, and manage to convey a mound of eggs into the painful hole that is my mouth. “Mmm,” I moan accidentally, the eggs taste wonderful, I really am very hungry. I eat all the eggs, even the oatmeal, which I loathe; even the disgusting squishy little cubes of canned fruit cocktail, and with the help of a straw, I manage to empty the glass of juice in two slurps.

Feeding myself was exhausting, and I relax back against the pillows and close my eyes. I stay like that, unmoving, as I hear the nurse’s squeaky shoes approach. Faking sleep to avoid conversation, I’m aware that she’s wheeling away the table, and the sound of her retreating footsteps tells me she’s left with the food tray. I just lay there, thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing.

My nothingness is interrupted by the arrival of two orderlies in blue uniforms, led to my cubicle by Red Hair. “Mr. Kinney, you’re going to move downstairs,” the one who looks like an escapee from a bear convention tells me as Red Hair messes with my IVs and disconnects the morphine drip.

“No,” I exclaim, against my will; in less than twenty-four hours I’ve become a morphine junkie, begging for a fix.

“They’ll re-attach it in your new room,” the bear assures me. The other orderly, who’s as skinny as the bear is rotund, says nothing the entire time the men are with me, merely cracking his gum and doing whatever the bear tells him. I don’t want to fuck either of them. They wheel my bed into the elevator and we ride downstairs in silence, then down a hallway and around a corner, and into a room with two empty beds. The orderlies wheel me to the far bed near the window.

“Mr. Kinney?” I turn my head from the window’s view of a cemetery on the hill (surely not the best sight for sick people in a hospital) and see a tall middle-aged nurse with dark blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. “I’m Debra, I’ll be your nurse during the day, how are you feeling?”

“Okay,” I mumble, knowing how churlish I am but not really caring.

“Now, Mr. Kinney,” the bear gets my attention, “We have to shift you to the other bed, so just relax and let us do the work, okay?”

Shift me? “Jezuh Cride,” I mutter, realizing it’s going to hurt like fucking hell to be shifted from one bed to the other. And it does. By the time they have me settled on the new bed, I’ve broken out in a sweat and I’m shaking with the effort of not crying out from the pain in my leg. My eyes are squeezed shut and I can hardly breathe.

“Sorry, Mr. Kinney, the pain will ease up in a moment,” Nurse Debra tells me. I feel her hand on my shoulder, then she takes my arm and reattaches the morphine drip to my IV. “Would you like a Vicodin?” I still can’t open my eyes but I nod, and in a moment I feel Debra slip an arm under my shoulders and raise my head up; she slips a pill between my lips and I manage to sip water through a straw from a glass she holds in her other hand. Then she gently lays me back down and promises, “That will start working in about fifteen minutes. I’ll come back and check on you then, but ring the bell,” and I feel her put the control knob into my right hand, “if you need me sooner. Okay?” I manage to nod and as she exits my room, I sigh a shuddering breath that I’ve been holding for the past five or six minutes.

Some time passes, I don’t know how much, gradually I become aware that the morphine and Vicodin are taking effect, I feel my muscles relaxing from the rigor mortis grip I’d been holding over myself. With a relieved sigh, I open my eyes, glancing once again at the disturbing view out over the cemetery. The sun is shining weakly, the sky is pale blue, and the trees that still have leaves are bending in a light breeze.

“Brian?”

I jerk my head around from the window, almost crying out with the pain of movement, any movement, and there standing a few feet from my bed is Justin.

“Juckin.” That’s all I can say.

He moves forward and reaches for my hand, and we squeeze fingers. I clear my throat and ask, “You okay?”

“Yeah, yes, I’m fine, Brian.” He’s dressed in normal clothes, the omnipresent khakis, and a pullover sweater. The only evidence of injury is a round band-aid on his face just beside his ear. “They released me last night, I’m sorry they wouldn’t let me see you again till now. It’s been driving me crazy not to see you.”

“Me too,” I admit. The Vicodin must have loosened my flabby lips.

“Everybody’s been coming to the hospital to see you,” Justin’s telling me. “I promised to call them as soon as you could have visitors. Michael had to open the shop, but he’ll come by as soon as that kid gets there to take over. Deb’s downstairs, Lindsay’s coming sometime this morning, she’s hoping they’ll let her bring Gus but they might not, and – “

“No,” I stop him, pulling on his hand, “No bizidors!”

“Huh?” Justin looks surprised. “Of course you’ll have visitors, everybody wants to see you, everybody’s been worried to death about us, about you really, because I’m perfectly okay.”

“Don’ wan’ to see peoble.”

Justin pulls his hand away and demands, “Why not?” I just shake my head and he says, “What, just because you’re all scuzzy and sweaty and your mouth is swollen like a balloon?”

“Thangs a lot.” That really cheered me up. I pull my hand away from his and raise it up to feel my hair. It’s dirty and twisted and smashed flat on the back.

“It’s okay, Brian.” Justin bends down and lifts his backpack, rests it on a chair near the bed, and pulls open the flap. “I’ve brought some of your stuff from home, we’ll make you look better.”

“What stuv?”

Justin’s pulling out my shaving kit, some tee shirts, even my black silk robe. I’m speechless.

“Hello.” We both jump slightly, we didn’t hear anyone approaching.

“Hi,” Justin exclaims, turning his Sunshine smile on the nurse.

“I’m Mr. Kinney’s day nurse, Debra.”

“I’m Justin, I’m going to be here every day, I’m happy to meet you.” They shake hands and I feel like a fifth wheel in my own room.

“Is there a way I can help Brian get cleaned up for visitors? He’s feeling all sweaty and dirty.” He waves his hand in my direction but doesn’t look at me.

“Of course,” Debra agrees, she doesn’t look at me either. “Nurse Lydia is on duty, she’s an LVN, I’ll ask her to come give Mr. Kinney a bed bath, and she can help him shave, too – she’s an expert.”

“Great,” Justin beams at her, “He’ll feel so much better once he’s cleaned up.”

“He’s ride heah in the bed an’ can heah bofe of you,” I interject, and they turn to stare at me, as if surprised that I can speak.

Debra leaves and Justin returns to emptying out the backpack; in a few minutes, a new nurse pops her head round my curtain.

“I’m Lydia,” she informs us cheerfully. God, not another cheerful one. “I’m going to give you a bath, Mr. Kinney, you’ll feel so much better.”

“No,” I protest weakly, having somehow lost the upper hand in my own hospital room. But I don’t really want to protest; as Justin said, I am sweaty and there’s nothing I can do about it myself. Lydia makes a quick job of it – Debra was right, she’s good at her job. She even wants to shave me, but I draw the line at somebody holding a razor to my throat. Maybe I’ll grow a beard. At least until I can stand up and shave myself. If I can ever stand up again.

When Lydia throws back the sheet and pulls off the hospital gown, I’m surprised to see the size of the tube attached to my dick. It’s a catheter, Red Glasses explained how it works, but I haven’t actually seen it till now, I’ve kept my hands off it, somehow it freaked me out. Now that I see it, I’m amazed that it’s not as uncomfortable as it ought to be. Still, I wouldn’t want to get a hard on with that tube running inside the head of my penis. Though actually it might be kinky. Lydia even washes my pubes, she’s unembarrassed but as I glance over her shoulder at Justin, even though I’m in pain I have to choke back a laugh when I see his face contorted with suppressed hilarity. I have to look quickly away, at the ceiling, at the cemetery, any place but at Justin.

Then Justin wants to put my silk robe on me but Lydia talks him out of it – it would interfere with the lumpy cast on my left leg running from below the waist to the knee. She fetches a clean hospital gown, it’s a hideous puke green color, but after all the mauling the pain is coming back full force and I don’t give a fuck what I’m wearing, and I’m pushing the morphine dose button over and over, even knowing that it’s not going to zap me for another four or five minutes.

“Ev’body go away now,” I finally order them, I’m really exhausted and just want to be alone with my pain. It’s like a separate entity lying on the bed beside me: Brian and his Pain. I close my eyes as Lydia packs up her cleaning supplies. She says something to Justin but I’m not listening, I’m just wanting them to go away. Finally, the room is quiet and I let myself relax slightly. The morphine drip makes it’s telltale ‘bink’ sound and I feel the dose spread through my body, taking the edge off the mountain of pain pressing me into the bed. With a sigh, I slip into an almost-asleep zone and disconnect my brain for as long as possible.


Justin

Poor Brian, he’s in so much pain and I can’t help with that. I thought he’d be glad to see me and he sort of was at first, but now he wants to be alone. He says no visitors, but I’m going to talk him into it, everybody wants so badly to see him. I’m sure he’ll see Michael at least, he should be here soon. Meanwhile, I pull a chair from an empty room and sit in the hallway outside Brian’s door, pull out my sketchpad and chew on the end of my pencil.



````````


Brian

“No.” I stare at them, forming a semi-circle around my bed. Too many visitors, I could ring my bell and get the nurse to chase them out. Too many visitors, against the rules. I glance at Michael, “Mikey?” Surely he will rescue me.

“Mom’s right,” Michael looks me in the eye, tilts his head at Debbie. “We are your family, all of us here, whether you like it or not. You need our help, and you’re just gonna have to suck it up.”

“Sucking up should be easy for him, he’s in advertising.” Ted’s at the foot of my bed, smirking.

“I don’ need any fugging helb.” Even I can hear the waver in my voice. Yet I say it again. “I don’ need anybody.”

“Brian. Sweetie.” Deb takes a step closer to the bed. “Justin’s told us everything, we had a big family meeting, and we’re all pitching in to help take care of you. Whether you like it or not.”

I’m going to murder Justin. With my bare hands. As soon as I can stand up. He talked to my doctor behind my back. Now he’s told everybody I’m going to be a fucking helpless cripple for three fucking months, and they’ve all decided they’re going to band together to rescue me. Fuck no!

“No.” My voice is firmer now, they took me by surprise is all. “Ahweddy made awangemends fo’ the convalezzen hoppital.” Christ. Christ. “Insurance’ll covva id.”

People who are paid to take care of me. People I won’t have to appreciate or thank or be nice to.

Now it’s Lindsay’s turn to move forward. She takes my hand and gives me that melting smile I’ve never been able to resist. “Brian, you know we all love you, stop pushing us away.”

They don’t love me, and I don’t love them either.

“Besides,” Melanie pipes up, “You wouldn’t survive twenty-four hours in a convalescent hospital, with all those old sick people.”

“All that flannel,” Emmett shudders; “All that oatmeal.”

“It’s no big deal, Brian,” Justin interjects. He’s standing at my right shoulder like a sentinel. Does he imagine he’s my guardian angel? He’s not. He’s my nemesis. My enemy. The boy I want to murder. Most of the time. This is one of those times.

“It’s not,” he insists, deflecting my death stare with urgent seriousness. “They said that in a few days you’ll be able to sit in a wheelchair, your new cast will be lightweight and you’ll be able to get in and out of bed with just a little help. All you need is somebody to stay with you to help with practical stuff. Everybody’s going to take turns.”

“You NOD livin’ in my loff.”

“Yes, I mean no,” he shakes his head agreeably, “I won’t live there, I’ll just be staying there at night. And everybody’s going to take turns helping you during the day, bringing you food, doing laundry, taking care of your place, just practical stuff, Brian. We’ve worked out a schedule.”

“No.” I close my eyes and will them all to disappear. I’m too tired to deal with this shit. My leg hurts too much. “Go away.” It’s time for the morphine to drip and I feel my body reacting to the drug, to my exhaustion from listening to all these people, to my – Christ, to my own fucking worry. I’ve never been fucking helpless in my life. And I’m going to lose my job. Then the loft. I’ll be a helpless, homeless, out-of-work cripple. No wonder they shoot horses.

I feel myself sliding away, and I’m glad. Now they’ll have to leave. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.

“Brian?”

I don’t have to answer, I’m asleep.


Debbie

I would have bet a ton of money, if I had it, that Brian would never speak to Justin again after that boy ran off with the fiddler. Now we find out they’ve been dating. Brian dating the boy who broke his heart! Sunshine’s still in love with Brian, which doesn’t surprise me a bit; but damned if that stubborn buzzard in the hospital bed doesn’t still love Justin too. I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.

Michael doesn’t believe it.

He’s driving me home and we talk about Brian probably feeling ambushed with the whole crew crowding around his bed. That’s okay, he needed to see everybody there, caring about him.

“I should be the one staying with Brian at night,” Michael says at last. I knew something was eating at him, he’s been too quiet.

“You’ll be taking turns at the loft,” I remind him, “While Justin’s at school or working.”

“It’s not the same. Besides, I’m the one closest to Brian, now that him and Justin aren’t boyfriends anymore.”

I’m sad for Michael; I thought he’d gotten over this jealousy of Justin. He’s got a gorgeous boyfriend, he’s got a new career with his own business, but he still can’t let go of his desire for Brian Kinney. First I decide to let it slide, then I can’t help myself, I have to blurt out, “They still love each other, Michael.”

“No way!” Michael raises his voice, but I say shh and he lowers it again. Still, he’s insistent. “Brian doesn’t love him! You saw how mad he was with Justin sabotaging him, for dragging everybody to the hospital.”

“Brian’s mad at the world right now, not Justin.” When he says nothing, I can’t resist adding, “You’re not going to start up that rivalry again, are you?”

“What rivalry?” Michael mutters angrily, keeping his eyes on the road. We ride the rest of the way home in silence.



Brian

“Hey.”

I glance toward the door and see Rick standing there, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, one hand holding a bouquet of yellow flowers.

“I read in the paper, about the accident,” he says, advancing another few steps into the room. “The hospital said you can have visitors now, so I – so here I am. Should I have called first?” He’s glancing back and forth from me to Justin like he’s at a tennis match.

Justin’s been rearranging my pillows and his hands freeze on my shoulder. Then he looks at me, waiting for me to speak. “S’okay,” I tell Rick, “Come in.” He advances closer to the bed, watching Justin out of the corner of his eye.

I can almost feel Justin bristling, but then he clears his throat and announces, “I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back IN A FEW MINUTES.” He throws a look at Rick that I can’t see, then hurries past him out of the room.

“Hey,” I say to Rick, and he visibly relaxes, moving closer to the bed.

“Hey,” he’s smiling slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Well, not weally.” I shake my head, silently cursing my clumsy speech. It’s better – the swelling of my lower lip’s gone down a lot today, but I still sound like Elmer Fudd. “Bwoken wibs, bwoken leg.”

“Worse for the other driver, though,” Rick says, laying the flowers on my bed table. “He’s dead.”

“He is?”

Nobody told me. Why didn’t they tell me? Suddenly I feel myself start to shake, I don’t know why.

“Hey,” Rick moves close to the bed, reaches out to take my hand. “Are you all right?” I nod yes but it’s a lie, for some reason I’m upset, my shoulders are shaking, I don’t know why. I squeeze Rick’s hand convulsively and close my eyes.

“Brian? Brian?”

“S’okay,” I gasp, trying to get a grip on myself, trying to open my eyes, taking deep shuddering breaths, which of course hurts my ribs. “Oh,” I moan, though I’m trying not to acknowledge the pain, it’s about six minutes till I get my morphine dose in the IV.

I hear quick footsteps enter the room and in moments an arm goes around my shoulders. “Brian, Brian, what is it?” I open my eyes to see Justin bending over me.

“S’okay,” I manage to say, taking another deep breath.

“What did you do to him?” Justin demands, glaring at Rick, who’s let go of my hand and backed away from the bed a step or two.

“Nothing,” Rick denies quickly, and “Nothing,” I echo him, then I ask Justin, “Why didn’ you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Rick pipes up, “About – the other driver. I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret.”

Justin’s hugging my shoulders. “You didn’t need to know, Brian, I was afraid it would upset you.”

“I’m not ubset,” I lie, glancing at the clock over the door. Four minutes to morphine. “Water?”

Justin points at the bedside table and tells Rick, “Pour some water in that glass with the straw and hand it to me.” Quickly Rick obeys him and I take a grateful gulp of cool water, then another.

“Okay now.”

Justin lets go of my shoulders and hands the glass back to Rick.

“I’m sorry,” Rick says, setting the glass down, then wringing his hands. “I should go now.” He turns for the door, and after a brief pause, Justin follows him out of my room.

Three minutes to morphine.


Justin

“Rick – “ My voice stops him before he reaches the elevator.

Turning and regarding me warily, Rick says, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s – okay. You didn’t know we were keeping it from him.” I don’t know why I’m being nice to this guy. He’s beautiful, and I’m so jealous of him my balls ache with it. Brian likes him. Brian’s dating this guy. Brian’s fucking this guy. It nearly chokes me.

We stand staring at each other, and finally, Rick says quietly, “I won’t see him again.”

I shake my head. “Don’t do me any favors. If he wants to see you, that’s his call.”

He considers this, then asks, “Are you two back together?”

“No.” Then I sigh. “I don’t know. This,” I wave my hand toward Brian’s room, “This complicates things. He’s going to need my help for a while, I’ll be staying at his place. But it doesn’t – probably – mean anything.” I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Well.” Rick’s got nothing else to say, and I don’t either. “Thanks,” he says, at last, turning away. “See you around.”

“See you.” I watch him get on the elevator, then turn and go back to Brian’s room.

Brian

“Hello?”

Almost angrily I turn toward the door to see who’s next in the annoying parade of visitors to my room. Why do people imagine that you want visitors when you’re trapped in a hospital bed, unable to escape? The nurses refuse to close the door, leaving me vulnerable to any asshole who wants to pop in and bore me with cheerful inanities. The most the nurses will do is pull the curtain halfway around the bed, separating me from the (thankfully so far) empty other bed.

Christ, it’s Jesse. “Jesse!”

I’m amazed to see him standing there, hesitating in the doorway. He's in his work clothes, he must be on his way to the office.

“Am I bothering you?” he tilts his head to one side, cocks an eyebrow at me.

“No,” I assure him quickly, “Come on in.”

Actually, I’ve been lying here thinking about dinner. It’s surprising how mundane things take on such importance when your day is spent sleeping or watching daytime tv, coping with pain and painful visitors, your brain crammed with worries. I’ve had two painful visitors today, so maybe Jesse will be a respite from the frustration that’s been building up inside me. I don’t even have morphine anymore to dull my senses. They took away my morphine dispenser yesterday and I’m surviving on Vicodin and Demerol, in doses too low to provide any kind of pleasurable retreat.

“Bit of an imposition, coming here to see you?” Jesse suggests, coming closer to the bed and glancing around at the vases of flowers on the windowsill and the array of sketches Justin’s taped all over the walls.

“No, not at all,” I reply sincerely, mentally pulling myself away from the miasma of pain and worry clouding my brain. “I’m just – surprised.” Then I add quickly, “It’s a good surprise. Sit down,” I gesture at the chairs, and Jesse pulls one over near the bed and sits down. I’m glad the swelling’s gone down in my lip and I’m able to speak normally now, I would’ve hated for Jesse to hear me talking like some fucking cartoon.

“I read about it in the paper, of course, then I had a word with your girl Cynthia yesterday, see how you were doing.” Cynthia was one of today’s painful visitors. When I nod my head, Jesse continues, “Guess we can’t be sharing cigarettes and a drop of bourbon here.”

“No,” I agree grimly. Christ, I miss cigarettes. I miss sex. My dick’s going to explode the first time anybody touches it. I miss pissing in the toilet. At least the catheter is gone now and I can piss in a jug.

“When will they release you? Cynthia didn’t know.”

“Soon, in a couple days. But,” I fight down the self-pity swirling just beneath the surface, “I’ll be stuck at home for a while.” Then I add bleakly, “For a month. Or two. Or more.”

Jesse tsk-tsks sympathetically. “Are you going stark staring mad here, lying prisoner in that bed?” When I merely nod, he asks, “Got lots of folks looking after you?”

“Too fucking many,” I complain, thinking he’ll laugh, but he shakes his head.

“Lots of people have nobody.” He crosses his legs and leans back in the chair. “You’re damned lucky.”

In a way, I know he’s right, but I refuse to agree. “They’re smothering me.”

Jesse nods knowingly. “Bet they’re tempted to do exactly that, sometimes.”

That cracks me up, and we laugh together. He’s right.

“Dinner’s coming!” Justin bursts into the room, bustling over to my bed urgently before he stops short when he notices Jesse sitting there. Justin gets more excited about dinner time than I do. He’s got the nurses snowed, they sneak in an extra tray just for him most evenings. Predictably, Justin likes hospital food. After all, he likes the food at the diner.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, “I didn’t know anybody was here.”

“Jesse, this is Justin.” I have no intention of explaining anybody to anybody else.

“Hello,” Jesse stands up and shakes hands with Justin. “Are you the artist?” He waves his hand at the drawings on the walls.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Justin’s surprised.

“You’re carrying a sketchpad.”

“Oh.” Justin drops his backpack and sketchpad on the other chair and turns to me. “I’ll come back later when the dinner trays are delivered,” he offers, but before I can say okay, Jesse interrupts.

“Don’t go. You were in the car crash too, weren’t you? I saw your name in the paper.”

“Yeah. But I wasn’t hurt. Well, just whiplash, nothing serious.” Justin removes his jacket and throws it on the chair. “But if Brian hadn’t turned the jeep away, we probably would have been killed.”

“You’re such a drama princess,” I complain; I’m sick of hearing this version of the story. The whole fucking thing was my fault, beginning to end, I won’t be made some half-assed hero after the fact. And anyway, somebody is dead; the other driver.

Justin throws a concerned look at me and asks, “Are you hurting? Did you get your Vicodin at five o’clock?”

“I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll go see Karen,” he offers, no doubt reading the pain in my face. “Nice to meet you,” he says politely to Jesse, who nods at him, then he’s out the door and gone to harass somebody at the nurses’ station.

Turning slightly in the bed, I jar my leg and grimace. I didn’t get the Vicodin, and in a way. I’m grateful to Justin for taking care of it, in another way I want to scream at him to stop taking care of things.

“Justin’s one of those ‘too fucking many’ looking after you, huh?”

I just nod, I’ve awakened the pain in my leg and it’s hard to talk and hurt at the same time. I’m aware that Jesse has moved over to the wall and is studying Justin’s drawings. “These are good,” he says. “I’m no expert, but he must be very talented.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, “You sit still for five minutes and he’s made twelve sketches of you.”

“This one of a woman holding a child is beautiful.”

“Yes.” It’s one of my favorites. Surprising myself, I add, “That’s my son. Gus.”

Jesse twists his head around to look at me. After a moment he says, “Hmm.” I’m waiting for the prying questions, but there aren’t any; that’s not Jesse’s style.

“Was this drawn here, at the hospital?”

That’s more his style, and if I weren’t hurting so much, I might laugh.

“Yes. All the sketches were done here in the past few days. He’s prolific as fucking hell.”

“Seems like a nice boy.” When I say nothing, Jesse moves back to the chair but doesn’t sit down. “You must be relieved that he wasn’t badly hurt.”

“But he could have been. It was my fault.”

Christ, where did that come from? It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.

Jesse does not jump in and deny my guilt, instead, he says quietly, “I’ll bet you’ve been playing the ‘if only’ game.” When I look at him quizzically, he adds, “If only I’d done this, that wouldn’t have happened.”

“Justin could have been killed. The other driver was killed.”

“Yes,” Jesse agrees seriously. Then he adds, “I guess everybody on earth plays ‘if only.’ Bet Justin’s playing it too.”

“Justin? Why should he?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jesse shrugs. “ But I’ll bet, if you asked him, he’s blaming himself for what happened to you. ‘If only’ he wasn’t with you that night, you would not have been driving him home.”

“That’s ridiculous! He had nothing to do with what happened.”

“You’re right.”

We’re silent for a moment, then Jesse sighs. “Well, I’ve got to be getting on to work. Just wanted to see for myself how you’re doing.”

I pull myself together enough to say, “Jesse, thanks for coming – I really. . . thanks.”

“Sure.” He comes a bit closer, hesitates, then reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Take care of yourself, and I hope none of your folks end up smothering you for real.”

We laugh, then Jesse turns and gives me a wave before going out the door.

Two minutes later, Justin comes through the door with the evening nurse, who hands me a paper cup with a Vicodin and Justin hands me a glass of water. Gratefully swallowing the pill and letting myself relax slightly, I watch Justin thank the nurse as she leaves, before turning back and coming around the bed to fluff up my pillows. He does that ninety-seven times a night, and I resist the urge to snap at him to stop.

Instead, I take his hand and when he looks at me I can’t help asking, “Justin, you don’t blame yourself for the accident, do you?”

“God,” Justin’s mouth drops open and he steps back abruptly, staring wide-eyed at me. “How’d you know?”

I’m dumbfounded and I can’t even answer him.

Justin pulls his hand away and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s silent for a moment, then he whispers, “If I hadn’t come to your place that night, you would have been home, safe. If I didn’t ask you to take me home – you wanted me to stay, but I had a project to do, but if I had stayed with you, none of this would have happened. If only – “

“Shut up.” He stops at the sharp tone in my voice and stares at me. “It was NOT your fucking fault, Justin – none of it.”

“But if only I – “

“No!” I’m almost yelling at him. “It was an accident! It was not your fault, it was not anybody's fault.”

And suddenly I realize - that's why Jesse set me onto Justin. Not for Justin's sake. For mine.

“Oh, Brian,” Justin’s tearing up, but I shake my head at him.

“Don’t cry. Go check on dinner, I’m starving.”

He gulps and swallows hard, then takes a deep breath. “Sure, okay,” he says, and when he turns for the door, he almost bounces out of the room.



Cynthia

As I pull into the agency parking lot, I’m thinking of my visit with Brian at lunchtime, and I realize that Brian’s going to be fighting for his life the next few months - and not because of his injuries. Gardner Vance has never liked him, and he’s going to use Brian’s absence to try and leverage him out of the agency. He’s a fool to try it because he’s going to turn Brian against him if he loses, and if he wins, the agency will suffer greatly. Brian’s absolutely the best there is, and that’s not my favoritism speaking.

Favoritism being a relative thing where Brian Kinney is concerned.

I’d been wanting to visit Brian in the hospital but I was sure he wouldn’t like it, so I held off until today. We talked on the phone yesterday - our first contact, as Brian couldn't - or wouldn't - take phone calls the first few days. He'd called me to check on the status of some of his accounts and to urge me to watch my back with Vance. The day after the accident, Vance had me send a large bouquet of flowers from the agency, and he’s been checking with me daily since then for reports on Brian’s recovery. I’m always cautious with Vance, I don’t trust him an inch and I’d betray him in a second, yet to openly flaunt him would be professional suicide.

Brian’s private life has always been private – I’ve been aware of a few of his risqué adventures over the years, and he’s trusted me enough to let me make some of his travel arrangements, which occasionally include rather ambiguous items on his expense account. And of course, I know about his friends or those that call him regularly. It took me a while to figure out who Justin Taylor was in the Brian scheme of things, but eventually I had a pretty good idea.

After Justin was attacked at the prom and it came out in the papers that Brian had danced with him there, I remember feeling utter amazement. That was so unlike the Brian Kinney I knew, that at first, I didn't believe it. In the weeks after that, Brian was a wreck - not that strangers would know, he kept himself pulled together, but he was ragged at the seams for several weeks. I helped him stay on top of things at work, and a few months later he bought me a pair of diamond earrings. He never said why, but I knew.

I was aware that Justin was living with Brian because he'd answer the phone almost every time I called, and we'd sometimes chat about this and that. He's a very charming young man. After Gardner Vance bought the agency, Justin's frequent phone calls stopped - at the same time Brian threw himself into work. At first, I thought he'd told Justin not to call because he was so busy. But soon it was easy enough to figure out that it - whatever it was - was over. It was therefore, a shock to read in the paper that the passenger in the car with Brian when he had the accident was Justin Taylor. Still, I never jump to conclusions where Brian's concerned, and I was a bit surprised to meet Justin when I visited the hospital today.

I knocked on the open door of Brian's room - hospitals offer no privacy and must be sheer hell for Brian; then I noticed that someone was with him, sitting on a chair pulled close to the bed. They both turned to look at me, and Brian said, "Come in."

"You're growing a beard?" I asked as I approached the bed, and Brian answered, "No, it's going soon."

"He won't let me shave him," the blond boy with beautiful blue eyes told me, as he stood up politely and put out his hand to shake.

"Cynthia Johnson, Justin Taylor."

"Oh, we've talked on the phone a few times," I said.

"I know," Brian scowled. "And somebody who has shaved maybe three times in his life is NOT holding a razor to my throat."

Justin only laughed, then picked up a backpack from the floor and said, "Well, I'm late for life class, I'll see you tonight, Brian." Then he turned and twinkled his eyes at me. "I'd warn you to be careful of Brian's temper, he's majorly crabby today, but I bet you're used to that by now!"

"Yes, I am," I admitted, "But thanks for the warning."

"Fuck off," Brian growled at him - yet I noticed how his eyes followed Justin to the door, and how he almost smiled when Justin turned to wave.

"Sit," he ordered me, so I dropped my purse on the floor and sat in Justin's chair.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Fabulous. Tell me everything that's been happening. I'm so fucking useless in this fucking bed, is Vance doing his fucking lord-of-all-he surveys routine?"

"Of course. But it's worse than that, Brian." I hated to add to his worry and frustration, but he needed to know what Vance was getting up to in his absence. "How long till you can come back to work?"

Brian huffed a huge sigh and shook his head. "Months," he answered bleakly, then trained his hard stare on me. "But that's for your ears only."

"Of course," I said again, but my heart sank. If Brian was away from work for months, for sure Vance would find a way to move his ass out the door.

"Tell me."

"He's been in your office, going through your accounts," I started, and Brian erupted with "The fuck!" I nodded and went on to tell him everything.


Brian

As if my talk with Cynthia were not enough to ruin an otherwise passable day - passable because the pain is definitely receding though very fucking slowly - I had just dozed off in the early afternoon when I felt somebody enter the room, and I jerked awake. To see Michael approaching my bed, holding a large manila envelope in his hands.

“Hey, Mikey,” I mumbled, only half awake; at last here was someone I wanted to see – or so I thought.

“Brian, I have to get back to the store soon, but I wanted to see you when nobody else was here. For a change.” He laid the envelope on the bed.

“What’s that?” I pointed at it, then fumbled around on the blanket for the bed control, slowly raising myself up at an angle.

“It’s the new issue of Rage.” He undid the flap and pulled out the comic book. Waving it proudly in the air, he asked, “Justin hasn’t shown it to you yet, has he?”

“Not exactly.”

“Fuck!” Michael frowned angrily. “What do you mean, ‘not exactly?’ I told him not to show you, I told him not to show anybody. Probably half of Liberty Avenue has seen it by now, it’s really bad for business. He’s such a fucking show-off.”

“Michael, he showed me a mock-up, about a week ago, not the finished product.”

I’d reached for the comic but Michael grabbed it out of my hands. “I told him not to, he never does anything I say.”

“You’re equal partners, aren’t you?” I asked reasonably, “Why can’t he show it to anybody till you say so?”

“Fuck you, Brian.” Michael dropped the comic, it slipped off the bed and landed on the floor. He turned away and walked toward the window, keeping his back to me.

Sighing, I ran a hand hard over my face, trying to wake up enough to deal with Michael. It pissed me off to be playing referee. “Don’t put me in the middle, I don’t want anything to do with your comic book shit,” I said, more harshly than I meant to, the pain in my leg was making itself felt.

“Oh, now it’s shit, huh?” Michael turned back from the window and glared at me. “I’ll bet that’s not what you say to HIM.”

I shook my head, “Mikey, you know I think Rage is great, I’m just not going to be put in the middle of you guys’ fucking arguments. It’s business, you’re making it personal. Keep me out of it.”

“Keep you out of it! Who was it that put you back into it – him! Why is he showing you the mock-up? Why is he showing you anything? Why was he in the fucking car with you? What the fuck are you doing with him, anyway?”

“Michael. . . don’t.” I kept my voice level, I didn’t let my anger show, but I was fucking simmering with it, inside. I don’t know what the fuck I am doing with Justin, but damned if I’m going to be told by anyone – even Mikey - to explain it.

He let out a huge sigh, threw himself down in the chair by my bed and looked up at me beseechingly. “Why, Brian? He’s already fucked you over once, don’t you know he’ll do it again?”

“Stop.” I looked Michael in the eye and repeated, “Stop.”

He shook his head. “I’m your best friend, Brian. I can’t stop. You’re making a huge mistake.”

We were both silent for a few moments, and when I could speak reasonably, I asked, “Where is this coming from, Mikey?”

Michael was calm by then too, and he answered, “You’re letting him move back in with you. Just like all the times before.”

I shifted uncomfortably in the bed, it was hours till my next pain med. “He’s not moving in with me. He’s only staying nights, till I can be on my own. You know that already, you were here when everybody was planning the next month of my life like a fucking blitzkrieg campaign.”

“Well, I didn’t agree. And I still don’t. I told Ma, you can’t count on Justin to be there when you need him, you should have somebody more dependable staying with you at night.”

“Like who?” When he didn’t answer, I asked gently, “Who?”

“I could do it. I wouldn’t mind. At least you could trust me not to run out on you.”

Oh, Mikey, Mikey. “Thanks,” I told him, looking him in the eye. “Thanks. I will always trust you. But the arrangement stands.”

He’d started to smile, but when I finished, he stood up, grabbed the comic from the floor where he’d dropped it and shoved it into the envelope. “I’ve got to get back to the shop,” he muttered.

“Leave me the comic to read, there’s nothing on tv.”

“Maybe Justin will give you a copy,” he threw back over his shoulder as he went out the door.

Shit. I can’t even be in charge of arguments, tied to this bed. People can barge in whenever they like and they can barge right back out again, and I can’t do anything about it.

What was fucking ironic, and what Michael would not have believed if I told him, was that later tonight, during dinner – eaten from matching blue hospital trays with Justin leaning against the side of my bed, and me giving him all the bits I didn’t want – I asked Justin for a copy of the new comic.

“Sorry,” he shook his head, “I can’t give it to anybody till Michael says.”

I almost laughed. Almost. “And why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Justin shrugged, lifting a spoon loaded with mashed potatoes toward his mouth. “He says it’s bad for business. You going to eat your green beans?”



```````



Brian

Half-dozing and half-watching the Power Puff Girls on the tv suspended on the wall in the corner near the window, I hear a cough and turn toward the door. Jennifer Taylor is standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" She's wearing a D&G business suit in a rose-beige color, perfectly suited to her blonde coloring. It's easy to see where Justin got his beauty, certainly, he looks nothing like his father, the asshole.

"S'okay," I blink my eyes hard a few times to focus them; the after-breakfast shot of Demerol has made me drowsy. "Good morning."

I try to straighten up in bed without jarring my hip, searching for the button that raises my bed and slowly moving it to a more upright position. It's ironic that the greatest pain I feel is in my hip, yet nothing's wrong there - the doctor explained that it's phantom pain radiating from my broken leg, it only feels like the pain's in the hip.

"Good morning." Jennifer approaches the bed slowly, almost reluctantly, and stops several feet away.

"Sit down," I point at the chairs.

"No. No, I'll only stay a minute." She hesitates and I blink my eyes a few more times, trying to shake off the Demerol-fog.

Why do people have to come by just when my drug haze is at its best? I wait, with a calmness that would not be possible without heavy medication; wait for her to start in on me. I haven't seen her since the accident - since long before the accident - so there's a lot of time unaccounted for that she can rip on me about.

When I say nothing, just sit waiting for her to start, she takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about your injuries," she begins. Standard opening, just politeness. "I hope you're feeling better?"

I nod my head once, waiting. When she still hesitates, I say, "Gloves off. Say whatever you want."

"Okay," she nods her head decisively. "I want to ask you, just what the hell you think you are doing with my son?"

I don't owe her an explanation. I don't. And even if I do, she's not getting it from me.

When I don't answer, she goes on quietly, "Brian. . . I know you don't intend harm to Justin. I do know that." She's earnest, standing straight and hugging her elbows with both hands. Then she spreads her arms wide. "But can't you see that just being with you, harms him? Not just this accident," she hurries on as if I were arguing with her. "But you ruin his chances to have a normal, happy life by - leading him on. Making him think he has some kind of future with you." She stares at me, her eyes hard. "When we both know, that's bullshit."

Her ladyship Jennifer Taylor has changed a lot this past year. Hanging around with Deb has coarsened her vocabulary. Dealing with divorce, earning a living, and loving a son who challenges her entire belief system has toughened her up. I admire her, I really do, even while I can't bear to be around her. Nobody in my adult life has ever made me feel so. . . unworthy. It's true. I've never given a shit about other people's opinions - not since I was a kid anyway. But when I'm around Jennifer, I feel like a kid.

Clearing my throat and keeping my face expressionless, I ask coolly, "Do you imagine I have a master plan, or what? We've seen each other a couple times, that's all."

"Huh. You're some kind of magnet to Justin, you know it and I know it. And you use that - attraction - to keep him hanging around you."

She means sexual attraction, but I'm not going to argue semantics. I haven't pursued Justin. Or not exactly. And I don't have to defend myself to her or to anybody else. If she wants to blame me for the accident, she can try. I'll take responsibility for that. But that's all.

"Brian. . . I didn't come here to fight with you, I didn't even mean to be so harsh. I am just asking you to please think about what's best for Justin. I know, I've always known, that you care about him." She takes a deep breath, then says, "So if you're honest, you'll admit that being with you is NOT what's best for Justin."

"Maybe not." She's not going to pull that guilt-and-responsibility shit on me again, not this time. "But Justin's a man now, whether you like it or not. What he does with his life is HIS decision. Not his mommy's."

"He's not a man, Brian, he's still a teenager, for God's sake!"

"No," I repeat, rubbing my hip and trying not to grimace with the throbbing phantom pain. "He may be just nineteen, but Justin's more of a man than most men I know."

Justin's youthful looks and child-like enthusiasm often blinds people - even his own mother - from seeing the real man underneath. "Justin can make his own decisions." I really believe that what I've said is the truth. "And it's not my responsibility to protect Justin. Even from me."

Jennifer's frowning, and her shoulder's droop. "No, it's not your responsibility." She turns abruptly and heads for the door, then at the last moment she turns around to say, 'But it's the honorable thing to do. I should have known that you would not acknowledge that." Then she's gone.

And now I'm awake, and my Demerol has worn off, and I'm left with a throbbing phantom pain in my hip. And a throbbing phantom pain in the middle of my chest.



Justin

When I get to the hospital after school and enter Brian's room, he's staring out the window, he doesn't seem to hear me come in. "Hey," I say quietly as I approach the bed, not wanting to startle him. He turns his head, and for the briefest moment, the look on his face is bleak. Unhappy. Quickly that expression is wiped away, maybe I imagined it, and then he gives me a smile. God, if only he knew what that means to me, seeing him smile as I walk toward him. I drop my backpack on the chair and come close to the bed.

Brian holds out his hand. "Hey," he murmurs, grabbing my hand, then pulling me forward till I'm leaning across the bed. He lets go of my hand and slides his arm around my neck instead, still pulling me forward. We kiss, and my heart goes ka-boom! It's not just a sweet kiss, it's not just a welcome kiss, he opens his mouth and tickles my lips with his tongue, and when I open my mouth, he sucks my tongue into his, and without a moment’s hesitation, my arms slip - carefully - around his neck, and a moan escapes my lips.

"Brian," I breathe and his mouth releases mine but we stay close together, our noses and lips touching, looking cross-eyed at each other. After a moment, he says, "Ow."

"Oh! Your sore lip!" I pull away but his hold on me stays tight.

"Fuck it," he murmurs, "Kiss me again." So I do, but more gently. He's got stitches on the inside of his lip down close to his teeth. He stops again to whisper, "It's safe, it's almost healed - there's no blood."

It never occurred to me to think of that, but I don’t tell him - I don't want another safe-sex lecture. "But it hurts you," I whisper back and he shakes his head.

"Who cares?"

So we kiss for a few minutes and I let my body relax against his. He stops me once and tells me how to put down the side rail of the bed, so I can stand closer, and it's so amazingly wonderful to be in his arms with his lips kissing me softly, that I get all choked up. That's stupid; but almost immediately I feel my dick pushing against my khakis, pushing against the side of the bed.

"Touch me," Brian whispers, and I'm shocked, and then I'm scared, the door is open! But he whispers, "Touch me" again and I can't resist him, I don't want to resist him, so I slip my hand underneath the sheet and slide it over his thigh and between his legs. Brian gasps then, and I stop immediately.

"Don't stop," he tells me. I can feel the hardness of the cast on his other leg, and I'm super-careful not to rub against it, but I slide my hand upwards, cupping his balls gently, and he moans. I caress them for a moment, then he urges, "Grab my cock - jerk me off."

"Brian!" I glance over my shoulder at the open door.

"Do it," he whispers, "Don't stop." Then he pulls me hard against him again and we kiss and kiss while I stroke him underneath the sheet, just the way he likes it, slow-then fast-then slow, in the rhythm I know he likes so much, and he's gasping against my lips and kissing me at the same time. In only moments, just a couple minutes, I feel him ready to shoot, so I keep up the rhythm perfectly, and I feel his body spasm slightly as he comes in my hand. I continue to pump him a moment longer, his head’s thrown back and he’s gasping for air, then he tilts his head forward and presses his forehead to mine.

“Christ,” he exclaims in a whisper, “Christ, I’ve needed that for so long.” His hand on my neck moves up into my hair, caressing my head while he catches his breath.

“Let me clean up, Brian,” I whisper, pulling away to grab the Kleenex box from the bed table. He holds up the sheet and watches me wipe up the come on his stomach, on my hand, there’s a wet spot on the sheet too. I use half the box of tissues cleaning up and he watches me the whole time, smiling. His look is so intent that finally, I have to ask, “What?”

He half-laughs. “I was thinking you should climb up on the bed and stick your cock in my mouth.”

I laugh too but I’m shocked. “Brian – that’s the exact moment the nurse would walk in.”

“Or worse,” he nods agreement, “Deb. Or – your mom.”

“Deb would probably just make a joke. Or tell us not to make a mess.”

“Yeah.”

“But don’t worry about my mother – she won’t be coming here. I mean,” I add hurriedly, “She likes you and all, but I don’t think she, you know, has time to come here.” He just looks at me, a look I can’t read, so I go on, “She’s been working a lot of hours and stuff. And I’m not around as much to help watch Molly.”

“Your mom needs you at home – to watch Molly. Somebody else can stay with me at the loft.”

“I didn’t mean that!” I grab his hand and insist earnestly, “She’s totally okay with me staying at your place. If I lived in a dorm or something, I wouldn’t be home either. She says she’ll manage fine without me there at night.”

“Justin. . .”

I wait, scared of what he’s going to say.

“Justin, if – IF – you stay at my place, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know that.”

He pulls his hand away, brushes back the hair off my forehead and stares intently into my eyes. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s only an arrangement. For a short time.”

“I know.”

“Kiss me and promise,” he murmurs.

“I promise,” I whisper, though I’m not sure what I’m promising, then I lean forward and we kiss again.

“Knock-knock.” There’s a loud voice in the hall.

I pull away from Brian and we both look at the doorway, where Nurse Karen leans in to peer at us before walking into the room.

“Ready for dinner?”

“Sure!” I turn to Brian for confirmation and he nods. “Can I help with the trays?” I offer.

“Yes,” Karen agrees, “But – don’t you think you should wash your hands first?”

And with that she turns and walks out of the room, leaving Brian and me to stare at each other. I’m horrified, but he’s laughing. “Brian!” I exclaim, blushing hot with embarrassment. “She KNOWS.”

“Go wash your hands,” he says, still laughing. “And hurry up, I’m starving.”

Brian

Finally, everyone’s gone home and I feel myself almost sinking into oblivion on my bed. I don't have to pretend for awhile that I'm feeling fine, I don't have to expend what little energy I have left keeping hold of my temper so I don't lash out at the hands that are, God forbid, feeding me. Only Justin is still here with me now, and while I don't want him to know how fucking amazingly exhausted I am, I realize that he's going to figure it out anyway, so maybe I can just relax the tenuous hold I have on my dignity and let go. Just sink into that oblivion and leave everything up to him.

Before I can give in to the exhaustion pulling at me, I really have to piss. I can't possibly get up - I could not get up if the loft were on fire - so I call out to him, my voice revoltingly weak and helpless sounding. "Justin - "

Immediately he stops whatever he was doing in the living room and hurries to the side of the bed. I look up at him and he seems so far away, impossibly tall like a redwood tree version of Justin towering over the bed, and I almost get lost in the branches of the tree, the light from the kitchen fanning around loose tendrils of his hair like shining leaves, and I forget why I called out to him. “Grow where you’re planted,” I hear myself mumble.

"Brian, what do you need - a drink of water?" he asks solicitously, crouching down so he's almost at eye level with me. For a moment I can't remember why I called him, then the pressure on my bladder reminds me.

"Piss."

"Okay, do you want to go in to the bathroom, or – “

“Can’t.”

“I'll get the jug thing, wait a sec - " and he's gone with the speed of light, just whoosh! One minute he's beside me, the next there's an empty space by the bed where his tree trunk was rooted. I blink my eyes once and whoosh! he's here again, gently pulling back the duvet, then pulling aside some robe-thing I am mysteriously wearing. I sleep naked, why am I wearing a robe? I'm distracted from the task at hand and I close my eyes, it's too hard to figure out where this robe-thing came from. It’s green. “Leaf green,” I announce to Justin. “Funny.”

Justin’s ignoring me. "Can you hold it?" his voice calls me back from the edge of the forest, and I open my eyes again. Hold what? Oh, I see the piss jug in his hands.

I don't think so. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can't. "No," I say finally, I barely hear my voice but I can feel my head shaking no. “My branches are tired.”

"Brian, I'll hold it, okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer but takes hold of my cock and pushes it into the opening in the piss-bottle. It's like peeing into a half-gallon milk jug and somehow it feels so very wrong; somehow it feels like my mom is going to come up behind me, catch me peeing into the milk jug and slap me on the side of the head.

“Sorry, Mom,” I whisper, though I know she’s not here.

I was going to help Justin hold my dick, but it's all just too much effort. I feel my bladder let go and I shudder slightly as I relax and piss into the jug. I lose track of what I'm doing so it's a surprise when I hear Justin's voice asking, "All done?" I feel him pull the jug away, and a moment later I feel him touch the end of my dick with a Kleenex. Blot-blot. Kleenex is made of paper and paper is made of trees. That strikes me as hilariously funny but I’m too tired to laugh. I keep my eyes closed as he rearranges my dick and pulls the covers back over me.

He's gone for a minute, maybe dumping my piss in the toilet, then he's back, I don't open my eyes but I can feel him standing there, towering over me again, tree-like. "Sleep?" I murmur as if I'm asking permission, and when I slit my eyes open, I see that once again he has crouched down beside me.

"Brian - I’m worried about that champagne you drank. You're not supposed to drink when you're taking medication. Maybe I should call the doctor. You're scaring me."

Christ, I come almost-awake for a moment and stare hard at him as if he's gone crazy. "Always have," I mumble. "Only one glass, no big deal. Jus' need to sleep." When he's silent, I raise my eyes to his and I see worry reflected there. "S'okay," I promise him, "Jus' sleep." Then my eyes are too fucking heavy to stay open, they fall shut with a silent bang! and I'm gone.


Justin

"Michael? It's Justin. Can you call me? At Brian's." I leave a message on his cell, hang up and stand by the desk chewing my thumbnail. I know that Brian has always mixed drugs and alcohol, and he assured me it was no big deal to drink a glass of champagne during the really-bad-idea homecoming party. Nobody at the party seemed to think anything of it, but now Brian seems so out of it that I'm getting a little worried. I've never seen him this weirded out.

Within moments the phone rings under my hand, making me jump. "Hello?"

"It's Michael. What's wrong?"

I hesitate. “Probably nothing. But I thought I should check with somebody, because Brian's kind of - kind of out of it."

"What are you talking about? What do you mean, 'out of it?'"

"I don't know," I admit, realizing that I sound like an idiot. "Like maybe just passed out, but in a scary kind of way."

"Scary enough to call an ambulance?"

"N-no," I say.

"I'll be there in five minutes." Michael hangs up before I can say anything else. I tiptoe back up to the bedroom to look at Brian, and he seems okay, he's unmoving but breathing heavily.

In seven and a half minutes I hear the loft door being pushed back and I stop pacing between the kitchen and the living room and hurry to greet Michael.

"He's in bed?" Michael asks without preamble, glancing toward the bedroom. "What's wrong?"

"Probably nothing," I shove my hands in my pockets. "He just kind of passed out. He had a glass of champagne at the party, and you know he's taking pain meds. He said some really weird stuff before he passed out. It just kind of worried me."

"Okay, let me see him." Michael leads the way.

Right on his heels, I whisper, "Brian told me he was okay, but I thought I should check with somebody else just in case."

Michael crouches down beside the bed and studies Brian's sleeping face. Slowly he lifts the duvet enough to reveal Brian's arm, and holds his finger on the wrist pulse-point for a minute, then he lets go and very slowly and gently lifts one of Brian's eyelids. I'm afraid Brian will wake up, but he doesn't. Then Michael stands up and leads the way back to the living room.

"He's okay," Michael says, "Just passed out. You're sure he had only one glass of champagne?" When I nod yes, he continues. "You lived with him for almost a year and you never saw Brian pass out before?"

"Well, sure, a couple times, but not like this. He got really drunk – fall-down drunk – two or three times, but I don’t think he was taking drugs those times. And it says right on the Vicodin bottle not to mix with alcohol. I asked him not to, at the party but, well, you know Brian - "

"Yeah, I know Brian." Michael pauses, then adds, "Well, he's okay, just keep an eye on him. And call me if anything changes."

"Thanks, Michael. I'm sorry I bothered you for nothing."

We stare at each other, and then Michael says, "I'm glad you called me - it's not a bother. It was - very responsible."

With an inward sigh, I smile at him, I was so sure he would chew me out. I follow him to the door but he stops abruptly and turns around to look at me.

"Justin - I'm just curious. You said Brian never passed out from drugs while you were living with him? Just booze?"

"No. I mean, he drank a lot. Well, you know - a lot. In the beginning, he was taking a bunch of different drugs too, stuff I never even heard of, he had a whole box full of little pills and things. But this one time when he first let me start trying stuff, I got pretty messed up. Like an OD, only not quite? It freaked him out."

"Yeah?"

I realize I shouldn't be telling secrets to Michael, but I can't just leave it hanging, I have to explain. "Well, after that - at least when we were together - we both stuck to pot and E, nothing else. Oh, a bump sometimes, you know. Maybe Brian took stuff when he was with other guys, but I never saw him messed up. Drunk yeah, but not, you know, messed up."

"Hmm." Michael's looking at me, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. "Well, okay,” he says, zipping up his jacket. “Give me a call if you need to. Anytime."

"Thanks, Michael." He turns and heads off down the stairs, then I close the door and go back to clearing up the after-party mess in the living room.


Michael

Driving back to Ben’s place, I’m trying to remember the last time I saw Brian really messed up on drugs. It’s true that he used to take anything and everything, and always drinking like a fish along with it. Dozens of times I’d put Brian to bed and watched him pass out, and it used to scare me like it scared Justin tonight, till I got used to it. Brian himself told me what to watch out for – rapid pulse, cold sweat, dilated pupils. I checked him out tonight and he was okay, just sleeping heavily.

Once Justin started monopolizing Brian and I wasn’t the one always driving him home and putting him to bed, I just assumed that Brian continued abusing every drug under the sun, after all, his boytoy didn’t stop him from fucking other guys every night of the week, so why would Brian change anything else?

The last time I remember seeing Brian messed up was the night Justin got out of the hospital and came looking for Brian at Woody’s. That was the worst, the absolute worst I’ve ever seen Brian, it shocked and scared me and made me mad at him, all at the same time. When I’d accidentally seen that bloody scarf around Brian’s neck and I knew he was punishing himself for Justin’s bashing, what I remember most is that I was mad at Justin. If he’d just stayed away from Brian like I warned him long ago, none of that would have happened. I know the bashing wasn’t Justin’s fault, but everything before and after it was.

And now here was Justin AGAIN living in Brian’s loft. I don’t understand, I’ve tried but I just don’t get it. What is it about one damn skinny teenager that makes Brian keep coming back for more? The kid’s lied and cheated – he even stole Brian’s credit card when he ran away to New York. And there’s Brian – the smartest guy I’ve ever known, the guy who could have any man in Pittsburgh – letting that little blond brat jerk him around.

Taking slow deep breaths from the diaphragm like Ben taught me, I try to calm myself down before I get to his place. I’m not mad that Justin called me tonight, in fact, I’m glad he did, and I told him it was very responsible. It’s just that every time he’s around, bad things happen to Brian.


Vic

I told Deb the homecoming party was a bad idea, I tried to get her to change Michael’s mind, but though she agreed with me she wouldn’t argue with him. They’re treading softly around each other while they work out this Ben relationship thing, being careful of each other’s feelings. It won’t last very long of course, but for a while at least they’re not arguing. Justin had been against the party idea too, but since he and Michael barely get along these days, Justin backed away from an outright battle and let Michael have his way.

Now I realize that I should have leaned on Michael myself, tried to talk him out of it. Nobody knows better than me what it feels like to be an invalid surrounded by well-meaning but pushy family and friends, determined to cheer you up whether you want to be cheered or not. And most people have no clue how much energy it takes just to sit back and not scream at them all to go away. I read that in Brian’s eyes this afternoon, and it made me flash back to my own experiences; I really felt bad for him and did my best to end the party as soon as possible.

Justin was also chomping at the bit, I could tell how anxious he was, and at one point I pulled him aside. We had a whispered confab and decided to just ask people one by one to leave without making a to-do about it, which would have really annoyed Brian – he was trying so hard to pretend that he felt fine, and all it takes with Brian is to tell him he can’t do something to make him determined to prove that he can. If we’d said, ‘Brian’s tired now, go home,’ Brian would have pitched a fit and exhausted himself even more, trying to prove he was not exhausted.

Brian can sit in a wheelchair, but he can’t get in and out of a car, so he’d had to come home by ambulance. Most folks were already at the loft when Justin and Michael wheeled him out of the elevator and in through the door. One look at Brian’s horrified face when he beheld the massed crowd and the balloons decorating the apartment was enough to reveal his mental state – the poor man just wanted to be left alone to recover from the trip home from the hospital, and here he was forced to be the center of attention at a party. Give the man credit, Brian tried to mask his dismay and settle down (with gritted teeth) to endure the party in his honor, but of course Brian’s reputation for rudeness allowed him to grump a bit without surprising anybody.

I’d been recruited as bartender, Lindsay and Deb had organized decorations and refreshments, and Michael invited half the regulars at Woody’s, who mostly showed up just to get a look at Brian’s place and to gorge on free food and liquor. They were the hardest to get rid of, but after a couple hours the loft was nearly empty, Brian was almost falling out of the wheelchair and he finally allowed Justin and Michael to help him get in bed. Naturally, we offered to help clean up the place, but Justin was adamant that everything just be left and the lights turned out so Brian could rest. In the car driving home, Deb agreed that the party had been a mistake, Brian looked absolutely done in when we said our goodbyes.

It’s a funny thing, Brian letting Justin stay at the loft to look after him. In some ways it’s an obvious choice – Justin has fewer commitments than most folks; but in reality, it’s also very strange. I don’t pretend to know Brian as well as Michael and Deb do, but I’ve been an observer and a sidelines participant in Brian’s life since he was a teenager. And knowing Brian the way that I do, I really could not believe he would ever forgive Justin for leaving him.

Deb had been convinced that Brian was madly in love with Justin, and while she was practical enough to see the inevitable problems in that relationship, she’d been sure that the boys would work things out. But that was before we found out Justin was cheating on Brian, and then actually walked out on him - running off with a musician, a boy his own age. Justin moved out of the loft and in with his mother and that was that. Deb found out a while back that Justin’s fling with the musician was over, but neither she, nor I, nor anybody in the world who knows Brian Kinney would have dreamed that Brian would ever speak to Justin again.

And yet – it’s come out that Brian and Justin have been seeing each other, for a while now apparently. I’d sure like to know how that happened. Justin was in the car crash with Brian, and in the aftermath, he’s taken on the role of nurse and caretaker. And Brian is letting him. In a few days when Brian’s settled into a routine at home, I think I’ll pay him a visit alone and see if I can find out what’s going on. I’m not nosey, just interested.

Okay, so I’m nosey.


Brian

All night long I kept waking up, I’m almost sorry I wouldn’t let Justin rent a hospital bed for me, I could not get comfortable. The first time I woke up I forgot where I was, and moved my hand all over the bed trying to find the call button for the nurse, muttering “Fuck fuck fuck.”

Next thing I knew, Justin’s head magically appeared next to the bed. “I’m here, Brian.”

“Genie in the bottle,” I said, not realizing I was talking out loud.

“Huh?”

It felt like I’d rubbed a bottle and Justin had popped out, but it was too hard to explain. I could only ask, “Why’re you at the hospital so late?”

“You’re home, Brian, we’re at the loft,” he explained, and when I glanced around, I realized that he was right. A few dim lights were on around the loft and I could see familiar shadows.

“Why’re you on the floor?” My brain was working very slowly.

He was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, an airbed actually, pulled up close to my side of the bed in case I needed him in the night. As it turned out I did.

“What do you need, Brian?”

“Toilet.”

It was crazy, but in a way, I wished I was still in the hospital. They won’t let you eat and drink things that will make you sick, they won’t let you smoke and drink, and they only let two people at a time into your room, so you don’t get exhausted trying not to kill them.

Justin stood up then, and the motion of him rising from the ground to tower over me added to the nausea I was feeling. “I’ll get that bedpan thing,” he offered, but I stopped him by reaching out to grab his hand.

“Get up,” I insisted.

He hesitated, then said, “Okay, let me get some lights on, can you wait a minute?”

“Yes,” I nodded, “But move slowly. Making me dizzy.”

He moved away then, slowly, and flipped on the bedroom lights and leaned in to switch the bathroom light on also. Then he came back around the bed and carefully pulled back the covers all the way off my legs. I struggled to rise up but immediately Justin said, “Stop, Brian! Do it the way we practiced, remember? And wait for me to start.”

Oh yeah, I forgot.

Justin knelt beside me on the ledge of the bed, leaning over to slide an arm under my back. He took my right hand in his left hand and said, “Okay, now sit up very slowly, steady with my hand behind you.” I held on tight to his hand and slowly lifted myself up, his other arm behind me supporting my back. In a moment I was sitting upright and I sighed with relief.

“Now slowly swivel your hips toward me, keep both your legs locked together. Move them as a unit.” He sounded exactly like the drill sergeant nurse who made us practice in the hospital. Surprisingly it worked, with only a mild twinge of pain in my leg. Once I was on the bed ledge, Justin made me wait while he kicked his mattress out of the way and brought over the wheelchair.

“Now grab both my hands,” he said, and when I did, he instructed, “And taking all the weight on your right leg, stand up.” I held my breath while making this maneuver, and I realized Justin did too when we exhaled twin whooshes of air at the same time. Finally, I was standing upright, though very shaky. Keeping one hand on my arm to steady me, Justin brought the wheelchair close behind me and set the lock so it couldn’t move, then he came around in front and, holding both my hands, guided me to sit down on the chair seat.

We both whooshed big sighs again, then Justin wheeled me into the bathroom, the chair just barely clearing the door frame. I became aware again of the hideous green robe thing I was wearing. “What the fuck is this?” I asked, twisting my head to look at Justin over my shoulder.

“It’s a hospital gown, they sent a couple home with us, they’re easier to manage than pajamas and stuff.”

“Pajamas? My last pajamas had Batman on them, you know I don’t wear pajamas.”

Justin parked the chair and locked the wheels again. “You need something to wear around the house, these are lightweight cotton and easy to wash.”

“Sounds like you’re selling them. I’m not buying. I can wear my silk robe if I need to wear anything.”

“Okay, now put both hands in mine and stand up very slowly.” I obeyed, and again I was surprised that it worked. I hadn’t been sure that Justin was strong enough to help me move around, though he’d proved he could do it in our practice sessions at the hospital.

“Take this fucking thing off me,” I insisted, then rested my hands on his shoulders while he wrestled with the strings tied in the back. He got them loose and pulled off the robe and tossed it toward the corner. I glanced sideways at the mirror and gaped at myself.

“Fuck!”

”What?” Justin turned to look in the mirror.

“Fuck me, I’m so fucking thin.” I was shocked, I could practically see my ribs. “I must’ve lost ten pounds.”

“Well, you haven’t been eating enough, I’ve told you and told you,” he reminded me. “But don’t worry, everybody’s going to be cooking delicious meals for you, you’ll be back to normal in no time. Sit, Brian!”

”Oh,” I remembered why we were in the bathroom and with Justin’s help I slowly lowered myself onto the toilet. “Go away now.”

“Brian, I’ve been in the bathroom about ninety-seven times when you were taking a dump.”

“Not this time. Go away.”

“Oh, all right,” he sighed exasperatedly. “I’ll go fix you some warm milk, okay?”

Strangely enough, that sounded good. “Okay.”

When Justin heard me flush the toilet, he returned and we repeated the process of getting me into the chair and wheeling back toward the bed. I didn’t like the feel of my bare ass on the chair, maybe the hideous hospital robe was not such a bad idea. But I need to sleep nude.

Justin and I sipped mugs of warm milk, then he helped me get back into bed. The whole up-and-down process took half an hour at least, we were both exhausted. I was still uncomfortable, but I could tell that he was holding himself back until I got to sleep, so I forced myself to relax and let go of the frustrations and the worries and slip back into unconsciousness – for about an hour, till I woke up once again.

The next time, I remembered where I was. In the dim lights that Justin left on around the loft, I could see him sleeping on his makeshift bed on the floor. I wished he were sleeping beside me on the bed, but the nurse said I need to sleep alone for awhile yet, I don’t remember why – something about tossing and turning, but I don’t know if she meant Justin or me. I’d like to feel him lying next to me. Maybe we can bend the rules tomorrow night.

I lay awake thinking about the agony of the homecoming party – I wonder whose idea that was? – trying to act my normal self, which fortunately is in large part asshole so I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy anything. I thought about the neatly printed schedule stuck into the frame of the mirror behind my desk, who’s coming and when to care for the fucking invalid. I thought about the calls I need to make – Cynthia has promised to fax me a comprehensive list of my clients, their phone numbers, and some basic account info, so I can start making calls - try to repair whatever shit Gardner Vance has gotten up to. Once I started on that train of thought, all hope of sleep deserted me.

Something caused Justin to wake up – maybe I was mumbling or shifting around on the bed, something caused him to sit up and glance over at me.

“I’m okay, Justin, go back to sleep.”

He got up then and came over to sit on the edge of the bed. “Can’t sleep?” he yawned.

“Just thinking about things. Go back to bed.”

“I know a magic trick that will help you sleep.”

That made me smile. “You know lots of magic tricks.”

Justin laughed, then stood up and walked around the other side of the bed. He lifted up the duvet and slid underneath, the lump of his body moving slowly and stealthily like a snake, inch by inch across the bed, under the duvet, until I felt his hand caressing my thigh. I threw back the covers to reveal his head, his blond hair contrasting beautifully with the dark blue sheets.

“You don’t need to blow me, Justin, you’re exhausted, go back to bed.”

He smiled up at me then, that deceptively angelic boyish smile that conceals a man just born to fuck, and he whispered, “Yeah, it’s a great hardship, Brian, but I’m willing to sacrifice myself for your sake,” then he gently took hold of my cock and touched his pink tongue to the tip. My eyes closed and I let my body sink into the mattress as I gave myself up to Justin’s incredible hot wet mouth. I allowed myself to come quickly, my fingers twisted in his tangled hair.

When my breathing was back to normal, I ran my fingers from his head to the back of his neck and squeezed. “Your turn.”

“No,” he shook his head, “Not tonight. Tonight just go to sleep. Okay?”

Without opening my eyes I nodded. “’Kay,” I mumbled, already half asleep. I felt him move off the bed and pull the duvet up to my chin, and I was just slipping into sleep as he crawled into his makeshift bed on the floor beside me.

Brian

As soon as I get out of this fucking wheelchair, there's a bunch of people I'm going to kill. I'm making a list in fact, but it's only in my head. If I put it down on paper, that would prove the murders were premeditated. My only hope will be to claim temporary insanity.

At least I hope it's temporary.

"Fuck!" I shout at the top of my lungs. I've just completed a long memo when the computer crashes, goes black, the whole fucking loft goes black.

“Justin, God damn it!”

“Shh, Brian, shh, I’m right here, stop yelling.”

I can’t see him but I feel his presence close beside me. ”What the fuck did you do, blow another fuse?”

He has the gall to laugh. “I blew up the whole power company this time Brian. Look at the window, the whole street’s dark.”

“I can’t see the fucking window.”

“Of course you can, it’s lighter outside than inside.”

I refuse to acknowledge that I can see the window. “What did you do?” I demand again.

“Brian, I didn’t do anything, it’s a black-out, the whole street’s dark.”

I’m inconsolable. “I lost my memo. A really long and unbelievably great memorandum.”

“Most of it will come back,” he chimes in cheerfully. “You were saving it as you went along, right?”

I grit my teeth. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that. And if you say ‘I told you so,’ you are sleeping outside the door tonight. By the elevator. Without blankets.”

“I’ll help you re-do it when the lights come on.”

“You can’t re-do anything, it’s gone forever. It was fucking brilliant, and it’s gone forever.” I hear my voice, it sounds like I’m proclaiming the sinking of the Titanic. It’s almost as bad. Fewer lives were lost, but that’s the only difference. “Could you POSSIBLY light a fucking candle?”

“Sure,” he agrees quickly, “Where are they?”

“Justin, there is not a single item in my whole fucking loft that you have not washed or polished or hidden away somewhere so I can’t find it.”

“Okay.” He admits it. “Kitchen cabinet under the glasses shelf, behind the juice machine.”

I’m exasperated. “If you knew, why did you ask?”

“Brian, I was only trying to make you feel useful.”

That’s it. “Outside. I mean it this time.”

I hear him giggle as he slip-slides across the floorboards toward the kitchen; he wears socks and skates constantly around the loft. Slip-slide, slip-slide, slip-slide. Tomorrow when he’s at school, I’m going to burn all his socks. He’s at the cupboard and I hear him rustling around and finally, I hear the scrape of a match, and I see Justin’s face illuminated from underneath his chin, his head disembodied, floating above the kitchen countertop. He lights another candle, then carries them both over to my desk.

“If you remember some of your memo, you could dictate it and I’ll write it longhand on a tablet.”

“Justin, don’t be - nice,” my voice takes on the whiny tone I’ve come to recognize means ‘Go to bed, Brian.’ “I’m wallowing. Let me wallow.”

“Okay,” he agrees soothingly, then moves around behind my chair and begins to massage my neck. “It’s late anyway, Brian, time for bed. Okay?”

I want to say no. I want to say fuck off. It’s probably ten-thirty or eleven, I should be out, I should be in the backroom at Babylon getting my dick sucked. Not being wheeled around my loft in pitch darkness by Saint Justin the Perpetually Horny.

“You should go out,” I tell him, as he wheels me across the floor toward the bedroom. “Put the poor helpless cripple to bed, go out and get laid.”

“I’m too tired to go out.” Justin parks me at the foot of the steps and goes back to retrieve the candles, sets them down on the table beside the bed.

“You are not tired. You’re nineteen for Christ’s sake, you won’t be tired for another ten years.”

“Brian, I don’t want to go out.”

“I do. I want to go dancing, I want to fuck four guys in a row, I want to get so drunk I fall down head-first in a snowbank.”

Justin locks the wheels and helps me stand up. “You’ll be doing all that pretty soon, Brian, just a couple months of therapy and you’ll be good as new.”

“I’ll never walk again. I’ll never dance again. I’ll never fuck again.” I’ve got one arm around Justin’s shoulders as he helps me maneuver the three steps to the bedroom. I plop down on the ledge of the bed and wait for him to bring the wheelchair up, then he moves the candles to the bathroom, comes back and wheels me close to the toilet and helps me sit on it.

“We fucked yesterday.”

“Don’t remind me.” Justin straddling me on the bed, doing all the work of sliding up and down my cock, me pretending my damn leg didn’t hurt, Justin pretending to enjoy himself.

We’re silent for a minute or two, then I threaten, “If you tell Ted that I piss sitting down like a girl, yours will be the next body found in a dumpster.”

“Oh, I saw Ted today, at the diner.” Justin’s at the sink, washing his face. “He says he’s thinking about incorporating.”

“Wow, that’s exciting. Jerk at Work, Inc. What a thrill.” I think for a minute, then ask, “What were you doing at the diner?”

“Oh, nothing,” Justin lies. “Just visiting.” He should know he can’t lie to me.

“You weren’t working?” We have an agreement, while Justin spends nights at the loft helping me, he’s off duty at the diner. I make up the difference in his paycheck. No arguments.

“No. Not really. Just helping out.”

“Fuck!” I throw the XY magazine I was reading across the room. Which is really stupid because Justin will have to pick it up. “No wonder you’re tired, you little asshole. We had an agreement.”

Justin turns those baby blue eyes on me and smiles, but tonight I’m immune, I’m fucking angry. He opens his mouth to say something but I cut him off. “Another broken promise?” I let my voice shred him, his smile falters.

“I wasn’t working,” Justin insists, wringing out the washcloth and looking me in the eye. He’s angry too.

Finally.

“I was helping out for an hour while Juanita took a break. I just stopped by to see Debbie, and I offered. It was nothing.”

“You promised.”

Justin turns away but his eyes hold mine in the mirror. “It’s not work if you don’t get paid, it was a volunteer one-hour no big fucking deal. Now shut up - or I’ll leave you on the toilet all night.”

We stare at each other for a long moment, then I laugh. I can’t help it. I want to stay mad, but he’s won this round. “Okay,” I give it up. “Put me to bed.”

“Say please.” He’s hiding his smile in the washcloth.



Debbie

It’s Wednesday so I go straight from my morning shift at the diner over to Brian’s, stopping at the market for some special ingredients for my pasta. I use my key on the front door but I knock on the loft door. I hear raised voices, which doesn’t surprise me, Brian’s the crankiest invalid I’ve ever had to deal with, and that includes my great-aunt Sarah who used to take out her teeth and throw them at visitors. I have to knock a second time before the door gets pulled back and I’m greeted by a very red-faced Lindsay.

“Ooooh,” she’s fuming, shaking her head and glaring over her shoulder at Brian, who’s sitting on the floor at the foot of his bedroom steps, the leg with the cast on it sticking straight out and his other leg curled under him.

“What the hell?” I look from one to the other of them, “Why’s Brian on the floor?”

“He’d be at the bottom of the elevator shaft if I wasn’t such a kind and gentle woman,” Lindsay exclaims.

“You mean if you weren’t such a weak and sniveling coward.” Brian’s scowling, it’s safe to assume he’s not joking. “Just hand me the fucking crutches. Now!”

Lindsay ignores him and turns back to me, taking the grocery bags from my arms and setting them down on the counter. “Brian tried to do the stairs on his own, he fucking pulled away from me and he fell on his ass. Serves him right!” But I can see that Lindsay’s near tears.

“I can do it, I’ve done it,” Brian says. “Now bring me the crutches, will you?”

I take off my jacket and throw it over the sofa, then reach down to pick up the crutches leaning against the chair but Lindsay stops me. “He can’t get up from the floor that way, we’ll have to get on either side of him and lift him up.”

“The fuck.” Brian’s glaring, but I can see white lines around his mouth and his eyes are scrunched up. He’s in pain. “You’re not strong enough to lift me.”

“Sweetie,” I try the gentle approach, “Stop being such an asshole and let us help, you’re going to hurt yourself worse if you keep messing around acting all macho, trying to be Stone Cold Steve Martin.”

Brian barks a sharp laugh. “Steve Austin. And please, I don’t do wrestlers.”

“Come on,” I glance at Lindsay, “Let’s get him up.”

“No,” Brian says, but he doesn’t fight us, as we get on either side of him and put our arms around his shoulders and lift. We pick him up easily and though he sways on his feet, he makes it over to the wheelchair and we lower him into it.

“See, nothing to it,” I tell him, brushing my hands together.

“Don’t underestimate woman power,” Lindsay agrees, “You slog around a two-year-old all day long and see how strong you get, it’s a better workout than your gym.”

“And me,” I thumb my chest, “I’m carrying heavy trays at the diner five or six days a week, I bet I could take you arm-wrestling.” Brian just nods, his lips are clamped together. “Honey,” I rub my hand on his shoulder, “Did you do any damage, do you think?”

He shakes his head no.

“When can he have a pain pill?” I ask Lindsay, who hurries over to the mirror where Brian’s schedule is taped up.

“Not till after dinner, six-thirty or seven,” she answers, then throws me a worried look. She’s aware that Brian’s in a lot of pain. “That’s three hours away, at least.”

“I can take one now,” Brian interjects. “Vicodin, on the counter by the jar of lemons.”

“No, Brian, it says – “

“I don’t give a fuck what it says,” he interrupts her, “Give it to me now.”

We’re at a stalemate, then I suggest, “Let’s call Justin.”

“Oh, Christ,” Brian rolls his eyes.

“Good idea!” Lindsay agrees, picking up her purse from the sofa and pulling out a cell phone. She flips it open and pushes the buttons.

“Let me talk to him,” Brian stretches out his arm.

“Justin!” Lindsay says into the phone, “Hi, can you talk? Oh no, no – he’s okay, don’t worry, he’s fine.”

“I’m not fucking fine. Give me the phone.”

“Well, actually, he’s not exactly fine – don’t worry, he’s right here, and he wants to talk to you. But let me tell you first that he was a complete and utter asshole and tried to come down the bedroom steps - without the crutches, and without my help - and then he. . . Yes, on his ass.”

“GIVE ME THE FUCKING PHONE!”

Lindsay hesitates, then walks over to Brian and hands him the phone.

“Justin.” Brian closes his eyes and drops his head on his hand. “Justin, shut up, I’m fine. Yes, yes, yes okay? I’m an asshole, okay? Now listen.” He takes a deep breath and goes on, “I really am fine, only, I need a Vicodin now, and the LADIES won’t give me one.”

“Tell him what the list says,” I point at the schedule taped to the mirror.

“He knows what the list says, he wrote the list,” Brian throws a withering look at me. He’s listening for a moment, then he says, “Yeah,” and hands the phone to Lindsay.

“Justin? Can he have a pill or not? Okay. You’re sure?” Lindsay nods her head and smiles at me and Brian, but he just looks away. “Thanks, sweetie, we’ll see you later. Yes, yes,” she’s nodding again, “I think he’s okay, just in a lot of pain.”

‘NOT A LOT. Christ, don’t tell him that, he’ll skip class and run all the way here.”

“No, don’t worry, Debbie’s here, she’s going to fix dinner, she’ll stay with him till you get home.” Lindsay glances at me and I nod agreement. “Bye-bye, see you later.” She flips the phone closed and announces, “Yes, Brian can have a pill, but he needs to eat something, a piece of bread or something. And Justin says we’re to make him lie down for a while, no arguments.”

Brian huffs, but he doesn’t argue. I spread some butter on a slice of bread and hand it to Brian as Lindsay pours a glass of water. Without a word Brian eats the bread, swallows the pill, and lets us help him up the stairs, one on either side. He’s moving very slowly, it’s obvious he hurt himself in the fall. Lindsay and I exchange glances behind his back but we say nothing. We help Brian sit on the edge of the bed, and he’s able to swing his legs over and lie flat. Lindsay pulls the edge of the duvet over him, and after a moment’s hesitation, she leans down and kisses his cheek.

“Be nice to Debbie,” she orders him; he says nothing, just turns his head away.

Lindsay and I exchange looks that say everything without opening our mouths. She gives me a hug before leaving the loft, and with a sigh, I begin unpacking my groceries. Poor Brian, I don’t guess he’s been helpless in his whole adult life and it’s killing him. And being Brian, he’s determined to make everyone else suffer right along with him. Doing a damn good job of it, too.

The funny thing is, Brian’s just as awful to Justin as he is to everybody and yet, Justin has some kind of control over him. Maybe control’s the wrong word, but it’s a fact that Brian usually does what Justin tells him like he did this afternoon. Justin calms him down somehow, I've seen it happen a few times now. Justin’s not rattled by Brian like he used to be sometimes. Little Sunshine’s grown up a lot in the past few months. Well, heartbreak’ll do that do you, I know for a fact.

I just hope his heart’s not going to get broken again. I glance at the mound of Brian Kinney lying still on his bed and wonder, not for the first time, if and when that poor bastard’s heart is ever going to thaw out. It was starting to. No matter what anybody says, I know Brian was in love with little Sunshine. What he feels now, with Justin once again living in the loft after running out on him, I can’t begin to guess. On my way home I'll stop at St. Mary's and light a candle for Brian. Better light one for Justin, too.



Justin

Brian's gone behind my back and organized a date night for me. Ted and Emmett are dragging me to Woody's tonight for drinks and then to Babylon. I've been arguing against it, but in a way, I really want to go. 'Bored' is not a word I'd use to describe spending every night in Brian's loft - you cannot get bored trying to keep Brian from throwing himself, or any visitor who annoys him, out the window. But in a way, I'm excited to think about losing myself for a few hours in mindless dancing. I won't mess around. Though Brian says I can't come back until I've fucked at least two guys.

He's not joking. He really wants me to go out and get laid. I have mixed feelings about that. I've lived Brian's lifestyle and I tried to like it, well in fact, I did like it, mostly, for a while. And yet I remember that I always just wanted to be with him. I'd watch some guy blowing him and I wanted it to be me. I'd watch him fucking some guy and I wanted it to be me. Nobody's ever turned me on the way Brian does. Did. Past tense.

I think we’re still in the past tense. I know we’re not back together. He made that clear from the start, and the thing is, I don't want to be back together with Brian - not the way it used to be, not the way it was at the end. It's hard, staying here with him, not to fall back into old routines. But I can’t go back there. I tell myself, forget the past - if not forget it, try not to think about it. And don't think about the future either - there might not be a future with Brian. Instead, I'm trying to live in the present tense. And the present can get pretty tense at times, especially when other people are around. When we're alone, Brian's more relaxed. Not so defensive. He lets down his guard a bit with me.

Brian doesn't know it, but I've arranged a surprise for him too. I glance at my watch and realize I'm running late. Quickly dabbing gel on my hair and disarranging it till it looks good, I throw my wet towel into the hamper and hurry out to the bedroom to get dressed. Ted and Emmett will be here any minute.


Brian

I promised Justin not to do anything stupid while he's gone, I'm just going to work on the computer for a few hours and then go to bed early. I can manage the steps with my crutches, I get can get myself into and out of the bathroom, I can get myself into bed. I won't do anything to jeopardize my fucking leg, I won't fall down again like I did last week when Lindsay was here. Christ, that was so fucking insane, sometimes I amaze myself with the stupid things that I do.

Like letting Justin come stay with me at the loft again. Being around him is too - comfortable and uncomfortable, both at the same time. But I know I could not have survived with anybody else on the planet staying here with me. A hired nurse would have killed me if I didn't kill her first. Lindsay and Deb are good to me, but they drive me up the wall with their chatter and their bustling and their nagging. Michael would be good to me too, but he'd be too good. He'd let me have my own way most of the time, and even I know that I'm a stubborn son of a bitch. Justin has a way of keeping me sane without either bossing me around or kissing my ass. That's comfortable and uncomfortable, both. It's good for me, having him around, but I know - like Jennifer said - that it's not good for Justin, not in the long run.

Having so much time to lie around and think, I've become introspective. God damn it. I loathe introspection, I loathe self-analysis and all that psycho bullshit. Yet I can't stop thinking about the mess I made of things with Justin. I should have followed my instincts in the very beginning and kept my hands off that little juicy morsel after our first night together. I tried. Christ, I tried, but he dogged me everywhere I went. And I kept thinking, 'Just one more time.' Then somehow I got sucked into his life, completely and utterly against my will.

Debbie challenged me once when I thought Justin was finally out of my life, and by his own choice. That first time he walked out on me. Debbie hunted me down at Woody's and tried to make me admit that I was in love with Justin. I didn't say I was, but I didn't say I wasn't. Useless to tell Deb I don't believe in love. I didn't and I don't and I never will. Yet I had to go find Justin and see if he'd come back. I wanted him to live with me, I wanted to come home to him every night. I don't think that's love. It's just - something else. You don't have to put names on everything. You don't have to say everything out loud.

I know he wanted me to say it, but I wouldn't. Probably that's why he went looking elsewhere for all that ridiculous romance shit. Well, he found it, and what good did it do him?

Don't go there, I remind myself. Just log on to the computer and get caught up on e-mail and forget everything else. And I do, and I'm concentrating on my response to Gardner Vance's latest bullshit directive to everyone in the agency, when somebody pushes the buzzer downstairs. I'm not expecting visitors - I don't want visitors - everybody who is scheduled to annoy me today has already done it, so who the fuck is downstairs demanding admittance?

At first, I'm going to ignore the buzzer, then curiosity gets the best of me and I wheel myself over to the door and push the intercom button. "Who is it?" I bark, in my best go-away voice.

"Brian? It's Rick."

Shit.

Shit.

"Brian?"

Closing my eyes, shaking my head, I reach out and push the button, buzzing him in. What the fuck is he doing here? And tonight of all nights, when Justin's not home.

Unlocking the door, I'm able to pull it open a few inches, I don't have the leverage from this chair to open the heavy door all the way. I listen to Rick's footsteps ascending the stairs, and I wonder what the fuck I'm going to say to him.

He stops at the top of the stairs when he sees me in the opening. "Hey," he says, and walks over to the door. "Can I come in?"

"Yes. You'll have to open the door, I can't get leverage." Rick pushes it open and I back up my chair as he walks in. He hesitates a moment and then closes the door behind him.

Shit.

He looks good. I haven't seen him for a couple weeks since he came to see me in the hospital, and I barely remember that, I was so overwhelmed with pain and misery. Now he's standing in front of me looking good enough to eat. Juicy. I'm not sure why the juicy boys move me in ways that no body-builder, thighs-of-death, hunky gym stud can do. Until Justin, I was immune to the charms of the boytoy type.

Okay, not really, but it sounds good. Let's just say, I wasn't always susceptible to younger guys. Christ, I hope that's not a reflection of my encroaching old age. It's a sobering thought. And I'm already sober, thank God. I'd considered sneaking a glass of JB while Justin was gone. Not sneaking - it's my house and my decision whether to drink or not. But I want him to have a good time tonight and not come home to deal with me vomiting my guts out. Which the combination of Vicodin and JB seems to do to me.

All of these thoughts are clamoring inside my brain while I sit there staring at Rick and wondering what the fuck I'm going to say to him.

"How are you feeling? You look great," he smiles at me. He's wearing that camel's hair coat I like and I watch him unbutton it and shrug it off his shoulders. He's wearing white jeans, very tight, they cling to his slim legs and outline his large cock, I can tell he's not wearing briefs. My fingers almost twitch with the desire to grab his jeans and release him from the confines of the denim. All I have to do is gesture him to come stand a bit closer to me, in arm's reach. I could blow him without moving from my wheelchair, it's the perfect height, Justin and I have proved that a few times already. Justin.

I wheel my chair back a few paces and consider my words. "I'm feeling a lot better. But it'll be a while till I get out of the cast, out of this chair, back to normal activities." My voice sounds strangely cool, almost formal.

He tilts his head, he's noticed the way I'm speaking. "No dancing for a while yet," he jokes mildly. He's thrown his coat over one arm and now he shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans. "We could do - other things." He raises his eyebrows and gives me a slight smile.

"Rick - " I begin, then stop. He's waiting, and I force myself to go on. "Rick, my life's kind of in turmoil right now. I'm not ready for - anything but recuperating, dealing with my job, nothing else. Nobody else."

He nods, the smile disappearing. "I'm nobody else. Right?" When I don't answer, he sighs. "Brian - I can wait. Till things get back to normal. You can call me then, okay?"

I'm tempted to say okay. I want to say okay. The best I can do is, "I don't know."

He's silent for a moment, studying my face. "Are you getting back together with him - with Justin?"

"No. Probably not. I don't know. Maybe."

"You want to." When I don't answer, Rick shakes his head. "You want to." He pulls on his beautiful coat and stands there while he buttons it up. I can't say anything.

"Well." Coat on, ready to go, Rick glances around the loft, then brings his eyes back to my face. Swallowing hard, Rick murmurs, "He's a nice guy. I hope it works out." Then he turns and walks away.

For some reason, I don't stop him.

Rick pulls open the door and slips out. Before closing it, he looks at me again. "Good-bye," he says, and I nod.

"Good-bye," I manage to mumble, as I let him walk out of the loft, walk out of my life. Rick shuts the door, and I listen to his footsteps going down the stairs.



Justin

Brian’s asleep when I get home, it’s almost two o’clock and I try to be quiet, but he hears me and calls me to the bedroom. A few days ago I moved my bed into the living room – Brian says we can sleep together, but I think that’s a bad idea. It’s too – settled, or something. It’s too much like boyfriends again. So I sleep on an airbed in the living room. I’m close enough to hear him call if he needs me, but not close enough to roll over and grab his dick in the middle of the night.

I kick off my shoes by the closet and hang up my jacket, then go to sit on the bed ledge beside him.

“Did you have fun?” He sticks his arm out from under the covers and grabs my hand.

“Brian, I had a great time, I had two beers and I danced non-stop.” It’s the truth, I really had fun. I just closed my eyes and forgot everything – forgot about school and money and deadlines and the diner and Ethan and Rick and even, almost, Brian. I forgot everything in the world and just threw myself into the music.

“Non-stop?” He squeezes my hand. “No backroom breaks?”

“Only because you insisted.”

“Good boy!” Brian exclaims, pulling me down toward him till we’re face to face, then he kisses me. I’m wondering if he’s sniffing my mouth, but he won’t smell anything. Or anybody. “Tell me.”

“Just a guy. Semi-cute. I didn’t really pay attention, I just wanted to fuck somebody.” That’s the truth too. I was dying to fuck somebody. Even if Brian would let me, which is unlikely, he’s not ready physically yet. But I didn’t talk to the guy, and when he gave me his number, I threw it in the garbage as soon as he walked away.

He’s quiet for a minute, then he says, “Maybe next time, you can bring a trick here with you. Let me watch you fuck him.”

“No.” I pull my hand away gently. “That’s not my thing.”

“Used to be.” Brian folds his arm under his head and studies my face in the dim light from the living room.

“No,” I say again, looking him in the eye. “It’s never been my thing. I won’t do that anymore.” I’m firm about that. I mean it, and I see him nodding. He hears what I’m saying.

“Well,” I stand up and stretch, “I’m going to sleep now, I’ve got to get to school early tomorrow.”

“It’s Friday, you don’t have any Friday classes.”

“Yeah, but I have to catch up on my section of the mural we’re doing in Professor Arlen’s class. Do you need anything?” When he says no, I tell him good night, return to my bed in the living room pulling off clothes as I go. I fall onto the air mattress, asleep almost before I drag the blankets over me.

Sun streaming in the windows wakes me next morning, I sit up and rub my eyes, then hurry to the bedroom to see if Brian’s awake. He is, and I help him out of bed and into the bathroom. We’ve devised an elaborate system of wrapping his cast in two layers of garbage bags with rubber bands securing them to his leg. With a hand on the wall and a hand on the shower door, Brian can stay upright for a few minutes, long enough for me to soap him up and rinse him off, and his cast stays dry. Wrapped in a towel, Brian sits in his chair, he can brush his teeth and shave that way, while I hurry to the kitchen to make coffee.

After I help Brian get dressed – he’s got a couple pair of jeans we’ve cut the leg out of so he can feel like he’s partially clothed at least – and fix us breakfast, he settles in to work on the computer and I say goodbye, in a hurry to catch my bus. Michael’s scheduled to come and bring Brian lunch from the diner or the deli, and I’ll be done at school in time for grocery shopping and to fix dinner tonight. Maybe I’ll make that sun-dried tomato pasta alfredo Brian likes – it’s loaded with calories, he still needs to gain a few pounds, his face is too thin.

I’m late for the bus and I make a run for it down Tremont Street, tearing through a crowd of people lined up outside Starbucks. I knock shoulders with a lady wearing a black shawl with long fringe nearly sweeping the ground, so I hesitate briefly to apologize, “Sorry, ma’am!” then I turn back to run onward down the street, and smash head-on into a guy in a camel’s hair coat who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Sorry!” I mutter again, meaning to brush by him and run for the bus, which I can see just turning the corner. Then I do a double-take and it stops me in my tracks. “Rick!”

“Oh!” He’s as surprised as me, and we stand staring wordlessly at each other for perhaps half a minute.

Then I pull myself together and say, “Nice coat.” Immediately I’m wondering what he’s doing in Brian’s neighborhood, but I can’t ask. Then I ask anyway: “Coming to see Brian?”

“What? No.” He shakes his head, then holds out his hand and shows me a thick manila envelope he’s carrying. “I’m delivering papers to a client a few blocks from here, I decided to stop for coffee first,” I remember that Brian told me he’s a paralegal, he works in a law office.

“Well,” I turn around in time to see my bus pull away from the curb. I’ll get the next one. “I’d better go.”

“Justin.” Rick puts his hand on my arm so I turn around again to face him. I’m almost afraid of what he’s going to say. He takes a deep breath, then says, “I wanted to – to thank you. For last night.”

I really don’t want to hear this. I just nod and I look away again, I’m trying to pull my arm out of his grip.

“Justin,” he’s holding tight, and he goes on, against my will: “He – he doesn’t want to see me anymore.”

What? I didn’t hear him right. “What?”

“I went to Brian’s place last night about ten, just like you told me to do, and he was alone like you said. But he,” Rick gulps, “He sent me away.”

“Brian sent you away?”

Rick nods, he looks really unhappy and I feel sorry for him. I honestly do.

“He said. . . I asked him if you guys were getting back together again, and he said. . .”

“What?” I’m frozen to the spot, unable to breathe. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Maybe.’”

Maybe. Brian said ‘maybe.’ It’s the most amazing word I’ve ever heard.

Somehow I get away from Rick, I tell him I’m sorry, which we both know is a lie; I’m sorry he’s hurt, but I’m not sorry that Brian sent him away. I walk on down the street, oblivious to the crowds of people passing by, I keep walking past my bus stop, I walk and walk and walk, till I’m turned around, till I’m totally lost, I walk for what seems like hours and hours, and as I walk along, all I can think is, “Brian said maybe.”

Brian

I take deep breaths, telling myself to relax as I wait for the arrival of Gardner Vance. This will be the first time he's been to my loft. I'm wearing the new black silk pajamas Justin picked up from my tailor yesterday - Jacques himself had come to the loft to fit me for some new clothes, a concession from the man who holds the sartorial reputation of a hundred Pittsburgh businessmen in the palm of his hand. He's tailored a few pair of slacks to accommodate this fucking lumpy cast - which I'll have to wear for another month - without making me look like I'm wearing jodhpurs. Today I've chosen to wear the lounging pajamas because I want to appear casual and relaxed for this first face-to-face with Vance since (as far as he knows) I've been out of the loop at the agency.

Justin's antsy but he's hiding it pretty well. I'd rather he was not here for the meeting but I need his help, damn it. He’s been flitting around since he came home at lunch time, cleaning things the cleaning service already cleaned, picking up imaginary dust balls, he even insisted on polishing the metal rims of my wheelchair, an action that made me want to smack his ass or kiss him, I couldn’t decide. Finally, I said, "Justin, please sit down," and he threw me a look of instant comprehension and contrition, realizing that he was making me nervous. He settled on the sofa and folded his hands in his lap. "Put some music on," I told him, to give him something to do and to break up the deafening tense silence filling the loft.

Justin jumped up to hurry to the CD player and pick out some soft background music, then I called him over to my side and kissed him. Kissed him again. Kissing Justin is such an amazing pleasure, he's got full soft lips that I can pull into my mouth for delicious sucking, I can kiss him for hours and hours. I stopped after a few minutes - it wouldn't do to have us greet Gardner Vance with raging twin hard-ons.

Cynthia's been keeping me up to date on everything, I'll have to engineer another raise for her when things get back to normal - if things get back to normal. Vance thinks he's staging a coup, it's time to call his bluff or pull out the contingency plans. One of my backup plans is exciting and incredibly tempting, but I'm not foolish enough to think I'm ready to take it on under the present circumstances - not as long as I'm The Prisoner of Tremont Street.

That's what Justin calls me when he wants to torment me, when he wants to get the upper hand - part of our battle of wills currently in a holding pattern while I deal with Gardner Vance and try to save my fucking career. I've gotten support from unexpected sources, and if only I were physically able to tackle some new options, I'd be thumbing my nose at Vance this afternoon, I'd be calling his bluff and kicking his ass down the stairs. But it's no use lamenting circumstances - ironically Justin, the little excitable drama princess who appears to have his head in the clouds most of the time, has helped me come to terms with the practicalities of my situation. He's also amazingly bright, I'll bet he would’ve wound up valedictorian at Dartmouth if he'd gone there as his dad wanted.

At my request and on my credit card, Cynthia had flown to Chicago, and followed up some leads in Cincinnati and Philadelphia, and she'd helped me map out three new client campaigns in the past two weeks. She's done all that while managing to appear bogged down in paper-trail accounting and client billing at the office. She's even spent a couple afternoons with Vance's personal assistant, volunteering to help out in her 'spare time' during my absence, and managing to gather some interesting information about Vance's recent client meetings.

I hadn't realized that Justin was eavesdropping during an intense conference with Cynthia last week, apparently, he'd been listening in on some of my client phone calls too - betrayed by his knowledge when he barged into the middle of my talk with Cynthia. He'd been in the kitchen concocting one of his elaborate quiche recipes, while Cynthia sat near my desk and we discussed some of the options on the table. She was explaining that the Cincinnati client, Max Cheevers, tentatively okayed our proposal for a sweeping campaign to introduce his high-end frozen food line to the northeast market, but she said Cheevers feared that market was already saturated with competitive products.

We were trying to hit on a different slant to the marketing focus when Justin butted in, calling out from the kitchen, "What about getting one of those famous tv chefs to do commercials?"

Cynthia and I both turned toward the kitchen. At first, I was annoyed by the interruption but a moment's reflection stopped me from bitching at Justin and made me turn to look at Cynthia. "Hmm," she said, "That's a different angle. If a well-known chef recommended Cheevers' stuff, that might be a real selling point."

"Like who?" I asked. Justin watches cooking shows on tv all the time, I have no idea who's who. "Julia Child? Is she still alive?"

"Sort of," Justin answered, walking toward us and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "She's funny, too. Or maybe somebody like Yan. You know that show, ‘Yan Can Cook?’"

I shook my head no but Cynthia said yes.

"Well," Justin went on, "You could have a slogan like 'When Yan CAN'T cook, he serves Cheevers’ frozen entrees.' Something like that?"

Cynthia and I were silent, then we turned our heads slowly to look at each other, and she was the first to react. "My God, that's - that's brilliant!"

I shook my head. Jesus, that kid continues to surprise me. "Not bad," I kept my enthusiasm reined in.

We fell silent again, the implications of Justin's idea percolating through our brains. Justin returned to the kitchen and Cynthia began scribbling notes on a yellow tablet while I played around with various slogans on the computer. We discussed the idea further and decided to explore that angle - Cynthia agreed to research the availability of celebrity chefs for promotional work, and by the time we'd finished and Cynthia was shoving folders into her briefcase, Justin came over to announce that his quiche was done and invited her to stay for dinner.

"Oh, I'd love to, Justin," she smiled at him as she stood up and set her briefcase on the chair. "But I've got a dinner date tonight - I've just got time to run home for a shower if I hurry."

"Are you dating a guy?" Justin asked in his brash, wide-eyed way.

Cynthia laughed and I raised my eyebrows at Justin. "Some people ARE straight, you know," I informed him, "God knows why." He came close to me and punched my arm. "Ow, you hurt my broken ribs," I moaned, but he only laughed.

"Liar, trying to get sympathy, your ribs are all healed up. But show Cynthia the scar inside your mouth."

"What scar?" Cynthia asked as she pulled on her coat.

"There is no scar," I lied. I'm not vain, but I'd been afraid there would be a scar on my chin from where some piece of metal had cut me during the accident.

"It's really cool," Justin was explaining, "They made stitches only on the inside of his mouth, and put a bandage with this fantastic Krazy-glue stuff on the outside of his skin, you can't even tell he was cut there." He turned to look down at me and begged, "Show her the inside of your lip, Brian."

"Fuck off, go open the door," I dismissed him, rolling over to see Cynthia out.

"Let me get my jacket, I'll walk you to your car," Justin said, "It's dark out." Despite Cynthia's protests that she was fine, Justin insisted on going with her, and I think she was pleased that at least one of us has good manners.

When they were gone, their footsteps descending the staircase, I rolled over to peer in the mirror and pulled out my lower lip. The scar really was kind of interesting. It didn't hurt anymore, and the doctor had told me the redness from the absorbed stitches would virtually disappear in time, but meanwhile there were a few little bumps there that my tongue was always playing with. Justin's tongue played with them too. I wondered if he was up for a quickie before dinner.



Justin

I like Cynthia, and I'm glad Brian has her to look out for him at work. I don't understand all the politics and shit - not that I couldn't, but Brian doesn't tell me much.

"I parked about two blocks away, it's nice of you to go with me but I'm fine, really."

"Oh, I don't mind, I need some fresh air anyway.” It’s the truth.

“You’re chief nurse, right? It must be hell on wheels keeping Brian under control.”

“It’s what they call ‘a challenge,’” I admit and we both laugh.

“Down this way,” Cynthia points, so we turn the corner and walk down the dimly lit street. “He’s lucky to have you, I don’t suppose many people could stand his bad moods.”

I nod. “You, too. You’ve been working for him a long time, right?” When she agrees, I tell her, “I know he likes you a lot, and he doesn’t like very many people.”

“Thanks, Justin,” she lays a hand on my arm and squeezes. “Being liked by Brian Kinney is such an honor!” We laugh again, then she stops next to a blue Honda Accord parked underneath a street lamp and takes out her keys. “Thanks for walking with me, you’re a sweetheart,” and she leans over to kiss my cheek.

“Cynthia – “ I hesitate, and she turns back to look at me inquiringly. “Is Brian going to be okay – at work? He won’t say very much, and it worries me.”

“Yes, I think he will, Justin. He’s absolutely brilliant, the best account exec there is. He’ll fall on his feet, don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

Cynthia opens the door and I close it for her, then stand on the curb waving while she drives away. When I get back to the loft, Brian’s logging off the computer and glances up as I come in the door.

“So,” he drawls, “Did you two fall all over yourselves, admiring each other’s courage for tolerating me?”

“Yeah, we did,” I admit it, causing Brian to snort and push himself away from the desk, roll his chair past me and over to the bedroom steps. “Brian, let’s eat, I’m starving.”

“Put the dinner on hold,” Brian says, looking at me over his shoulder. “Come to the bedroom first, and tolerate my cock for a while.”



``````



Brian

Justin answers the buzzer and tells Gardner Vance to come up to the top floor. He pulls open the door to wait and I watch him for a moment - he's outwardly calm, standing still, hands at his sides. He's golden today, dressed in tan slacks with a light mustard color sweater pulled over a blue shirt, the collar of the shirt matching his eyes, the golden sweater reflecting the gold highlights in his blond hair. In the enforced stillness of his studied calm, I realize suddenly that Justin is beautiful. Not cute, not darling, just beautiful. I haven't seen him quite this way - I mean, I haven't noticed till now that he really has changed physically from the hot and sexy boy he used to be. He's a man, and suddenly he looks like one. I'm surprised that I haven't noticed before. Then I pull my eyes away from him and stare at the computer monitor, clearing my mind of the blond distraction waiting at the door to greet Gardner Vance.

The elevator arrives and spits out my adversary. "Hello, Mr. Vance," Justin steps into the hall and I glance again at the door. His back's to me, I can't see if he's smiling. I hear Vance respond with a hello, then I see Justin's hand gesturing him to come in through the door. Vance immediately sees me sitting at the computer and pastes on an oily client-greeting type grimace.

"Hello, Gardner," I mirror his nuanced smile, "This is my friend, Justin Taylor, who's been helping me while I'm stuck in this chair."

I'd prepared the introduction ahead of time, no coy hesitation would do, and when I thought about how I'd introduce Justin, it occurred to me that he really is my friend. Not a boyfriend, although we practically were for a while and who knows what we might be in the future. But Justin has been a friend to me, as much as - more than - most of my other friends. He's supported me through a lot of bullshit - he helped with Michael after the birthday party; he encouraged me first to keep Gus and then to give him to Melanie; he forgave me for pissing on his comic book sketches of Rage. It was strange to realize that, through all those difficult times, I'd never before acknowledged that Justin is my friend.

Justin sticks out his hand and with the merest calculated hesitation, Vance shakes it. "Mr. Taylor," he says, dismissively.

Justin's quick, I can see him picking up on Vance's almost-hidden disdain, but he only smiles and says, "Let me take your coat, I've put a chair for you here by the desk, and I'll get you a drink if you'd like one."

Vance removes his coat, his eyes roaming quickly around the loft, then he brings his gaze back to Justin. "Ah, a bartender too, are you? Wonderful. I'll have a gin and tonic, no ice."

Flushing only slightly, Justin nods, takes the coat and turns away. I don't let my annoyance show at Vance's condescension, instead, I wheel my chair away from the monitor to the side of the desk nearest the chair where Vance sits down and crosses his legs, his bony fingers absently smoothing the crease of his exquisitely tailored slacks.

"So," Vance resumes his oily smile as he studies me, "You're looking quite fit for an invalid, it seems that lying about agrees with you. Pyjamas in the middle of the day - and elegant ones, at that."

"Yes," I agree, "They're quite comfortable if you're forced to sit down most of the time, though I haven't been 'lying about' the last few weeks, I've been keeping up with work." I lose the fake smile and look Vance sharply in the eye. "And keeping up with my clients - though I've learned that you took it upon yourself to contact them and try to take them over."

'Tsk-tsk," Vance leans back in the chair, templing his fingers in that annoying way of his. "They're Vanguard clients, partner, not YOURS, remember? And somebody had to make sure the accounts weren't slipping during your extended absence."

"They haven't been slipping, I've been in touch frequently with every one of them, and they've all told me they're satisfied with the progress of their accounts."

"Mmm-hmm," Vance murmurs, then turns to accept his drink from Justin without a glance or a word of thanks. "But, dear boy," he looks at me from under his hooded lids as he takes a sip from his glass, "The agency has not been static while you've been gone this month and more, companies are not successful by merely running in place. Aggressive marketing, garnering new accounts, that's the key, and that cannot be achieved by employees on extended leave of absence." His voice hardens, he emphasizes the word 'employees' and curls his lip slightly as he takes another sip of gin and tonic and regards me coolly. "That's why I've been considering making some changes."

"So I've heard." I lean back in my chair and pick up a pack of cigarettes, offer it to Vance who doesn't even glance at it, shake one loose and light up. Vance waits while I exhale a cloud of blue smoke. "You've been sucking up to Johansen over at Bierbohm & Taft. Looking for a new partner?"

We stare at each other steadily for a moment, then Vance nods. "Johansen's good, he'd be an asset to the agency. Your secretary's been busy nosing around, has she?"

"Cynthia's my assistant, not my secretary, and it was from Johansen himself that I heard about your offer to him. He called me a few days ago. Seems there's some honor, even among ad men."

"And did he tell you he's considering my offer?"

I snort. "He said that's what he told you. But in fact, he's accepted an offer at Drysdale-Merton, in Philadelphia."

Vance is surprised and not pleased, it shows briefly on his face before he covers it up smoothly with a laugh. "That's fine, Johansen was only one option, there's plenty of eager young advertising mavens ready to take your place, Kinney. You're good, but you're not irreplaceable."

"Nobody's irreplaceable. But all your fishing around can't catch you as good an adman as me."

He nods. "In your prime - maybe. But you're out of the loop now, have been for weeks. The agency needs new blood, you're resting on your laurels at this point, and you know it."

That's when I smile. I pick up the stack of files at my elbow and hold it out to Vance. "Here's what I've been up to while I've been resting on my laurels."

He takes the stack and, after staring hard at me for a moment, sets down his drink on the edge of the desk and begins to look through the folders.

"Three new clients - big-ticket clients," I tell him. "Signed and sealed."

Vance is trying to hide his surprise - he's a good poker player, but I can see through him.

He opens the first folder as I tell him, "Cheevers is the biggest account, he's accepted my proposal for an east coast promotion campaign, a three-month saturation strategy, Cynthia's signed the celebrity chef and is already working with the media to begin blanketing the northeast right after Christmas."

Vance glances up at me, one eyebrow raised. "You've kept this all very dark, I've not heard a word."

"Really?" I grind out the cigarette and sit forward, stretching out my left leg, trying to relieve a cramp without letting the pain show on my face. "Craftsman signed a few days ago, they want to make inroads outside southeast Pennsylvania, they're planning to expand operations throughout the state." Vance opens the second folder and peruses the top sheets.

While he's not looking at me I shrug my shoulders a couple times, there's tightness in my neck. When he closes that folder and opens the third, I tell him, "That's Coopersmith and Reynolds."

Vance raises his eyebrows. "They're based in Chicago. Why should they come to us?"

"They didn't come to us, they came to me. At the recommendation of someone in Chicago."

Closing the last folder without comment, Vance hands the stack back to me, and I toss them onto the desk.

"Hmm," he says, picking up his drink again and leaning back in the chair. "Not bad. Not bad at all.” He takes a sip of gin. "But why haven't you consulted with me about your efforts the past few weeks?"

"You haven't consulted with me the past few weeks. Fact, is, you've written me off. Partner."

"Now, Brian," Vance leans forward and gives me what passes on his face for a sincere smile, "You've got it all wrong. You've been recuperating from a serious accident, how considerate would it have been for me to annoy you with details of the office while you were sidelined? I didn't want to bother you."

"No," I agree, "Instead you were looking around for my replacement."

'Business is business," Vance declares, one hand going to his tie to loosen it slightly. "One has to plan for every contingency."

I nod. "You're right. I've been planning for a few contingencies of my own."

Studying me closely, Vance rubs a hand over his shiny bald head.

"Justin?" I call. He's been sitting at his computer on the dining room table, back turned to us while he eavesdropped and pretended to work. He jumps up and hurries over to my side. "Another drink for Mr. Vance please."

"No," Vance waves a hand, "No, thanks." He glances at his watch and stands up. "I've got a meeting with accounting at four o'clock."

"Justin - Mr. Vance's coat, please?" Justin turns and hurries off to the bedroom.

"Well, Brian, it's always good to be prepared, isn't it?. But you won't want to do anything rash, you'll need to stick around Vanguard and take care of the old clients you've helped bring in - and these new ones you've secured for us."

I keep my face noncommittal. "The fact is, Vance, they are NOT new Vanguard clients, they're MY new clients. And they've all agreed to stay with me if I decide to make a career change."

He tilts his head to one side. “Hmm. You've been looking out for your own contingencies, haven't you?

"Yes," I reply. "Learned that from you: Secure client loyalty before showing your hand. As you yourself did, Vance, when you bought out Ryder and fired all the ad execs."

Vance smiles at that, his first genuine smile since he arrived. "All but one."

Justin arrives with the coat and Vance shrugs it on. "Your secretary - ah, excuse me, your assistant, tells me that you're starting physical therapy. Does that mean you'll be back at the office soon?"

"Possibly. I'll let you know."

"Yes, yes, stay in touch. Give me a call when you're up and about; we'll do lunch."

Justin goes ahead of him to pull open the loft door and accompanies Vance into the hall. I can hear their voices while the elevator creaks its way upward, but I can't hear what they're saying. When the elevator begins its descent and Justin returns to the loft and pulls the door closed, he comes over and leans against the desk.

"Wow," he exhales a long breath.

"Wow, what?"

“It’s so cool to see how you work, you’re really amazing.”

I’m torn between annoyance that my personal life and business life have spilled over into each other – I like them in separate compartments – and semi-pleased that Justin’s impressed. But having him now be privy to the machinations of my ad exec persona makes me feel – exposed. I want to tell him, ‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.’

“You'd do well in business yourself - you'd have wowed them at Dartmouth,” I tell him, an understatement. What I could say is that he’d be the bomb, with his quick intelligence and intuitive nature, assets necessary to a successful business career. When he opens his mouth to protest, I quickly interject, “If you weren’t committed to being an artist.”

I think for a minute, then add, “Besides, you lack the necessary cutthroat mentality. You’d be helping your rivals, playing fair, you’d never go for the jugular.”

He studies my face for a moment, then says, “Don't be so sure. Maybe it would depend on the prize I was after.”

Then I remember the sexual harassment fiasco - how Justin had gone after Kip Thomas, seducing him and then turning it into blackmail. Maybe Justin's more cutthroat than I thought.

Now Justin says quietly, "People underestimate me sometimes."

I agree; I'm one of those people. "What did Vance say to you, in the hall just now?"

Justin makes a face. "He said it was a pleasure to meet Brian's houseboy."

That's annoying but for some reason it makes me laugh. "And what did you say?"

Justin takes a deep breath, hesitates, then answers grandly, "I said, 'Actually we're just friends, but if it titillates you to think otherwise, go right on ahead.'"

After a moment's pause, I asked, "And what did you REALLY say?"

Changing briefly from beautiful man to bratty kid, Justin answers, "I said, ‘fuck off.’”

"Come here." I open my arms and pull Justin against me, make him sit down on my right leg.

"Careful!" Justin's scared of hurting me.

"You're fine," I assure him, smelling the sweetness of his hair against my face.

"Brian," he says earnestly, pulling away slightly to look at me. "You told Vance that I'm your friend. Did you really mean it?"

Christ, I hate being put on the spot. But it's not like a declaration of love or anything ridiculous like that. It's only the truth. "Yeah," I say finally. "Yes."

"Oh, Brian," Justin gasps, "That's the nicest thing you ever said to me."

“Hunh,” I reply scornfully, “A friend is just somebody who'll loan you money, and who'll tell you when you look fat.”

He smiles but shakes his head. “It means more than that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He slips his arm around my neck. “It means you like me. A lot.”

“Yeah?” I repeat.

Justin’s other arm goes around my neck; he’s waiting. There’s a long silence as we look at each other, and then finally I succumb. “Yeah, okay,” I agree, “Probably it does.”

Brian

"They're here." Justin's holding the curtain back, peering out the living room window. He tells me the ambulance has pulled up to the curb.

It's my first venture outside the loft, I'm excited to breathe fresh air, I'm not excited to be transported by ambulance but this cast won't allow me to get into a car. Assuming the x-ray turns out okay, this fucking cast comes off today. Then maybe I get out of this fucking wheelchair.

Justin pulls on his jacket as he walks over to my desk. "Brian, maybe I'll just meet you at the hospital." When I glance at him, his face is totally blank, like an unused page of his sketchbook.

I finish logging off the computer. “Ride in the ambulance with me – they’ve said it’s okay.”

Glancing around the loft, not looking at me, Justin says, "Well, umm, if you need me to, I will. But otherwise, I just think I’d rather, you know, not.”

I grab his hand, pull him closer. When he looks down at me, I ask, "Riding in the ambulance would freak you out?"

He pulls his hand away, fusses with the collar of his shirt, then turns toward the door, ready to push the buzzer. "Oh, it'll just probably be too crowded, and anyway, I could drive the jeep there, then I could bring you home."

"Michael's going to meet us at the hospital, he'll drive you to school and bring me home. We arranged this last week."

"Okay," he says, giving up.

"Justin," I say to his back, "After the car accident, you rode with me in the ambulance to the hospital, didn’t you? Was that freaky?"

"I was too worried about you to think about it much."

He didn't really answer my question. "Because of the first time? You were unconscious, you can’t remember that, can you?"

He turns around finally and looks at me. "No. I can’t. But I remember sirens. I think I do. When I hear one, I get kind of, I don’t know. . . creeped out."

I know the feeling.

Justin folds his arms across his chest and just looks at me, saying nothing.

"Did you have dreams afterward? After the accident?" I should have thought to ask him before now. Why didn’t I think of that?

Justin hesitates as if deciding how to answer. Finally, he mumbles, "Yeah."

"You didn’t tell me."

"Well duh, Brian," he's getting annoyed. "I wouldn’t have bothered you with something like that! I handled it okay."

The intercom buzzes and Justin turns away to answer it, saying tersely, "Top floor."

I can't let go of this information though I can see that Justin doesn't want to talk about it, but I need to be clear. "So - you've been having bad dreams while you’ve been staying here? Why didn’t you tell me?"

We can hear the elevator creaking its way upward. Justin shrugs and keeps his back to me. "It was okay. Just a couple. Not the screaming kind, just the scared-and-sweating kind."

"Why didn’t you wake me up? Or come get in bed with me?"

"They're here," Justin announces unnecessarily, the EMTs are bustling out of the elevator and he steps outside the door to greet them.

There's something so hearty, so cheerful, so annoying about EMTs. They bustle into the loft, they bustle me from the wheelchair and onto a gurney with the back raised so I’m sitting up, they bustle me into the elevator while Justin takes the stairs, then down on the street they bustle me into the ambulance. I'm doing my best to bear all that energy, all that impersonal cheerfulness without growling something rude at them, and with half my mind I'm processing the knowledge that Justin's still having nightmares.

While the dark-haired EMT with huge hands rolls the gurney on board and locks it in place, I try to see around him, to get a look at Justin as he waits on the sidewalk. When the EMT beckons him forward, Justin climbs through the door, and I say, "Wait - he's not going with us."

Justin leans down till his face is close to mine. "Brian, yes I am, it's okay."

I shake my head. "Take the jeep - the keys are in my pocket."

I twist around, trying to reach into my jacket pocket, but Justin puts his hand over mine and says, with gritted teeth, "Never mind, I'm going with you - just shut up, okay?"

One look at his face tells me to just shut up, so I do. It's his call.

The EMT with a hoop earring, spiky red hair, and a great ass is the driver, our escort in the back is Big Hands, who points to a chair wedged in the corner and tells Justin to sit down and fasten the seat belt. He's still locking the back door as the ambulance pulls away from the curb with a squeal of rubber and races down the street. Thankfully they don't need to turn on the siren. I'm facing the wrong way so I can't see Justin, but I stretch out my left arm sideways and behind me, and after a moment I feel Justin slip his hand into mine. I squeeze his fingers, and we ride like that all the way to the hospital.



Justin

Brian is polite through check-in, through the removal of the cast, the x-ray process, even when they have to do a retake when the first picture doesn’t come out, but by the time we’re in a cubicle waiting for the doctor, he’s starting to lose it. Michael has joined us, and since they won’t let two people stay with Brian, Michael and I are taking turns.

After Michael’s first turn, he comes out to find me sitting in the hallway. “Brian says for me to take you to school and I can come back after dropping you off.”

“No,” I shake my head, “I’m not leaving till he’s seen the doctor.”

Frowning and shoving his hands in his pockets, Michael insists, “He doesn’t need you now, he wants you to go to school, he says you’re missing classes.”

I nod, getting to my feet. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Wait.”

Stopping in front of Michael, I mirror his action by shoving my hands in the pockets of my khakis. Maybe we do that around each other all the time so we don’t start throwing punches. Although superficially we’re getting along okay now, neither of us really likes the other very much and sometimes, like now, it shows.

I raise my eyebrows at Michael, and he says, keeping his voice low, “Look, your Florence Nightingale routine is very touching, but he no longer needs you 24/7, so it’s time to get on with your life. He said for you to go to school, so just do it.”

“Excuse me,” I respond, also quietly, and I walk a half circle around him and enter the room where Brian waits in his curtained cubicle. I can hear Michael mutter something under his breath but I ignore him and make my way to Brian’s side.

“Hey,” I greet him, his head is turned away and I can see a muscle in his cheek twitching. He’s obviously reached the end of his patience, so I caution myself to go slowly. When he turns to look at me, he’s frowning.

“I told Michael to take you to school, you don’t need to hang around here all day.”

“Yeah, I’ll go pretty soon,” I agree, “But we missed lunch, I’m starving, you must be too.” He shakes his head no but before he can interrupt me, I hurry on. “I’m going to get us a sandwich, you need a pain pill and you can’t take it on an empty stomach or you’ll throw up.”

“I don’t need a pain pill.”

“Brian, you’re in a lot of pain right now from them screwing around with your leg, taking the cast off, taking the x-rays. You think I can’t tell? Don’t be such a nelly martyr.”

He’s annoyed with me but he almost-jokes, “Martyrs aren’t nelly, they’re tough.”

“Yeah,” I agree, “MOST of them.”

“I’ll get something in the cafeteria before Michael takes me home, besides, you’re probably not allowed to eat in here, and – “

That makes me laugh and I lean against the bed and take his hand. “You’re probably not allowed to jerk off in here either.”

Brian doesn’t smile, instead, he starts to complain again. “You’re missing school, Justin, you’ve missed too much already.”

Still holding his hand, I weave our fingers together. “Hey, I’m doing fine in my classes, I’m all caught up, staying at your place has kept me off the streets doing my homework instead of being out dancing every night at Babylon.”

Brian doesn’t pull his hand away. “You said that wasn’t your thing anymore.”

“Sometimes it is,” I contradict him.

“There must be lots of boys at school wanting to go out with you. While you’re stuck playing nursemaid.”

“There’s nobody I’m interested in right now.” It’s the truth, or virtually. I like Jamie but he’s been ignoring me since the night I accidentally called him Brian.

Relaxing slightly, the corners of his mouth turning up, Brian says, “Bullshit. Half that school’s probably queer. Tell me what you’ve been up to on campus. A horny professor traps you in your studio? One of those nude models propositions you outside the classroom?”

I arch my eyebrows and start to pull my hand away, pretending to be shocked.

“Tell me.”

“Okay.” I give in. I know what he wants. “I’ll make up some porn bedtime stories for you. But let me go get a sandwich first, I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for Brian’s response, I turn and hurry out of the cubicle and almost run smack into Michael, who’s just coming through the doorway.

“So, are we going now or not?” he grouses at me.

“Not,” I answer briefly, “I’m going to the cafeteria to get Brian something to eat. Stay with him till I get back.” I pause and add politely, “You want anything?”

“No, I fucking do not. Justin, he insisted I take you to school.”

“Well, he’s changed his mind. Be right back.” And with that I hurry down the hall toward the elevator, luckily I know the layout of the hospital and I’m back with a sandwich and a carton of milk in less than ten minutes.

Brian swings his head to look at me when I push through the curtains and he says to Michael, “Tag.” Michael jumps up from the chair near the bed and marches past me without a glance.

Pulling out the sandwich from where I’d stashed it inside my jacket, I open the package and hand him half. “I got egg salad, hope that’s okay.” Without a word Brian takes it from my hand and gobbles it down in three bites, then I hand him the milk carton and we each have a few sips. I’ve remembered to bring the bottle of Vicodin from home, I mean from the loft, I was afraid Brian might end up in a lot of pain from them manhandling him, and I quickly unscrew the bottle and hand him one. “Take it with the rest of the milk, I’m done.”

“Sure?” he asks, holding out the carton, and when I nod he swallows the pill, and he seems to immediately relax. Probably just knowing the pill will be working soon makes the pain more bearable.

I gather up our garbage and throw it in a wastebasket near the door, just as Dr. Kuchner pulls back the curtain and enters the cubicle. I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d planned it.

“Mr. Kinney,” the doctor greets him with a smile, “Good news, your bones are healing well, I’m very pleased with your x-rays.”

“Good,” Brian replies, “So, no more cast?”

“Not that good,” the doctor shakes his head, “You’ll have a new cast for another month or so, but – “

“No.” Brian blurts out before he can stop himself. I see him biting down hard, to keep from saying anything else, then he quickly turns his head away and stares at the wall.

“Brian, we knew there was going to be a new cast.” He says nothing, doesn’t acknowledge my words. I turn to the doctor. “But it’s going to be smaller, right, doctor? He’ll be able to get around easier, and ride in a car?”

“Yes,” the doctor switches from looking at Brian and focuses on me instead. “Although there still cannot be any walking around, the bones cannot take any pressure for another month or so.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Brian yells at the wall.

Ignoring him, I go on, “But he’ll be able to move around easier, and maybe he can go visit friends and so forth?”

“Ye-es, but with extreme caution,” the doctor agrees. “Most of the time should still be spent in bed, with perhaps an hour or so at a time in a chair or on the sofa, and continued use of the crutches for getting to and from the bed.”

“I have to go back to work,” Brian says to the wall.

“And you can, Brian, just one more month, the doctor says.” I glance at him, his face is red, he looks ready to explode. “Right, doctor?”

“Yes,” he agrees, then hedges, “Probably.”

Brian whips his head around and demands, “You said I’d be starting physical therapy as soon as the cast was off!”

The doctor nods again. “Yes, when the new cast comes off in about a month, we can – “

“Fuck that. Fuck that!” Brian pulls himself upright in the bed and crosses his arms on his chest. “I can refuse to have another cast put on, right? I can walk out of here anytime I want to, right?”

Before the doctor can answer, I move close to the bed. I don’t dare say a word.

“Mr. Kinney, without the new cast, without prolonged bed rest, your bones can’t heal properly, they could snap apart and you’d be starting all over at square one. If you’re lucky.”

Brian closes his eyes, shakes his head. “Christ,” he mumbles. “Christ.”

The doctor glances at me and says, “Somebody will be in shortly to put on the new cast. It will be more comfortable, I promise. Make an appointment for another x-ray in two weeks, and we’ll reassess at that time. All right?”

Brian’s saying nothing so I answer for him, “Yes, thank you, we’ll do that. Thanks, Doctor Kuchner.”

I watch him leave and as soon as he’s out of sight, I murmur, “Brian, right after the accident, the doctor said you’d be in a cast for two or three months, remember? It’s only been a month.”

“Only.”

“It won’t be much longer, another few weeks is all.”

He opens his eyes then, takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I know. I just thought, maybe. . .”

Brian reaches out and takes my hand, pulls me toward him till our foreheads rest against each other. We stay like that, silent, motionless, for several minutes, till Michael pulls aside the curtain and pokes his head inside.

“Hey, it’s my turn.”

“Michael,” Brian beckons him into the cubicle. “Take Justin to school now,” and when I open my mouth to argue, he squeezes my hand hard, very hard, and growls, “Just go – I’ll be okay, I’ll let them put another fucking cast on, and then Michael will take me home.”

“Promise?”

He squeezes my hand harder, till it hurts. “Yes, I promise, now fuck off.”

“Okay,” I agree reluctantly, pulling away and grabbing my backpack from the floor by the bed, “But don’t yell at anybody, and call me on my cell when you get home.”

“No more promises.” I can see Brian relax back against the pillows, the Vicodin is starting to work. I hope it lasts till he gets through the casting ordeal and makes it home okay. I give him a wave as I go out through the curtains, Michael stays to say something to Brian but catches up with me in the hall. Wordlessly we ride the elevator to the first floor and walk out to the parking lot.


Vic

Waving at Justin and listening to his footsteps fade away down the stairs, I turn to smile at Brian where he’s perched on the sofa, his casted leg stretched out on the coffee table. “He’s become your little guardian angel, hasn’t he?”

“He’s an imp from hell,” Brian growls. “On his good days. Other times, he’s Satan himself.”

That makes me laugh. “Be careful where he sticks his pitchfork. Especially now, while you can’t defend yourself.”

Brian cuts his eyes toward me, he thinks he’s giving nothing away but I see the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. I realize that I’m surprised, surprised to think of little Sunshine slipping it to Brian Kinney. He’s asking now, “Did you get the results of your disability appeal yet?”

“Christ,” I shake my head, “They treat you like a fucking criminal, I had to see ANOTHER one of their doctors, and now they want to start me on this ‘work hardening’ program.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“I have to spend a few hours a day for two weeks at some work facility, where they’ll make me do some tasks while they watch and decide if I’m strong enough for a real job.” I shrug. “I guess.” I make a disgusted face. “I don’t really know much about it yet, I’ll find out more details later.”

“It sounds fucking stupid. Don’t let them push you around, Vic.”

“No, you can bet on it.” I drain my glass and stand up. Pointing at Brian’s untouched apple juice, I say, “You’d better drink that, or the warden will be all over your ass when he gets back from the store.”

“’The warden. Jesus.” Brian’s face looks suddenly bleak.

“Sorry,” I say quickly, perching on the edge of the sofa near him, “It was just a joke - “

“No, it’s okay,” Brian rubs a hand over his face, turns sideways on the sofa to face me and adds, “It’s just that ‘the warden’ is what Pop always called my mom.”

I feel like a real jerk. “Brian, if I knew that, I’d forgotten it.” I pause, then ask, “Did I know that?”

“Nah,” he denies it, “I never told anybody before. Maybe Michael, but nobody else.” He leans forward and reaches for the juice glass, takes a sip. “It just sounded – weird. Hearing that again.”

Leaning back against the sofa, I ask, “How’s your mother getting along – she’s living alone now, isn’t she?”

“All right, I guess.” Brian drains the glass and sets it back down. “Haven’t seen her for awhile.” When I say nothing, Brian goes on, brusquely defensive, “She doesn’t want to see me anymore, it’s not like I’m ignoring her.”

“I didn’t mean – “

“The thing is,” Brian begins, then stops. I wait quietly and after a moment he goes on. “The thing is, Vic, she – found out about me. She caught me with Justin in fact. She said I was going to hell. Which is probably true, but not because I’m gay. And she told my sister she doesn’t want to see me again. Ever.” He glances over at me and must read the sympathy in my face, because he hurries on, “Hey, it’s fine with me, don’t look so sad. One less obligation to worry about.”

“My mother was the same way, Brian, once she found out. She never forgave me. Almost broke my heart.”

He shakes his head no. “It’s not a big deal to me, though.”

“Okay.” I can tell he wants me to drop it. “Want some more juice?”

“No thanks, what I want is to take a piss. It’s such a major production, I put it off and put it off, till I’m practically pissing in my pants.”

“Can I help?”

“Nope.” He just waves me away, reaches down beside him for the crutches, and pulls himself up from the sofa. I try not to watch him hobble toward the bathroom, I know he must hate feeling like a cripple. I see him taking the steps one at a time, very slowly, then he swings off quickly across the bedroom floor and makes it into the bathroom. I exhale sharply, I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.

When Brian returns and gets settled once more, I tell him, “I ran into an old friend of ours yesterday, guess who’s visiting from San Francisco?”

“Who?”

"Charlie."

"Christ,” Brian exclaims, “I haven't thought about Charlie for years. How's he doing?"

"He seems fine, almost as old as me of course, but he looks good. Somehow he managed to avoid the plague. But then he was never as wild as me when we were young. He was kind of a serial monogamist - he never double-teamed whoever he was fucking at the time. Or anyway, that’s what he always claimed."

Brian rubs his forehead, his eyes have a faraway look, no doubt he's remembering the thing he had with Charlie when he was - what? "You were what, sixteen?"

"Fifteen."

"He broke your heart, I remember. The bastard." I chuckle ruefully, remembering Brian's frantic call to me in New York when he found out Charlie was moving away.

"Nah," he denies it, but I know better.

“You were going to run away, follow Charlie to California.” Brian shakes his head, but it’s true enough. “You said you could MAKE him fall in love you.”

“Christ, leave the past where it belongs – in the past.” He looks annoyed.

“Brian, ‘the past’ catches up with everybody eventually.” When he just snorts, I go on, “As a matter of fact, Charlie asked about you. I told him about your accident, and he wants to come visit you while he’s here.”

Brian’s throws his head back and stares hard at me. I can see his nostrils flare. “No. Absolutely not.”

The door is pushed open and Justin bursts in, his arms filled with grocery bags. I jump up to give him a hand, take one of the bags to the kitchen while Justin slams the door shut. When he begins to unload the groceries, I decide to take my leave.

“Well, boys, I’m going home now, it was great to see both of you.”

“Oh Vic,” Justin stops with a can of olives in one hand and a can of tuna in another. “Stay for dinner!”

“Thanks, but I think Deb left me a plate in the fridge, she has a late shift at the diner tonight.”

“All the more reason to stay,” Justin pleads, then glances over at Brian.

“Yeah,” Brian takes the hint and agrees, “Stay, Vic.” He gets up awkwardly and uses the crutches to hobble over to the kitchen.

Justin says, “Brian – you should lie down before dinner, you’ve been sitting up too long.”

“My fault,” I say, but they both deny it.

“You can keep me company while I fix dinner, while Brian lies down.”

Finally, I let myself be convinced to stay; the house feels so empty when Deb’s not home, and there’s nothing on tv tonight. I perch on a bar stool while Brian hobbles off to the bedroom, following orders from – and I hope I remember not to call him this again – the warden.



Brian

I can hear their murmured voices in the kitchen, and even though I’m not sleepy – God knows I probably sleep half a dozen hours a day from sheer boredom – I find myself almost dozing off. I’m thinking about the old days, about Charlie. Vic was right of course – Charlie did break my heart. Back in the days when I had one.

Thinking of Charlie makes me feel all the more determined that Justin get back to his real life as soon as possible, as soon as I get this fucking new cast off my leg. If I were not such a selfish bastard I’d make him go away now, I’d put myself in the hands of a hired nurse. But I can’t. If anybody but Justin were living here with me, I’m sure I’d hang myself in the closet. Or throw myself out the window. I need him. Damn it all to hell. It annoys the shit out of me to admit that. But it’s only temporary.

Charlie. . . Charlie. Charlie took advantage of me. Fuck, I wanted to be taken advantage of! The first man I was completely naked with. The man who taught me how to fuck, how to rim, how to give great head; how to kiss, how to keep teetering on the brink of orgasm for hours just by kissing. He taught me a lot of the things that I’ve taught Justin. Somehow that makes me feel incredibly depressed, so I give up on nostalgia and let myself drift into sleep.

At dinner, which we eat in the living room on wooden tv trays donated by the ever-benevolent Jennifer Taylor, Vic brings up the subject of Charlie again, and I throw a squelching look at him but he refuses to acknowledge it. “Can I bring Charlie over to see you tomorrow?” he asks, when he knows fucking well that I don’t want to see him.

“No, I have some reports to work on with my assistant tomorrow.”

“Cynthia’s coming over?” Justin demands eagerly, “Oh I’m glad, make her stay for dinner this time.”

Vic plunges right ahead, ignoring my dirty looks at him, “We could come by in the morning, or at lunchtime, whenever it’s convenient.”

Christ, it’s not fucking convenient.

Justin swallows a huge mouthful of spaghetti and asks, predictably, “Who’s Charlie?”

“An old friend of mine, visiting from California. Brian knew him too, long ago.” Vic gives me an invisible wink and if my arm were six feet long, I’d reach over and smack him.

“Oh, Brian, that would be cool, you need some new visitors.”

“Why?” asks Vic, “Has he scared away all the old ones?”

“Pretty much,” Justin nods agreement.

He’s right about that.



Justin

As soon as Vic leaves after dinner – he insisted on helping me clean up – I suggest to Brian that he lie down on the sofa to watch tv. He finally agrees but insists that I bring him his laptop so he can catch up with e-mail. I wish he’d let me rent a hospital bed, I know he’s not really comfortable stretched out on the sofa, but it’s impossible to keep him in bed as much as he’s supposed to. I work on my own computer for a couple hours, then when I stand up and stretch, I walk over to the sofa, thinking maybe Brian has fallen asleep. He hasn’t though; he hears me approach and holds out a hand.

“Come sit by me,” he says, so I walk around the sofa and sit on the floor with my back to him. We stare at the tv, the sound’s muted; Brian loves to watch tv with no sound. It seemed weird at first but now he’s got me doing it all the time too. It’s kind of relaxing. Brian plays with my hair and rubs my neck gently, I shrug my shoulders, they’re stiff from sitting at the computer. The table is really too high for my keyboard, but of course, I won’t mention that to Brian, he’d either buy me a new table or make me move back to my mom’s.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Brian murmurs, “Let’s go to bed. I want to fuck you tonight.”

I catch my breath slightly; I can’t help it. I want him inside me so bad. But even though we’ve worked out a method, it’s hard to do, and I’m positive it hurts Brian – though naturally, he denies it.

“Sure?” I tilt my head all the way back so I can look at him, he leans down and kisses my nose – he can’t reach my lips. I know that’s his answer, so I stand up and take Brian’s laptop off the end of the sofa and move it to his desk. He gets up on the crutches – unsteadily, after lying still for a few hours I know his legs are stiff, but I don’t dare try to help him – and makes his way slowly to the bedroom. I drag off the duvet, then go to the closet and pull out the body pillow – it’s a regular pillow, but about four feet long. Brian gets settled in bed, then rolls over onto his left side, and I slide the body pillow behind him, so he can relax against it.

Throwing off my sweats and sliding across the bed, I lie close to Brian, my arms go around his neck and we start kissing. I love to feel his arms around me, his fingers are so strong and yet their caress is so gentle – most of the time. He has this way of snaking out his tongue to lick my lips which makes my mouth open, and he quickly sucks my tongue into his mouth and almost down his throat, his mouth is so juicy and hot, in moments we're gasping for air, sometimes we forget to breathe when we're kissing. We can kiss for hours and hours but not this time. Brian’s cock is pressed against mine, we're both hard as a rock and I have to force myself not to push against him, he can't get proper leverage on the bed, one time I almost pushed him off the edge.

I pull my mouth away and smack little kisses over his face, over his chin and down his neck. He raises his head and I lick his Adam's apple, moving my body back a few inches at a time so I can run my tongue down his chest and attack his tiny nipples, taking turns biting and sucking them till suddenly he groans, grabs my head and pulls me back upward and our mouths meet again. Breathlessly Brian whispers into my mouth, “now.” I reach under the pillow for a condom, peel off the wrapper and roll it on him, then grab the lube.

A moment later I turn over and lean back against his chest. One arm goes around my shoulders, pulling me tight against him, the other arm circles my hips and briefly caresses my dick. Then I feel his fingers opening me up and I force myself to lie still, to let Brian get things started, I’m so afraid of hurting him.

Once Brian is inside me, we both relax and exhale slowly. Holding me close against him, Brian begins to fuck me, quickly we get into a rhythm - his arm around my hips pulling me backward, then me pulling slightly away, then him pulling me back again. He keeps his balance and keeps me close by wrapping his good leg around my legs, and the strength of his shoulders keeps us rocking in perfect rhythm. Brian’s taught me to last a long time, sometimes we can prolong our orgasms for what seems like hours, but not tonight, not with the cast on Brian’s leg. And besides, we’re both so turned on, less than ten minutes of urgent fucking brings us to the brink of climax.

I’ve been ignoring my dick, I don't want to go off too fast but I can feel Brian begin to falter so I grab hold and start to jerk myself off in rhythm with his thrusts. In a couple minutes Brian gasps into my ear, “Ready?” and I nod, whisper breathlessly back to him, “Now, Brian, now!” and our bodies jerk in unison, once, twice, three times, before we collapse – carefully – against each other, against the bed and the pillows. When we can breathe normally again, I pull away, slip off Brian’s condom and throw it away, then turn back to cuddle up against his chest so we can kiss for a while.

I can tell he's exhausted, he'd never admit it. “Mmm, getting sleepy," I whisper, I know Brian is too, I hate to move but I’ve got to get him settled. Regretfully I pull out of his arms, he lets me take away the big pillow and lies back flat on the bed. I turn off most of the lights and then come back to pull the duvet over him.

“Sleep with me,” Brian murmurs, his eyes are barely open. “Just for tonight.”

I want to, even though I know it’s a bad idea – I can’t get used to sleeping in Brian’s bed again. Leaving it this time when I have to move out will be almost as bad as the last time. But I can’t resist when he asks me to join him, I just can’t. So when he lifts up the duvet inviting me in, almost of its own volition my body slides in beside him. He covers us both, then pulls me close against him. My arm goes around his chest just like old times. It chokes me up when we lie close together like this. Luckily I’m so tired that I’m sure I’ll fall asleep before any tears have a chance to leak from my eyes.

“Justin,” he murmurs into my hair.

“Hmm?”

“Justin.”

I feel his lips kissing my forehead, then his body lets go and he’s asleep.

Brian

Lying on the sofa, watching Little Joe Cartwright stride around the corral on the Ponderosa in his skin-tight leather pants, I’m almost asleep when I hear the elevator coming, so I rouse myself quickly and search for the remote, turn off the tv, pick up the Magruder report and try to focus on the small print.

Justin pulls back the door quietly and I feel him glance at me to see if I’m sleeping, then he calls “Hey” and goes into the kitchen.

“Hey,” I answer, suppressing a yawn and twisting my head around to see what he’s doing: Putting away groceries. I’d almost forgotten how much Justin eats. Crates of food should be dropped on the roof by helicopter. “You just went to the store yesterday,” I remind him.

“Mmm-hmm.”

He’s busy stuffing the refrigerator and the cupboards, then he pulls off his jacket as he walks over and perches his round and very delicious ass on the back of the sofa. I wonder how he’d look in skin-tight leather pants.

“Did you have a nap?”

“I’m reading a statistical analysis of the demographics for Magruder’s lawn furniture.”

“Cool,” Justin slips his hand down the back of the sofa and under the blanket, easily locating my cock. “But it doesn’t seem to be turning you on.”

“Just as well, Cynthia’s coming by to meet with me about three.” I glance at the clock, it’s half-past two. “You’re – early.” I almost said, ‘You’re home early.’ This is not Justin’s home.

“Yeah, I’m cooking something special tonight – can I invite Cynthia too?”

I see something on Justin’s face that gives me a sudden sinking feeling in my chest. “What do you mean, ‘too?’”

“Well, I sort of invited somebody for dinner. Somebodies.”

I pull myself up against the pillows and stare hard at him. “You invited somebody – somebodies – for dinner at MY place, and you never even asked me?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Yeah.”

“Who?” My eyes burn into his skull, smoke ought to be coming out his ears. “Who?”

Justin should stand up and back away, but he’s oblivious to danger. “I ran into Vic today on my way home, you like having him come over. So I asked him for dinner.”

When I continue my wordless death-stare, Justin hurries on, “We can ask Cynthia too, I’ve been wanting to cook dinner for her.”

I ignore the non-sequitur. “Just Vic?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Just Vic. And a friend of his.”

I knew it. The feeling in my gut told me. “What friend?”

“I forget his name. Remember when Vic was here a few days ago, the guy he said he’d bring over to visit you? An old friend, Vic says, somebody you used to know too.”

Taking a deep breath, relaxing my hands that are gripping the edge of the blanket, I shake my head. “No.”

“Huh?” Justin doesn’t get it.

“No, you cannot invite people to my place without asking me.” I keep my voice level, but I can tell it’s affecting him. He’s always been geared into my moods, he can tell that I’m upset.

“Brian – why are you upset? It’s only for dinner.”

“I’m not upset, I just don’t want company tonight. I need to work with Cynthia, I’m tired, I don’t want a bunch of people filling up the loft with noise and mess.”

Justin earnestly assures me, “There won’t be any mess, I’ll clean everything,” he pauses, then adds, “And I’ll tell Vic you’re tired, he won’t mind leaving right after dinner.”

“Do NOT tell Vic I’m tired!” My shout takes Justin by surprise, he flinches from my voice.

“Brian, I’m sorry,” he’s instantly contrite, “I should have asked you first. But I forgot my cell, and I really didn’t think you’d mind – you liked having Vic here last week, you said so.”

Still wanting to shout, instead, I clamp my lips shut and swing my head away, I can’t look at him anymore.

“Brian, I – I can call him and cancel. Do you want me to?”

Realizing that I’m being ridiculous – what’s the big deal about seeing some old fart I used to fuck a million years ago? He’s probably got Alzheimer’s, he’s probably bald and walks with a cane - canceling Justin's dinner invitation now would be rude. Not that I care about being rude of course, but. . .

Heaving a deep sigh of resignation, I shake my head no. “What time are they coming?”

“I said six-thirty. I know you don’t like to eat carbs after seven.”

Staring hard at Justin, I warn him, “As soon as they leave, I’m going to murder you.”

“Okay,” he leaps up, his equilibrium restored, he even dares to smile at me. “But first I’m going to cook the most fabulous dinner, maybe you’ll change your mind. About killing me.”

“Unlikely.” I throw back the blanket and struggle to rise. Justin hands me the crutches, then turns toward the kitchen. “Oh no, you don’t,” I call after him, “Get your ass over here and help me take a shower. I smell like gorgonzola.”

“Who’s Gorgonzola?” Justin laughs, making a wide detour around me so I can’t hit him with my crutch, and he hurries ahead of me to the bathroom, in moments he’s got the shower-proof plastic garbage bags ready. Stopping in the bedroom I pull off my robe, and when it slips off the bed and onto the floor, I remind myself that my little slave will pick it up later. In the bathroom, I lower myself down on the toilet and let him put on what he likes to call my cast-condom.

Rubbing a hand over my chin as I glance at the mirror, I realize that I look like some grizzled homeless man, I’ve really let myself go this past week. “Why didn’t you tell me I look like a bum?” I demand of Justin, who’s down on his knees putting rubber bands around the plastic bags. He glances up at me with a look that makes me want to throw him on the floor and fuck the shit out of him.

“You always look great,” he says simply, then ruins it by adding, “Even with bedhead.”

“Christ,” I glance at the mirror again, “No wonder you don’t want to sleep with me, I don’t want to sleep with me either.”

Justin stops fastening the bag and leans back on his heels, frowning. Now I’ve done it, I’ve ruined his happy mood. “That’s not why,” he says sadly. And God damn it, of course, I know that’s not why.

“Am I waterproof now?”

Justin leans forward to slip another rubber band below my knee. “Now you are. Let me help you stand up.” I don’t argue, I let him help me into the shower enclosure where I take up my stand, bracing myself in the corner while Justin washes my body, washes my hair, rinses me off. Why he puts up with me, with my crippled helplessness, with my fucking mean streak, with my tight-lipped stubbornness that won’t say things he wants to hear, I have no idea.

Well, okay, I have a pretty good idea.



Justin

Toweling off Brian and then myself, I hurry into the bedroom to bring the wheelchair so he can sit down to shave, brush his teeth, comb his hair. "What are you going to wear?" We look at each other in the mirror while he thinks about it.

"The black silk pajamas," he decides. "They're clean, aren't they?"

"Yeah, I picked them up from the cleaners yesterday. You look so decadent in them, really sexy."

Brian snorts. "Yeah, nothing sexier than a man with a broken leg in a wheelchair." I want to laugh but he's not joking. He's been getting edgier and edgier ever since he found out Vic's coming over. Or Vic's friend. I wonder why Brian doesn't want to see him?

"No," he contradicts himself. "Jeans. The ones Jacques tailored for me. And a black tee. Is my red shirt clean?"

"The orange-red or the red-red?" He answers with a raised eyebrow. "The orange-red one is clean, is that okay?" When Brian nods, I hand him the toothpaste and wait for him to spread it on his brush.

"You make a halfway decent gentleman's gentleman," he tells me grudgingly, "But a really good one would brush my teeth for me, and clip my nose hairs."

At least he's joking, he can't be too mad. "You don't have nose hairs," I point out, "but I'll brush your teeth if you want me to. You'll have to do your own spitting, though."

"Never mind then." He hands me the toothpaste to put away, sighs deeply and adds, "It's so hard to get good help these days." He starts to brush his teeth and waves a hand at me, go away, so I do. I lay out his clothes on the bed, then straighten up the living room a bit before heading to the kitchen to start fixing dinner. I'm going to make chicken curry, from scratch. Just as I pull the chicken from the fridge, the buzzer goes off.

"That's Cynthia," Brian calls from the bedroom. "Don’t let her in yet."

He's right, it's Cynthia, I buzz her in but ask her to wait a minute before coming up, then I hurry to the bedroom. Brian needs help pulling on the jeans, they're way tight of course, and even though the tailor made room for the cast, it's still an effort to pull them on. Since Brian can’t put weight on his injured leg, he has to lie down on the bed to pull on the jeans, and it takes both of us struggling to pull them up all the way. He leaves the top button undone - I used to think that was for comfort, but now I know he does it because it looks hot. It does look hot, I have to admit. As soon as he's sitting on the edge of the bed, he waves me toward the door, to let Cynthia in. He can manage the shirt by himself.

Cynthia greets me with a hug, she's holding a bouquet of yellow, orange and red fall flowers, and when Brian comes down the steps with his crutches and moves over to the door, he groans, "Oh my God, flowers for the invalid, how - touching."

Shaking her head, Cynthia curls her lip at him. "They're not for YOU - they're for Justin. I can guess who deserves the sympathy here - after a month of being locked up with Prince Charming."

"A month, a week and three and a half days. But who's counting?" Brian moves over to the desk and lowers himself into his chair, letting me take the crutches to lean against the back wall. He waves at the other chair. "Did you bring the Magruder profile?"

Cynthia hands me her coat before sitting down and opening her briefcase. "Yes, I'm fine, thanks for asking, and how are you?"

Interrupting before Brian can make a sarcastic remark, I thank Cynthia for the flowers and invite her to stay for dinner. When she hesitates, I hurry on, "Please stay this time. Some old friends are coming too, it'll be like a dinner party, the first time I've had a dinner party. Do you like curry?"

Before answering, Cynthia glances at Brian. He shrugs his shoulders. "Yeah- yeah, please stay, blah-blah. Can we get to work now?"

With a laugh, Cynthia nods at me. "I'd love to stay for dinner, and I adore curry. Can I help you in the kitchen? I'm a pretty good cook myself."

"Fuck that," Brian growls, "Let Chef Boy-ar-dee mess up the kitchen, you're here to work on the new account."

They settle into advertising talk and after putting the flowers in a vase and carrying them into the living room to adorn the table by the window, I return to the kitchen and begin preparing the chicken. It needs to cook slowly for a very long time so it melts in your mouth. Once the chicken's cut up and I wash my hands, I interrupt Brian and Cynthia to offer them drinks. Brian wants bourbon.

"JB or Vicodin, Brian? You can't have both."

He opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. He knows the combination makes him puke his guts out, he’s tried it a few times. "Apple fucking juice," he growls finally, "Plenty of ice." Cynthia wants a Coke, and after I take them their drinks, I get back down to business in the kitchen.

By five-thirty, everything is ready except for last-minute touches, the curry's simmering, the salad's made, the rice is steaming, the counter is stacked with dishes and silverware. We'll have to eat in the living room on the tv trays Mom loaned us, my computer and schools books and stuff are spread out on the dining room table.

As I approach the desk where Brian and Cynthia sit in silence, Brian is staring at the computer monitor, his fingers flying a mile a minute over the keys, she's leaning over a yellow tablet, scribbling and frowning. When he looks up, I say, "Sorry to interrupt, Brian - what kind of wine goes with curry?"

"It's chicken?" When I nod, he glances at the clock on his desk before saying, "White, but it should be chilled, you didn't allow enough time."

"I put a bottle in the fridge earlier, I thought white was right, but I wanted to double check."

He nods, then rolls back his chair and stretches. He's been sitting at the desk way too long, he needs to lie down for a while but I'm afraid to remind him in front of Cynthia. Still, he's going to be sitting up when company comes, so I really have to say something.

"Brian - "

"I know." He glances up at me. "Fuck."

"How about a pill? They take about an hour to work, so - "

"Yeah." Brian turns to Cynthia. "My keeper's making me go lie down, we can talk about this more by phone tomorrow."

"Sure," Cynthia stands up too, "I'll have the faxes on my desk and we can double check the figures then, okay?"

Brian just nods, I can tell by the lines around his mouth that he's really hurting. I want to offer to get the wheelchair but I know he'll yell at me, so I try not to watch him as he grabs the crutches and hobbles up to the bedroom.

"Cynthia, have a seat in the living room," I suggest, "I'll be there in a minute." She nods and I hurry into the kitchen to spread a piece of bread with butter, fill a glass with milk, grab the Vicodin bottle and follow Brian. He almost falls onto the bed ledge, and wordlessly he takes the bread and eats it, drinks the milk and swallows a pill.

Stretching out on the bed, Brian's eyes close; he allows me to pull up the duvet, I'm glad to see him relaxing. Before I turn away, Brian's eyes fly open and he whispers, "Get me up by six-fifteen. No later. Got it?"

"Sure, Brian."

"Wait." He reaches over and grabs my wrist. "Justin. . ."

"What?"

"Justin, if the curry's really good, I might not kill you after all."

"Oh, thank God!" I exclaim, but he's already released my hand, and his eyelids flutter closed.



Brian

Christ, he looks good. It's hard for me to keep my face from reflecting the shock I feel, seeing Charlie after all these years, I can't believe he's not some doddering old pot-bellied loser. He's shorter than I remember, still slim but with a fullness around the waist that he must work hard to keep under control, and he's got a full head of hair - I always loved his thick dark hair. The moment he comes in through the door on Vic's heels, he's grabbing hold of me and pulling me into a bear hug, I almost lose my footing and I feel Justin right behind me, his hands on my hips keeping me steady on my feet. I didn't want to greet them standing on crutches, instead, I was hanging onto the beam near my desk, but I wasn't expecting to be manhandled, and I feel the pain that was dozing raise its head and look around.

Charlie steps back and stares at me, he looks as nonplussed as I feel. "My God, you turned into a beautiful man, and so tall - look at you!" He laughs, that infectious laugh of his that I remember after all this time, and his eyes crinkle up, those eyes he could twinkle at you, make you feel like you were the center of the fucking universe.

“You look good yourself, Charlie,” I tell him, and Vic chimes in, “Yeah, not bad for an old fart of fifty.”

“Forty-seven,” Charlie corrects him with a laugh, “And since we’re telling ages, Vic – “

Vic interrupts Charlie to say, "And this is Justin, a friend of Brian's who's helping out while he's laid up." Charlie's gaze turns to Justin, who comes around from behind me, keeping his left hand gripping tight to the waistband of my jeans so I don't tip over, extending his right hand for Charlie to shake. I see the result of Justin's megawatt smile reflected on Charlie's always-transparent face: he's dazzled.

"Jesus Christ, what a gorgeous boy! What beautiful blue eyes! Are you spoken for, young man? Do you need a sugar daddy?"

Justin just laughs but I feel myself bristle. Vic must notice my reaction, because he quickly interjects, "Quit joking around, Charlie, let's go sit down, Brian isn't supposed to be standing around like this."

"Oh, I forgot! You have a broken leg?" He glances slowly down at my body, then up at my face and he smiles, and despite everything, I feel myself responding to him. I'll bet we're both remembering the night he taught me about elevator-eyes.

Justin slides an arm around my waist, turns me around and guides me slowly toward the sofa. "Let's go to the living room," he says over his shoulder, and the other men follow. As Justin is lowering me onto the sofa, Cynthia comes out of the bathroom and joins the group. I'm concentrating on breathing, trying to let go of the pain jabbing into my hip, so Justin makes the introductions. I don't hear what anybody says, and until the pain begins to subside, I can't rejoin the conversation. When I open my eyes, everyone's seated and Justin is offering drinks.

"You okay, Brian?" Vic's on the other end of the sofa, leaning toward me.

"Sure, just had a little twinge, I'm fine now." The pain's letting up a bit - thank God Justin made me take a Vicodin an hour or so ago. Justin stops what he's doing and comes over to help me raise up my leg and rest it on the coffee table. We all sit and stare at my bare foot, there's a lull in the conversation, till Charlie jumps into the breach.

"So, Cindy, you work with Brian, huh? Are you his boss?"

Everything Charlie says makes me bristle. I open my mouth to correct him when Cynthia beats me to it. "No, unfortunately, it's the other way around. Brian's the big wheel and I’m just a spoke."

"But Brian couldn't manage without you, Cynthia," Justin butts in, handing her a glass of wine and smiling. "He always says so."

"That's a fucking lie," I mutter, "I never give compliments."

Vic's chuckling. "Aint that the truth?“ Then he turns to Cynthia. “But you must be one hell of a devoted employee, to come here and work with him while he's laid up."

Cynthia's nodding. "It’s lonesome at the office, without Brian there I don’t get enough verbal abuse."

Everybody's laughing and nothing's the least bit funny. Christ, I want a drink. "Justin," I twist my head around, he's in the kitchen; I catch his eye and he comes quickly to kneel down behind the sofa so I can whisper in his ear. He shakes his head and mouths "No," so I whisper to him, "It's that or JB, you want to clean up after me later?" He says nothing for a minute, then nods and goes back to his bartending duties.

"So, Charlie," I try for nonchalance, "What're you up to now, still in San Francisco?"

“Yeah, I’ve been property-managing for the past seven or eight years, I’ve got a condo in the outskirts of the Castro that’s worth a million bucks now, with the cost of housing in the city skyrocketing every year.” He always did like to brag. “And the men – whoo!” Charlie laughs, “There’s no place like San Fran for fuckable men!”

“Charlie,” Vic chides him gently, glancing at Cynthia.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she says, “I like fuckable men, too.”

Everybody’s got a drink thanks to my live-in bartender, and after he delivers a tray of cheese and crackers, which he arranges not very appetizingly near my bare foot on the coffee table, he takes a seat between me and Vic on the sofa.

“Well?” I swivel my head around to stare at him, and with a sigh, he reaches into his pocket and hands me my lighter and a joint from the stash box.

There’s a sudden hush, everyone stares at me while I light up. “It’s medicinal,” Justin explains, glancing around the room. “For pain management.”

“Sure,” Vic winks at him and Cynthia laughs.

“But I’ll share,” I offer generously, taking a deep drag and holding it in my lungs. I stick out my hand and wave the joint at everyone. Charlie’s the only one who wants a drag, he leans forward in his chair and reaches for the joint. As I hand it to him, he twinkles his eyes at me.

“Remember the first joint we shared?” he grins.

“Not really.” I look away from him, annoyed; how dare he bring up old memories in front of my friends. And I hate the way I’m feeling inside, remembering the eager, almost-innocent boy I was, smoking dope with Charlie on his sofa, before he started kissing me, undressing me, touching me, and –

“You were fifteen, the most amazingly beautiful kid, and – “

“Shut up.” I don’t raise my voice but the look I give him stops him mid-sentence. He laughs but nods understanding.

“I was just going to say that you really loved it.” He pauses, then adds, “Dope, I mean. Pot.”

“Justin, what’s for dinner?” Vic pipes up quickly. “Justin’s a great cook,” he continues, “practically a gourmet chef.”

“Chicken curry, I’d better go check on it,” Justin moves slowly off the sofa, careful not to jar my hip. He hands me the ashtray before going into the kitchen.

“I’ll help you,” Cynthia offers, standing up and moving away; she’s sensitive to group dynamics.

“Charlie!” Vic yells at him in a whisper, “What the fuck?”

“What?” Charlie feigns misunderstanding, glancing from Vic’s face to mine. “I was just reminding Brian of some happy memories.”

Taking another deep drag of the joint, I raise my eyebrows at Charlie. “Happy for whom?” When he opens his mouth to answer, I quickly add, “The past is dead to me, Charlie. You’re dead to me, and I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Whew,” Charlie exhales a sharp breath, “I never thought of you as a grudge-holder, Brian.”

“You never thought of me at all,” I reply; we’re speaking sotto voce, they can't hear us in the kitchen. Grinding out the butt of the joint in the ashtray, I continue, “You didn’t know me as a person, I was just some kid you liked to fuck. So don’t pretend we had some great relationship because we didn’t.”

“You’re wrong,” Charlie says solemnly, “You’re wrong about that.”

There’s a long pause, then Justin calls from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready! Come and fix your plates. Vic, would you help me set up the tv trays?”

“Sure,” Vic pushes off the sofa, and Charlie and I are left alone to stare at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie murmurs. “About tonight, I mean. I was just joking around, but it was thoughtless, I didn’t mean to upset you, Brian.” When I don’t answer, just continue to stare at him, he sighs and stands up. I’m left sitting alone on the sofa, with no appetite for dinner; just sitting there thinking about the repercussions of an older man fucking a kid and then leaving him alone without a backward glance.



Justin

There’s some history between Brian and Charlie, something’s going on that I don’t understand, but I realize now why Brian didn’t want him to come over, or anyway, I realize that he’s upset, and it’s my fault. God, why was I so stupid, not to ask him first? I wish this dinner was over with and everybody was gone so I could take care of Brian, try to make things better - if he’s not too mad at me after this.

I hurry to fix a plate for Brian, and Vic unfolds a tv tray and follows me into the living room, sets it up in front of Brian, who takes one look at the plate in front of him and then glances up at me with the strangest look. I’m expecting him to look angry but he doesn’t; his eyes seem incredibly sad. That scares me. What’s going on inside that complicated, sometimes unfathomable head of his? Then Brian unfolds his napkin onto his lap and takes a sip from the glass of iced tea I’ve set down on the tray.

“Go fix your plate, Justin,” he tells me. He notices my hesitation and adds, “It smells great,” and he gives me a slight smile. Somehow, Brian being nice scares me more than Brian being angry. I do as he says and join the others in the kitchen, filling plates from the mounded platters on the counter.

Dinner goes off okay, a lot talk about the weather, everybody praising my cooking. I can’t tell if it tastes good or not, I can’t stop worrying about Brian. Finally, dinner’s over and Cynthia, after offering to help clear up and hearing me say I don’t need any help, declares that she has to get home. She makes her goodbyes to everyone, and I insist on walking her to her car. Vic offers to join us – says he needs a walk after dinner to stretch his legs. We three put on our jackets and go out the door. I throw a backward glance over my shoulder at Brian and Charlie sitting silently in the living room. I hope it’s okay to leave them alone. I hesitate a moment in the doorway, then Vic puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a tug. I close the door and follow Cynthia and Vic into the elevator.



Brian

“Sixteen years is a long time to hold a grudge, Brian.”

“Don’t condescend to me,” I warn him. We haven't moved from our places in the living room. “I’ve told you, you’re dead to me, you died many years ago, and everything that happened has been erased. It was a fling for you and just one of a million experiences for me, nothing more. Don’t imagine you mean anything to me now.”

“Christ, you’re bitter. What did I do that was so terrible?”

I shake my head. “I just told you – nothing. Nothing that matters. Forget it. I have.”

“No,” he contradicts me, “Obviously you haven’t. You’re still mad at me – for leaving you behind when I moved to San Francisco – right?”

“Fuck off, I’m not going there. I live in the present, not the past. Nothing that happened before means shit to me now.”

Charlie runs a hand through his hair, still, a familiar gesture, remembered whether I want to or not. “What did you imagine I’d do with you in San Francisco?” When I say nothing, he goes on. “Brian, for what it’s worth, I did love you.” He ignores my snort, continuing, “And I convinced myself that by leaving, I was doing what was best for you, as well as for myself. You were fifteen, for Christ’s sake! I was twice your age.”

“Charlie, I’m not discussing this anymore. Just go away.” I’m fucking trapped in my own home, I can’t get away from him. If my crutches were within reach, I’d probably pick one up and hit him with it. Instead, I lean over and pick up an Architectural Digest from the coffee table and begin to leaf through it.

He’s quiet for a moment and I wish like holy hell I could hear the elevator returning with Justin or Vic. “Okay,” he says at last, “okay.“ After a pause, his voice changes timbre and he asks, in an ordinary voice, “So tell me about Justin. Is he your boy?”

Lifting my head, I give Charlie a look that should shrivel him up like a raisin. “No, he is not my boy, and mind your own fucking business. Got it?”

Unshriveled, Charlie only grins. “Yeah, I thought he was, the minute I saw him hanging onto your ass when I came in the door.” Looking back at my magazine, I ignore him but in a moment he goes on. “Are you in love with him?”

Wanting to throw the magazine at his head, instead, I answer coolly without looking up, “One, it’s none of your business; two, no, I don’t; and three, I don’t believe in love. Never have, never will.”

“You used to,” he contradicts, “Believe in love, I mean.”

“Most kids do, the smart ones get over it.” I turn a few more pages.

“Mmm-hmm,” Charlie says finally. Then he asks, “Does this kid – Justin – does he believe in love?”

I have to look at him then. I want to say fuck off, but something makes me answer honestly. “He used to.”

We look at each other and he asks quietly, “History repeats itself?”

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. “Maybe.”

“How old is he?”

Tossing the magazine toward the coffee table, we both watch it slide in slow-motion off the other side and fall to the floor. “Nineteen.”

Charlie leans forward and looks at me intently. “Old enough to know what he wants?”

“No,” I deny it. Then, “I don’t know.”

We hear the elevator ascending and I sigh with relief. Charlie gets up to pick the magazine off the floor and place it squarely on the coffee table. He gives me a solemn look then and says, “Don’t close the door on love, Brian – if not with this one, then maybe someone else.” He stays standing as the loft door is pushed open. “That’s an old man’s advice, and it carries the weight of experience,” he says seriously, before turning toward the door to greet Justin and Vic.

“Let’s get a move on, Vic,” he suggests. “That was a fantastic dinner,” he tells Justin, “You’re a triple threat – gorgeous, sexy AND a good cook.”

“Thanks,” Justin answers politely, pulling off his jacket as he hurries to the bedroom to retrieve Charlie’s coat.

Charlie shrugs it on, shakes hands with Justin, then walks back to the living room and I look up at him from the sofa. He sticks out his hand and I shake it. “Come visit me in San Francisco sometime.”

“Sure,” I lie, then he turns away, Vic waves at me from the doorway, Justin ushers them out and closes the door. Thank God that ordeal is over.

Justin comes to sit down next to me on the sofa and asks, “Tired?”

“Yeah,” I admit, “And I want to get these clothes off.” The jeans were a mistake, they’re too tight around my cast. I let Justin help me stand up and I can barely manage the crutches across the floor and up the bedroom steps. I pull off my shirt and tee and throw them on the floor, then lie back on the bed. I barely have enough strength left to help Justin peel off my jeans. I’m hardly even aware of him pulling the duvet over me before I go away for a while.

When I wake up some time later, the loft is almost totally dark. Gradually I become aware that Justin’s lying in bed beside me. I’m slightly startled when I realize that his eyes are open. “Hey,” I murmur, “you’re here.”

“Is it okay if I sleep with you tonight?”

One of his beautifully pale round shoulders is uncovered, and I reach out to touch his silky skin. “It’s very okay,” I answer.

We’re silent for a few moments while I continue to caress his shoulder and arm.

“Brian?”

“Hmm?”

“Brian, I’m sorry about tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly, “It was no big deal.”

He hesitates, then says, “Can I ask something? Or not?”

I want to say no. If my present is none of Charlie’s business, then my past is none of Justin’s. “It depends.” I answer finally, “What do you want to know?”

“Only one thing. No details. Just. . .” I wait, then Justin takes a deep breath and blurts out, “Did you love him? Charlie?”

Of course, I’ll tell him 'no.' I don’t believe in love, Justin should know that better than anyone. And what I felt as a kid for Charlie could only have been lust and desire mixed up with some ridiculously romantic teenage nonsense. Of course, I’ll tell Justin ‘no,’ because I sure as hell did not love Charlie McDougall.

Surprising myself, I answer instead, “I thought I did.”

Justin smiles suddenly and I demand, “Why is that funny?”

“Oh, it’s not funny,” he quickly reassures me, “It just makes me happy.”

“Happy? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He’s still smiling as he slides over close to me and slips his arms around my neck. He whispers, his breath warm and tickling in my ear, “Are you too tired for a blow job?”

Brian

Trevor's late, it's quarter past eleven, if Justin were here he'd probably chew the guy’s ass. I told him last night, he's getting pushy with the hired help. I tried to make a joke of it, but the truth is, the past few days I can feel myself losing my sense of humor. Getting more and more morose. Justin's noticed it and has tried in what he imagines are subtle ways to cheer me up. Extra jam on my toast. Logging me onto my computer so it's ready to go when I sit down. Waking me up with a gentle massage. Somehow all these small kindnesses only make me feel worse.

Two more weeks in this fucking cast! But yesterday the doctor said the x-rays show perfect healing, so when the cast comes off, I'll go right into physical therapy. I'm anxious to begin and yet worried about it, I know I've lost muscle mass, and my legs - not that muscular to begin with - are like skinny twigs. I've been able to maintain some upper body strength with the help of Trevor, the personal trainer approved both by the doctor and by Nazi Nurse Taylor.

The doctor recommended the man - Trevor, such a gay name - based on his credentials, Justin approved him based on his utter unfuckability. He's tall and built, but he's got a face like a pug dog and he appears to have absolutely no personality. Trevor's scheduled to come by almost every morning for a one-hour session, and after observing him a few times, Justin decided it was safe to leave me alone with the guy. Trevor may be unfuckable, but he's great at giving head. Justin doesn't need to know everything.

Tonight we're going to Linds and Mel’s for dinner. I've been out of this loft so few times that I'm actually getting excited about it. Easy to please Kinney, I'm becoming. Docile, polite, practically pleasant, that's the new me. After living my whole life in an effort to avoid responsibility for others, to avoid obligation and fucking gratitude, now fate has turned my life around with two acts of violence - a bat to the head and a freeway collision. Three acts of violence, if you consider childbirth violent - an event I was both disappointed and happy as hell to have missed. Now, in two years time, I've morphed into this person unrecognizable to myself. I'm almost nice. Fuck.

Somehow I've got to break out of this trap. A trap baited by a beautiful blond morsel who's suckered me in, over and over again. Earlier this year I tried to break free - and I succeeded, for a while. I pushed him away, pushed him right into the arms of the perfect lover he thought he wanted. I was glad to be rid of him. Or anyway, eventually I would have been glad, what's a little pain, it's like pulling off a band-aid. You do it quickly and roughly, and sure it hurts, but then it's over.

The trouble with Justin is that it gets harder and harder to push him away. If I'd got the New York job, I would have left him then. I was prepared, he was prepared, it was going to work out fine. Then the prom happened.

Justin still doesn't remember the prom. He doesn't try to talk about it anymore - I know it was probably wrong of me to keep him from talking about it, but I really couldn't handle mentally revisiting that parking garage over and over again. The last time he brought it up, he said he sees brief flashes of pictures - he can remember Emmett helping him get dressed, he remembers dancing with Daphne. And he remembers the scarf - that fucking scarf - around my neck. He remembers being whirled around and around. That was at the end of our dance, right before I kissed him. He doesn't remember that kiss. He doesn't remember the kiss in the garage either. Right after he told me it was the best night of his life. He remembers me calling his name, he remembers turning around and seeing the bat coming toward -

Christ. Stop, just stop. Justin's not the only one with nightmares. Or in my case, daymares.

Justin's not having nightmares often anymore, or if he is, he's hiding that information from me. I've been sleeping pretty light the last week or so - the doctor told Justin to start tapering off on the Vicodin. That's good news and bad. Bad, because I've come to depend on the heavy, dreamless sleep they provided, the hours of boredom they caused to blur. But good because soon I can start drinking again. I miss alcohol. But not as much as I'd have thought. In a tiny almost-inaccessible corner of my mind, I remember wondering occasionally if I was becoming an alcoholic. Like Pop. In a way, it's a relief to discover that I was not as addicted to JB as I thought I was.

Damn it, where's Trevor? Sitting here waiting, staring into space, has made me maudlin again, I can't afford maudlin with weeks and weeks to go before I'm back to normal. The doctor promised me I'll be normal again - no limp, no outward signs of weakness. But after my extended absence from the Liberty Avenue scene, I'll probably have to prove my desirability all over again. In a way, I feel desperate to do so. In another way, it seems like an easy out of that rut. Not rut. It was not a rut, just a predictability. Life was pretty predictable the last five or six years. Comfortable. Not boring, but almost. Or anyway, until he came along.

Finally, the buzzer sounds and I roll over to the door, it's faster than crutches. "About time you showed up," I grumble through the intercom before zapping the downstairs entry door. Instead of Trevor's quick, heavy tread up the stairs, I hear the elevator whining its way upward. So it's not Trevor. Maybe it's Deb, bringing my lunch early. Maybe it's Michael, he said he'd drop by today. Maybe it's the delivery of Justin's new desk chair I ordered online from Mancuso's.

Pulling myself up and dragging back the door before I sit down in my wheelchair again, I watch the elevator door pushed upward, and see - my mother. What the fuck is she doing here?

"Hello, Brian," she greets me, coming out of the elevator and walking slowly towards me. I have this sudden image of myself slamming the door closed and cowering inside while she pounds on the metal door with her purse.

Instead, I say, as coolly as possible, "Hello, Mom."

"Can I come in?"

'No,' I want to say. 'Fuck off,' I want to say. Instead, I mumble, "Sure." She's holding a cake, another one of her fucking chocolate cakes. The all-purpose-excuse-to-intrude-on-my-son's-life cakes. I'd feel better if she'd brought me a bottle of bourbon, I could use a drink. I'll bet she could, too.

Mom crosses the threshold and I see her eyes traveling quickly around the loft, no doubt looking for naked boys. "He's not here," I tell her, and she swings her head around to look at me.

"Who?"

"Is that cake for me, or are you just carrying it around with you today?"

"Of course it's for you." Her voice is deceptively gentle, and she walks forward to set the cake down on the kitchen counter.

How many times has chocolate cake been my mother's peace offering? I lost count of the times she'd told my dad about my sins, real or imagined, and he'd whipped me; sure enough next day there'd be a chocolate cake. And that time in junior high when she'd punished me for something, I can't even remember what, by burning all the pictures I’d drawn for her in art class. When I came home they were piled in a neat stack in the fireplace, and Mom gave me a lecture on my bad attitude, then set fire to them. I remember standing there stoically - already at eleven years old I was stoic - watching them burn, and I swore to myself I'd never draw another picture. Next day there was cake, but I kept my promise to myself. I flunked art class that year, the only class in which I did not receive an A. Pop beat me for that, for that F, but it didn't hurt as much as when Mom burned my drawings. And when I got in trouble the next year for constant fighting at school, Pop pulled me out of Westley Junior High where all my friends were, and moved me into St. Joseph's clear across town where I didn’t know a soul. Mom baked me a cake that time, too.

Sometimes just the smell of chocolate cake makes me sick to my stomach.

Turning from the counter, Mom asks, "Aren't you going to invite me to sit down?"

"Sure," I say tonelessly, gesturing toward the living room. I follow behind her in the wheelchair, watching her glance around again, this time she's taking in the décor. Or what she decides is a lack of décor.

"Such a lovely large space, this apartment, but it's so plain. You should hire a decorator. From what I hear, you can afford it."

"Good idea," I smile, wondering what Lorenzo, who'd helped select most of my Italian furniture, would think of my mother's ideas. She'd probably hang chintz curtains on the windows and put plastic covers over the sofa and chairs.

"At least it's clean," she says generously, leaning forward to rub her fingers on the coffee table in an attempt to locate dust. "Most bachelors don't care about keeping their houses clean."

"Well, that's one thing you should admire about gay men," I tell her, rolling my chair to a stop near the window, about as far away as I can get, and looking her in the eye. "We're all so neat and tidy, you know."

She ignores my sarcasm and returns my look. "I suppose your - boy - does the cleaning?"

Crossing my arms over my chest I say dryly, "I don't have a boy, but I do have a cleaning service, they come twice a week."

"What about that boy that lives with you?"

I am tempted to say, 'He comes twice a day.' But I don't. She's still talking. "Doesn't he do something to earn his keep?"

"Justin doesn't live with me," I tell her, which is not strictly true at the moment, but will be true once I can take care of myself. "He's helping out while I'm laid up with this broken leg."

"He was in the car with you, I read it in the paper. Was he injured too?"

"So you read about my accident in the paper. That was six weeks, almost seven weeks ago. You'll never be voted Mother of the Year at this rate." I'm sitting right next to the liquor cart, if she stays much longer I'm not sure I can resist the lure of the bottle of JB near my elbow.

Mom's used to ignoring my jibes, she probably doesn't even hear them anymore. I expect her to ignore this one too, but I notice that her mouth has formed a thin line, and she gives me a hard look. "It's been difficult coming to terms with your - your announcement. The secret you've kept from me all these years. Any mother would have the same problem, that can hardly be a surprise to you, or you'd have told me long ago."

"It was none of your business." I hear the resentment in my voice, and I manage to remove it so that my next words are free of emotion. "It's still none of your business."

She narrows her eyes. "Yet you told your father. You said you told him before he died." When I merely nod my head, she goes on, "What did he say? He must have been angry."

"He said," I pause, remembering, then I force myself to laugh. "He said that I should be the one dying instead of him." I keep the smile plastered on my face so that no matter what she says, I won't be surprised.

Yet I am surprised, because she gasps, then shakes her head. "That was - that was cruel, Brian. That was a terrible thing to say."

Quickly I turn my chair around and roll closer to the liquor cart. "Want a drink, Mom? I'm having one." Without waiting for her answer, I grab the bottle of JB and pour a couple inches into a glass, then take a big gulp before looking over my shoulder with raised eyebrows. "You want something?"

Before she can answer, the doorbell buzzes. I take another gulp of bourbon before setting down my glass and rolling my chair to the door. "Who is it?" I growl through the intercom.

"Brian, it's Trevor, sorry I'm late." He sounds out of breath.

"Trevor, I don't need you today," I tell him.

Dense Trevor doesn't give up that easily. "But Brian, you shouldn't miss a session. Let me come up.”

“Who is it?” Mom gets up and comes over to the door. “Do you want me to leave?”

“It’s my personal trainer,” I answer, wishing I’d brought my glass with me. I push the buzzer to admit Trevor, it’ll be easier to speak to him in person than shouting through the intercom.

“Trainer?” Mom asks, “What are you training for?”

“The Triathalon.” I stand up and pull open the door, then sit back down quickly. Two gulps of JB and I’m feeling dizzy. Pitiful.

Trevor bounds to the top of the stairs, his energy makes me feel like a 98-pound weakling. “Hey Brian, you okay?” he asks, “You don’t feel like working out today?”

“Trevor, this is my mother.” They say cautious hellos to each other just as the buzzer goes off again. It’s Michael. “Come up and join the party,” I tell him, then turn off the intercom before he can ask any questions.

“You shouldn’t miss a session, Brian,” Trevor tells me seriously.

“I think I should go,” Mom offers, clutching her hideous imitation leather purse to her chest. I glance longingly over at the table where I left my JB.

There’s an awkward pause, then the elevator arrives at my floor and the door is pushed upward to reveal not just Michael but Debbie, their arms full of bags and plastic containers of food, the smell of tomato sauce wafts ripely around them as they come in the door, all smiles, then stop abruptly when they see my mother.

“Hello, Mrs. Kinney,” Michael says politely, a comical look of horror on his face that almost makes me laugh; Mikey was always scared of my mom.

“Joanie!” Deb exclaims, “Well, I’m glad to see you finally visiting your injured son at long last.”

Mom pulls herself up tall and replies coldly, “Debbie, how nice to see you.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while. Sorry to hear about your husband.”

“Thank you.” Ice cubes are dropping off my mother as she stares unblinking at Debbie. I see my escape route and I take it, rolling silently backward away from the group at the door, then moving quickly across the polished floorboards toward the liquor cart, where I pick up my glass and empty it in one swallow. I’ve got another poured before Michael appears at my side.

“You’re not supposed to be drinking,” he reminds me in his carrying voice, drawing the attention of everyone by the door. They descend upon me en masse and I’m really absolutely positive that I’m having a nightmare. A daymare. Wish I could wake up. I swallow the second shot of JB quickly, just as Michael snakes out his hand to grab the glass. Too late, it’s empty, but he manages to knock it out of my hand and onto the floor, where it shatters. I love the sound of broken glass, and now it calms me enough to turn my chair around to face everyone.

“Who wants a drink?” I ask cheerfully.

Nobody speaks, then they all speak at once. Trevor asks if he should go, Mom asks if she should go, but neither of them budges. Deb says she brought my lunch and wants me to eat it NOW, Michael reminds me again that I’m not supposed to drink.

Into the middle of the chaos marches Justin, he’s home early. I feel a sudden and unreasonable sense of relief surge through me; I slump in my chair. I don’t have to deal with them now, Justin will take care of it. All I have to do is roll around the edge of the group and get to my desk, so I can grab my crutches and hitch myself into the bathroom in time to throw up. I need to hurry.

“Hey,” Justin says, stopping just inside the door, a quick glance around the loft taking in the situation. “Brian, are you okay?”

I feel the sweat popping out on my forehead as I reach for my crutches and lift myself out of the chair. ‘Yeah,” I manage to answer, “Bathroom. Make them all go away, okay?” I hitch myself past him and over to the steps as fast as I can, I feel five pairs of eyes staring at my back and I will myself to manage the steps without falling down.

“Hello, Mrs. Kinney, Trevor, Debbie, Michael,” I hear Justin say as I hop into the bathroom and slide the door closed with a bang. I lift up the toilet seat in the nick of time, and after heaving my guts up, I slide down the wall and sit on the floor near the toilet, to be ready for the next onslaught. I hear muffled voices but I pay no attention. Justin will take care of everything. The cool tile wall feels soothing on my face.



Justin

Finally, I get them all out of here, Michael and Deb are the hardest, it’s all I can do to keep Michael from going into the bathroom. “Brian needs to be alone when he throws up,” I insist to Michael, grabbing hold of his arm to physically stop him.

He jerks away from me and hisses, “I’ve seen him throw up a lot more times than you have, so who’s the expert here?”

“Please,” I force myself to speak softly, “He asked me to make everybody leave, he doesn’t feel good.”

Michael’s shaking his head. “He meant everybody else, he didn’t mean me.”

Deb’s been putting food away in the fridge; I’ve promised her I’ll get Brian to eat the lunch she fixed him, but later, when his stomach settles down. She folds up her brown paper bags and joins the face-off near the bedroom steps. “Michael, don’t be a dope,” she tells him bluntly, “Come on, drive me home now.”

“Ma - “

“Let the poor man vomit in peace. You can see him tomorrow.”

With a last angry glare at me, Michael lurches across the loft and out the door. “Meet you downstairs,” he calls to Deb over his shoulder, then he’s off, taking out his anger by pounding down the stairs as loudly and as quickly as he can. Surely it’s not too evil of me to wish he’d trip and break his own leg on the way down?

“Bye, sweetie,” Deb grabs my chin and squeezes my face hard as she smacks a loud kiss on my cheek. “You’ve got your hands full, don’-cha?” She laughs softly and cracks her gum as I give her the smile she wants, then I walk her to the door and wait till the elevator takes her away. As her curly red hair disappears, I see her hand waving good-bye.

Turning off most of the lights in the loft to make it as dark as possible on a sunny day, I crack open the window to blow in some fresh air, to clear the stink of anger and frustration still cob webbing around the rooms; then I put on some soft jazz, turned low. Finally, I’m ready to join Brian in the bathroom. Softly pulling back the door, I see him huddled on the floor by the toilet. He looks up at me, his face haggard and pale.

“It’s awfully quiet,” he says conversationally, “Did you kill them?”

“I didn’t need to.” I sit down cross-legged on the floor by the sink. “We could hear you throwing up, it was disgusting - you cleared the place. If you’d done it in the living room, they’d have left sooner.”

He nods. “I’ll remember that next time.” We’re silent for a moment, then he says, “Well - aren’t you going to blast me for drinking?”

I shrug my shoulders. “You must have needed to.”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have dumped that - that scene on you. What did you say to my mom?”

I’m untying my shoes and pulling them off. “I thanked her for the cake and said to come back again soon.”

“Fuck!” He stares hard at me. “You did not.”

“Sure I did, Brian. What did you expect me to do - forbid her ever to darken your doorway again? She’s your mom. It doesn’t matter what I say to her. It matters what you say to her.”

“Don’t nudge me.” I can feel him getting tense again.

“No nudging,” I promise. Then I slide across the floor until I’m close to him. “Ready to get up now?” He nods and pulls his legs up, lets me take one hand while he uses the other for leverage on the wall, soon he’s on his feet and he sits down on the toilet. “You want the chair?” He nods and I hurry to get it, he shifts to the wheelchair and then washes his face, brushes his teeth.

“Why don’t you lie down for a while?” I suggest when he’s finished.

“Come with me,” Brian says, so I do. We lie down on the bed and he turns over, leans his back against me and relaxes, lets his body go slack. “I’m leaning on you,” he murmurs.

“It feels good.” It does, too.

“Don’t get used to it.” He waits, and when I say nothing, he whispers, “You know what I mean?”

“Yes, Brian,” I whisper in his ear, “I know what you mean.”

Then I feel him completely let go, all his muscles relax and he’s leaning against me, my body taking his weight. It feels good.

Brian

"I don't fucking want to be grateful to Justin!"

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I feel him come up behind me. Fuck.

"You don't need to be, Brian," he says calmly - his unemotional façade belied by the pink flush of his cheeks. He hands me the glass of apple juice he'd gone to fetch for me. His footsteps were silenced by the soggy grass of the munchers' lawn, his approach hidden not only from me but also from Lindsay by the white wicker arbor she and I are seated in. It’s really too cold to sit outside but I was longing for fresh air, so we are pretending it's spring when actually there are piles of gray smudgy snow still dotting the backyard and we can see our breath mist the air around us in the fading light of sunset.

"Brian didn't mean - " Lindsay quickly jumps in, but I hold up a hand to silence her.

"Don't speak for me," I say harshly. I'm angry, not at Lindsay, not at Justin. But damned if I'm going to explain myself. Instead, I set down the juice glass - hard - on the small white table beside me - juice slops over the edge of the glass which unfortunately is made of plastic and does not break, then I stand up and just walk away.

Just walking away is not as easy as it sounds. I'm still required to use crutches, the hard cast is gone but there's a soft removable cast strapped to my leg for support. It's difficult to get away quickly from an emotional scene with any speed or grace when you're forced to use crutches on a grass lawn. I know they're watching me - in silence - and at one point the rubber tip of the crutch sticks in a hole and almost tilts me over. I stop to catch my breath, and to ask myself where the fuck I think I am going? I still can't drive.

Of course, Justin's immediately at my elbow. I want to tell him to fuck off, to go away, to leave me alone, but I can't. And it makes me furious. I just stand there like a statue, my face hot, my anger has no place to go, while he gently takes the crutch away from me and pulls it out of the hole.

"Justin - " I have to say something to him.

"Do you want to go home? We haven't eaten yet."

"Justin - "

I don't do apologies. I don't do regrets. And I was only telling the truth. I don't want to feel grateful to Justin. But. . .

"Brian - I'm not helping so you'll feel grateful. I’m helping because of all the times you've helped me. It's called payback. That's all."

Forcing myself to look at him, I'm biting my lips to hold back all kinds of words I don't want to say. His face is struggling to remain impassive - something he's learned from me. Damn it. "Payback's a bitch," is all I can think to say.

"Yeah, sometimes. But not this time, not for me, anyway." Justin hands me the crutch and I turn away again, I look at the picket fence around the yard. I look at the gate. I want to walk through that gate, I want to get into the ugly new car and drive away. Far, far away.

"Please come back and eat, Brian. There's coconut cream pie."

I feel my shoulders slump in defeat. I'm trapped inside the picket fence. I'm trapped by my crutches. I'm trapped by Justin's need for coconut cream pie.



Melanie

I got an expurgated version of what happened later, at the time all I knew was that thunderclouds were bursting over Brian’s head, soaking everyone around him. What else is new? And all his little acolytes run to get umbrellas – for him. I’ll never understand it.

Brian and I have been getting along okay – just okay – since the day he signed over his rights to Gus. Which of course he should have done before Gus was even born, but instead Brian parlayed it into a drama performance worthy of the Old Vic. I believed him when he said he did it not for us, but for his son. I acknowledge Brian’s love for Gus - but of course, there’s lots of caveats. Brian loves his son when it’s convenient. And okay, he’s rushed to Lindsay’s side any time there’s been an emergency with Gus and he's quick with his checkbook, but he makes very little effort to be a real father. Which is fine by me. The less influence Brian Kinney has on our son, the better.

This is the first time in months that Brian’s been to our house for dinner. Linds nagged me to visit him while he was laid up in the hospital and then at home, but truthfully, I knew Brian would much prefer me to stay away. Linds took Gus a few times, but she said Brian was too impatient to bear the rambunctiousness of a two-year-old – I can only imagine the frustration of Brian Kinney confined to bed – bed without sex breaks. Justin must have had his hands – and his mouth – busy taking care of that dick. Dick in both senses of the word.

Justin. Christ, that boy is so wasting his time with Brian. He’s a great kid, he deserves to be with someone who appreciates him, someone who loves him and isn’t afraid to say so. I hoped he’d make a go of it with Ethan – now there was a nice young man. Polite, gentle, kind. The antithesis of Brian. Which is probably why Justin dumped him and ran back for more Kinney abuse.

Dinner started out pretty tense, Brian silent and glowering, Lindsay (as always) jumping into the breech with cheerful chatter, Justin struggling to help her keep the conversation moving along. The dishes went around the table once and Brian didn’t take anything, his plate remained empty. Then he glanced at Justin’s elaborately unconcerned face and sighed, one of his heavy, world-weary sighs, and reached for the platter of chicken. Justin’s and Lindsay’s relief was almost palpable, and I could have picked up the bowl of potatoes and thrown it at Brian’s head, the fucking drama queen.

I steered the conversation to Justin’s school schedule, spring semester had started in January and mid-terms were approaching. He was telling us about a term project he was working on, some kind of project of puzzle pieces created by individual students then fitted together as a group mural, and Justin mentioned that he needed more studio time. This set-off Brian again, in an aggravated voice he intoned, “I’ve told you to spend more time at school, I don’t need a keeper anymore, I can take care of myself now.”

Which of course is far from the truth, but was evidence to me anyway that Brian was trying to get rid of Justin, push him out of the loft more often. Probably Brian is wanting to have sex partners come over while Justin’s out. When I suggested this idea to Linds later, predictably she insisted that Brian was only thinking of Justin and his needs. Yeah, right.

“I know that, Brian,” Justin said carefully, then explained, “Getting more studio time is a school problem, not a schedule problem for me – there’s a shortage of studios, we’re all on waiting lists.”

Brian was still frowning but he shut up and ate a few more bites. He didn’t eat much dinner. Like most wild beasts who are forced to live in a cage, Brian’s getting thinner and more bad-tempered by the hour. I can‘t imagine how Justin endures it.

“Justin,” Lindsay jumped in eagerly, “Could you use my studio here? There’s plenty of room to spread out, and – “

“Oh, thanks!” Justin’s smile is the sweetest thing about that boy. “But we can’t take our projects off campus, it’s supposed to be some kind of togetherness thing, the class working together and blah-blah, some philosophical kind of unity shit.” He laughed then, and I happened to glance at Brian’s face and saw the most amazing change in him. It was probably my imagination, but it almost seemed like Justin’s laugh melted the frozen grimace on Brian’s face.

“More chicken, Bri?” Linds held out the platter toward him, and after first shaking his head, Brian reconsidered, reaching for it and forking a chicken leg onto his plate. Then he seemed to relax the rigor mortis of his body, leaning back in the chair. He picked up the chicken with his fingers and gnawed it off the bone, listening to Justin’s lively chatter about his class project.

When we finished eating and Justin jumped up to help clear the table, Linds and I had just gone into the kitchen when I turned around to see if the wine bottle was still on the table. I saw Brian reach out and grab Justin’s wrist, and when he stopped and looked down inquiringly, I watched Brian pull him close for a kiss. Their foreheads pressed together for a moment, and I could almost see what Linds insists is Brian’s love for the kid.

Almost. But it was a fleeting thought. I know Brian Kinney too well to believe he has very strong feelings for anyone but himself.



Lindsay

Poor Brian, he stuck his foot in his mouth tonight. He’s so worried somebody’s going to figure out how important Justin is to him. I wonder what would have happened without the car crash? It surprised most people to find out that Brian and Justin had started seeing each other again, but it didn’t surprise me. I know Brian better than almost anyone, and I see the love for Justin in everything he does. Even when, or especially when, he seems to be pushing Justin away. Like at the Rage party.

Oh, I didn’t see it right away. Few people can read Brian’s emotions – I can’t always do that myself – but you’d have to have been blind not to see how devastated Brian was when Justin walked out on the party, walked out with Ethan. So we all assumed that it was a surprise to Brian. Later I found out that he'd masterminded the whole thing. Or at least, he had a hand in what happened.

Everybody expected Brian to go off the deep end – like he’d done when Justin was in the coma. Drinking, drugs and sex have always been Brian’s retreat – he was pretty wild in college, though he was on scholarship and he made sure not to fuck that up, he kept his grades up, but he was definitely a party boy. We partied together sometimes, while we were lovers and even after that. I like to think we were lovers, though I know for Brian it was only a lark. It was more than a lark for me, but Brian’s never held me to ransom for that.

Instead of what Brian called his “pain management,” this time he threw himself into work. I’m not sure if that’s a sign of maturity, or if Brian just figured out his old routine didn’t cut it anymore. He stopped seeing everybody, stopped going out, and he wouldn’t return my phone calls, unless I mentioned a problem with Gus. So one Saturday night I dropped in on him unexpectedly, without Gus. At first he wouldn’t let me in, but finally, he buzzed me up and opened the door, and I was shocked at his appearance. He was unshaven, his hair looked like he’d been pulling on it, the loft was a mess.

He’d had a few drinks, not enough to make him drunk, just enough to make him maudlin, and I got him to sit on the sofa with me for a while. I’d learned a long time ago that the only way to get Brian to talk, is to remain silent and wait for it. If he wants to spill, he’ll do it on his own. If he doesn’t, there’s no force in hell that can get him to open up. And finally, he did.

“If you think I miss him, you’re wrong,” he’d assured me, though I hadn’t even mentioned Justin’s name. “I prefer being alone, always have, always will.” I just looked at him, saying nothing, but he acted like I’d contradicted him.

“I do, though,” he insisted. “Prefer being alone, I mean. And the thing is, he was just in the way here - noisy, messy, always underfoot.” Brian glanced around the empty loft and the emptiness reflected in his eyes jerked my heart. He was so unhappy.

I couldn’t help myself, I laid a hand on Brian’s arm. He looked down at it for a moment, and I saw him swallowing hard, then he looked up into my eyes and he said bleakly, “I had to. It was the right thing. Sometimes I do the right thing.”

Then it dawned on me what he meant. Brian was telling me, without saying it, that he’d had something to do with Justin leaving.

“Brian – “

“Want a drink?” he asked quickly, pulling away from my hand and almost leaping off the sofa. He walked to the liquor cart by the window and kept his back to me. “One drink, and then you really have to go. I’ve got a report due Monday, so I don’t have time for visitors.”

“No thanks. Brian – “

“Then, would you mind going now?” He still faced the window. “I’ve got this hot idea for a new proposal, and I really need to get busy now, before I lose it.” He hesitated, then added, “The idea, I mean.” Then he turned around and headed for the door and pulled it open.

With a sigh of resignation, I got up from the sofa, grabbed my purse from the coffee table and moved toward the door. Brian’s defenses were back up, his face was closed, his eyes shielded.

“Come for dinner next weekend,” I urged him, “Your son misses you. And so do I.”

“Sure,” he nodded, but I knew he didn’t mean it. He kissed me softly, then gently nudged me out of the loft. When he pushed the door shut behind me, it sounded like the clang of a prison cell door. I wondered if Brian was locking people out, or locking himself in.

Of course, I’m not happy about the car accident – both guys could have been killed, or at least had more serious injuries. But I’m not exactly sad about it either. Maybe this forced time together will work in their favor, in the end. Maybe Brian will be able to open up to Justin at last.

Melanie scoffs at me. She says the idea of Brian Kinney ever changing, ever becoming the kind of man worthy of being loved, is just pie in the sky. I hope she’s wrong. I want so badly for Brian to be happy.



Justin

Dinner at Lindsay and Melanie's was so delicious, I ate way too much and only had room for one piece of pie when we moved to the living room for coffee and dessert. That was disappointing, but luckily Lindsay insisted on sending the rest of the pie home with us, she said the two of them didn't need the extra calories. They're both slim so I don't see the problem, but of course I didn't argue. Pie is even better long after dinner time, when you're finally hungry again.

At first, I hadn't been very hungry, I was afraid I couldn't eat dinner because Brian was so upset. He just sat there at the table, passing the dishes around without taking anything onto his plate. Of course, I acted completely unconcerned, the worst thing to do would be to fuss at him, he would've gotten even crabbier. So Lindsay and I just pretended everything was okay and eventually Brian relaxed, and he ended up eating quite a bit, for him.

Especially lately, he really has no appetite, and he's lost about ten pounds since the accident. Now that he's in physical therapy and getting more exercise, maybe his appetite will pick up. That's what Lindsay thinks and I hope she's right. Brian grumbles about going over there for dinner, but he really enjoys their cooking. Maybe now that he can get around easier, we can go over there more often. He loves being with Gus too.

Earlier we got to see Gus before he was put to bed, he's so big now and I love getting down on the floor to play with him. He likes cars, especially trucks, his favorite is a big yellow dump truck. I helped him load it with blocks and drive it toward the sofa to dump on Brian's feet. Brian tried to hold Gus for a few minutes, but the little guy can't sit still, and I know his moving around hurt Brian's leg, though of course, he denied it. But I'm clued into every nuance of pain on Brian's face by now and I saw it. Linds is tuned into Brian too, and when I glanced at her, she immediately hurried over to pick up Gus and take him off to bed - protesting loudly all the way.

Then Melanie asked Brian about physical therapy, and the expression on his face told the story even before he opened his mouth.



Brian

I was excited to get started on physical therapy, to build up my strength again, and it never occurred to me what a painful and painfully slow process it was going to be. I have to be driven to the hospital, at least for a while longer, I have to shuffle on crutches from the parking lot to the entrance and down a long corridor to the physical medicine department - or wait for someone to fetch a wheelchair for me, and I'm fucking never riding in a wheelchair ever again.

“The fucking PT is always late,” I complain, then Justin says she’s worth waiting for, he likes her. “You like everybody – and anyway, it’s not your fucking leg that gets twisted into a pretzel by a strong-armed midget SS officer.”

“Brian, she’s not that bad,” Justin contradicts me. “She’s the best in the whole department, that’s what all the other patients and the staff say. And she’s not a midget.”

Shaking my head, I describe her: “Five-two at the most, and if she weighs a hundred pounds, I'd be amazed. And although she's reasonably attractive, for a woman – blonde and blue-eyed” (“Green-eyed,” Justin butts in, but I ignore him), “she’s got this big smile that falsely advertises 'sweetheart' when she’s really a Doberman pinscher.”

“Her name’s Rikka,” Justin continues to interrupt, “Isn't that pretty? She's named for her Norwegian grandmother.”

Puffing out my cheeks, I exclaim, “Naturally Justin has dragged her whole family history from her while he sits on the sidelines, watching her torture me. They completely ignore me, just keep chatting happily away, paying absolutely no attention to my screams of agony.”

I let Justin take over describing the therapy regimen, he researched PT on the internet to be sure I’m getting the proper treatment. Therapy started off slow the first time, with a light massage of the leg muscles, gentle stretching, and some ultrasound. I was pissed at how little we did that first day until I woke up in the night with a charley horse. I loathe the slow pace of my treatment, patience is not one of my virtues. If I have any virtues. And if Justin weren't watching over me, I'm not sure how closely I'd follow the regimen of PT appointments. On top of that, I have a routine of stretching and strength-training exercises to follow at home, where Justin enjoys his role of supervisor. He enjoys that role way too much.

“So is it helping?” Lindsay asked me, when Justin stopped to take a breath.

“I guess,” I answer her. “The first week sucked, it didn't seem to be working, but now in the middle of the second week, I'm starting to feel the strength coming back - fucking slow, too damn fucking slow. But Rikka promised that in a couple weeks, I may be able to return to work - part time.”

“Brian, that’s wonderful!” Lindsay has always been my cheerleader. “You’ll be back to normal in no time now.”

“I hope so,” I say grimly. Christ, I have to get into that office soon, or everything I've gained this year will be lost. Working at home with Cynthia's assistance, I've kept my head above water, increased my client list, and Vance has backed off the full frontal assault he'd intended right after the accident. Cynthia's traveled for me, and we've even held a few client meetings at the loft, but I need to be on-site and a strong physical presence in the office soon. The closer I get to that goal, the more impatient I become.



Justin

Leaving Lindsay and Mel's about ten o'clock, we ride along in silence, comfortable silence; I'm being extra cautious driving the slick city streets. Brian leased this car, a silver Honda Accord, over the phone; partly for me to get back and forth to school while I'm staying at the loft, and partly for himself once he’s ready to get behind the wheel. He'll get another jeep eventually, with the insurance settlement, but he wants to pick it out himself. He made some noise for a while about renting a car with hand controls so he could drive himself, but the thing is, there's no point - there's nowhere he's ready to go. He's dying to get back to work, but he'll have to continue working at home a while longer.

Because I'm attuned to Brian's pain, I know he's feeling bad that I'd overheard his conversation with Lindsay, about not wanting to be grateful to me. When I first heard his angry words, I'll admit that it hurt my feelings. Yet right away I realized that Brian didn't mean it the way it sounded, but being him, he couldn't - or wouldn't - explain. I'm reading this book about the Spanish Inquisition, and I can easily imagine Brian stretched out on the rack, his bones cracking and pain squeezing the life out of him - and him refusing to utter any words whatsoever to save himself.

Probably I'm supposed to figure out that he didn’t mean it, by the way, he kissed me after dinner. I know Brian, and I know that that was his way of apologizing. It's enough, and yet it's not enough. If there's going to be any relationship between Brian and me now, I'm going to insist that Brian talk to me. Just a little, just enough to share his feelings. Brian says it's only lesbians and pussies who share their feelings but he's wrong. Somehow I need to show him that he's wrong. Before, a long time ago before the accident, before Ethan, before everything went wrong between us, I was willing to settle for whatever Brian could give me. I won't do that anymore. I love Brian. I can't deny it to myself, and I won't deny it to him if the time comes to tell him so. But I won't settle for crumbs anymore, I want the whole pie.


Brian

When we get back to the loft, Justin puts the pie in the refrigerator before helping me change my clothes. Mostly I can manage things by myself now, but he still insists on helping me dress and undress, and every morning he gets in the shower with me – and damn it, my legs are so weak, sometimes I’m afraid I might fall down if he didn’t. He pulls off my boots and helps me out of my jeans, then grabs my silk robe from the closet and hands it to me. I move down to the living room and settle on the sofa, my leg propped on the coffee table.

Justin brings me my laptop – on the way home, I’d said I needed to check my e-mail and work on a draft presentation for next week, but one glance at the computer makes me shake my head. "Too tired. Come and sit with me for a while."

"Okay." He sets the laptop back on the desk, then makes a detour to put on some music. "What do you feel like? Jazz?"

"Whatever."

With an evil grin, he tells me, "'Whatever' means you'll listen to the new White Stripes CD I bought yesterday."

"Hunh," I grunt back at him. "Jazz."

Justin picks out a CD and starts it, then comes to sit beside me on the sofa.



Justin

Brian puts his arm around me and pulls me in close, kisses me lightly on the lips but doesn’t take it any further. I relax against his chest and feel his breath tickling my hair. We rest like that in silence for a few minutes, then he says quietly, "Justin."

"Hmm?" I can feel his heart beating beneath the black silk robe, Brian loves the feel of silk against his skin.

"Tonight at the munchers' - what you heard. It wasn't what I meant."

I wait. I want to say, ‘I know, Brian, it's okay.’ But I don't let myself.

When I stay still, Brian stirs slightly, then sighs. He hates explaining himself and usually refuses to do it. At last, he says, "It's not that I'm NOT grateful to you. It's that I don't want to be."

"Oh.” Full stop.

More silence. Then, "The way you've taken care of things for me. . . Nobody else could have done - would have done - what you did. What you're still doing - though I don't really need help anymore."

He knows that's not true, but I don't argue with him. I stay quiet, wondering where Brian’s going with this.

After another long pause, Brian adds, "But the thing is. . . even though I don't NEED you here anymore, not really. . ." He takes a deep breath and goes on, "The thing is, I wish you'd stay a little longer. Just for a while. If you don't mind."

I lift my head then and smile slightly. "I don't mind," I murmur. Then he kisses me, and I slide my arms around his neck. "I don't mind at all," I add, in between kisses.

"Sleep with me tonight," Brian whispers.

Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes! "Okay." Inside I'm jumping up and down, but outwardly I'm cool. "Do you want some pie before we go to bed?"

Brian squeezes my shoulders hard and shakes me, complaining, "You’re so greedy. Go get yourself a piece of pie. You can give me a bite."

"Better yet," I suggest, pulling away and laughing, "I can put it on your dick and lick it off."

"No, you can't. I don’t want bits of coconut sticking to my balls, I'm too tired for a shower tonight."

I stand up and head for the refrigerator, then stop and lean over the back of the sofa, slide my arms down his chest. His hair brushes my neck as he leans back his head and raises his chin for an upside-down kiss. "Are you too tired to fuck?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Never," he claims. "Hurry up and eat your damned pie."

Brian

"I am not using a fucking cane!"

"Brian - "

"No."

"Mr. Kinney - "

"No."

There's a brief pause, then Justin suggests, "Brian could still use the crutches, couldn't he doctor? Instead of a cane?"

The doctor sighs; he's tried his bedside manner on me before and he prefers dealing with Justin. "Yes, of course, but it will be much easier to get around using a cane."

"No fucking cane. And no fucking crutches. I can manage without them, I've done it at home." The end. I'm finished, no more conversation.

I don't look at the doctor but I know what his face looks like: Controlled annoyance, his lips compressed tightly together; my peripheral vision shows that he's crossed his arms over his chest. I loathe doctors, they think they're God, all of them. I hear him take a deep breath, no doubt to calm himself, maybe to keep from punching my lights out.

"Yes, Mr. Kinney, you can manage without a cane, without crutches. But your balance is off, your center of gravity has shifted because of the weak leg. You can 'manage' to get around, no doubt. And you will certainly manage to fall down, too. You can believe me or not, I've only been an orthopedic surgeon for eighteen years." He takes another deep breath and tells me, "And if you fall hard enough, your bone will surely break again."

There's a long pause while I choose not to acknowledge him, and while Justin struggles to keep his mouth shut. I sense him fairly quivering with unspoken words. For a brief second that makes me angry with Justin, then the next moment I feel myself softening toward him. He's trying to mediate for me, the way he's been doing ever since the accident. To walk a fine line between doing what's best for me and not pushing too hard. A thankless job.

"Okay," I give in. Not for the doctor, not even for myself. For Justin. "I'll keep using the crutches. But no cane." I still don't look at them, but I hear Justin heave a sigh of relief.

"Very well." The doctor's voice is clipped. "Continue the PT three times a week, and see me again in two weeks." He turns to leave the room, but Justin stops him, grabs his hand and shakes it.

"Thanks so much, Dr. Kuchner," he says, giving his big Sunshine smile. Watching from the corner of my eye, I see the doctor visibly relax and return Justin's smile. That boy should go into politics. Or advertising.

When the door closes behind him and Justin turns back toward the table where I'm sitting with my bad leg stretched out on a pull-out shelf, I cock an eyebrow at him. "Well - aren't you going to tell me I'm an asshole?"

He shrugs. "Why bother? You know that already. Why don't we stop for lunch at Luigi's on the way home? I'm hungry for some Italian."

"Me, too. Think your favorite waiter - Salvatore? - would come home with us after lunch?"

"Ha ha." He pushes in the shelf and helps me off the table. "Sit down, let me get your jeans started."

Halfheartedly I say, "I can do it," but I watch him grab the jeans and bend over to help me put my feet inside the pants legs, and I lean on his shoulder as I stand to pull them up. Christ, I've been leaning on Justin so much the past couple months. I've told him it doesn't mean anything and he's said he understands. But it does mean something. When he hands me the crutches, I fit them under my arms and follow him out of the room.

Naturally, I loathe the crutches, a bright blinking neon sign that a weak imperfect man is hopping around. But I absolutely will never use a cane. Canes are for old men, for broken-down useless wrinkled and helpless drooling old farts. I don't care if that's ridiculously vain, I really don't care. I won't do it.

On Monday, I'm returning to work. I'm limited to four hours a day, and though I scoff at the time imposition, to myself I'll admit that four hours sitting at a desk will tire me. I've pushed that limit at home and later paid the price of flat-out, lie-down-in-bed-and-die exhaustion. Even so, on my own, I realize that I'd continue to push the limits. But Justin knows me very well - he's lined up volunteer chauffeurs who will deliver me to work and pick me up four hours later. So the schedule is out of my hands.

I'm longing to get back to work, and yet I'm feeling trepidation for various reasons. Partly my low energy of course, partly because I dread running the gamut of office staff welcoming me, glad-handing me, and all the false shit that that entails. Nobody really likes me at the office and that’s the way I want it. I'm aware of the nicknames, Killer Kinney being the mildest. I've never made an effort to know anyone and I've never let anybody get personal with me. I have no interest in being buddies with people at the office.

Except for Jesse of course. But he works nights so I won't get to see him for a long time. I find that I've missed his company, which is vaguely amazing. He visited me in the hospital, he met Justin. Later Justin asked if he could call Jesse, invite him to come visit me at home, but I said no. That's just a casual acquaintance kind of thing, not a friendship. Jesse wouldn't want to come to the loft, I wouldn’t put him on the spot like that.

I've never really done the friends thing anyway, not since college, and not much even back then. Most of my so-called friends are really Mikey's. Michael's my friend. Lindsay. And - Justin. Whenever I think of Justin as my friend, I do a sort of mental double-take. It took so long for me to recognize that Justin was more than just a great fuck. Almost from the beginning, I wanted him around me. I thought it was only for sex.

Following Justin out to the parking lot and handing him my crutches while I climb into the passenger seat, I think about that nebulous word 'friend.' Supposedly a friend is someone you count on to always be there for you. Like, Michael.

And Justin? He was on my side from the very beginning, even before I wanted him to be. Despite my best efforts to keep him from being. And have I been there for him? Mostly. Mostly I have. Not always the way he wanted me to be, but. . .

"You're deep in thought," Justin comments, throwing a glance at me as he pulls out of the stall and exits the hospital parking lot. He wants to know what I'm thinking but he knows better than to ask. And because he doesn't ask, I decide to tell him.

"I'm thinking about friends."

He hesitates, starts to speak, then stops abruptly.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." He pauses, then blurts out, "You know, people came to see you in the beginning, but you didn't exactly make them feel welcome."

I correct him. "I wasn't thinking of fucking visitors. And I didn't make people feel welcome at the loft because they were NOT welcome. I wanted to be left alone."

"Well, it worked."

I stare hard at him, trying to decide if he's being sarcastic. But he's not - or only a little. "I don't like a lot of people around. In the clubs it's okay. But not at home. I'm a loner - always have been."

"I know." He stops at a red light and turns to look at me.

I can't read his expression - he's learning to mask his feelings from me, damn it. He used to be transparent as glass. Then suddenly I think I know what he's not saying.

"I didn't mean - "

Justin just looks away, the light changes and the car surges forward. Fuck. This is exactly why I don't like to talk about feelings. People misunderstand. Things get confused. Things get emotional. I don't want to explain. It's fucking invasion of privacy. And I'm not going to explain myself to Justin or to anybody else.

Because I didn't mean him. Yet if I say I didn't mean him, then that implies that I want him to stay with me. And just because maybe I do want him to stay with me, it can't happen. I won't let it happen.

It's silent inside the car, and then I see my hand moving slowly across the seat. I watch it creep up Justin's arm and come to rest on the collar of his jacket. I watch my fingers squeezing his neck, and when he turns his head and gives me a reluctant smile, I feel my the corners of my mouth turn up in return. At the next red light, we kiss. Actions are better than words, and they don't paint you into a corner.


Justin

It won't be long now till Brian won't need me anymore. I have to prepare myself for getting pushed out of the loft once again. Maybe pushed out of Brian's life. I've tried not to get comfortable here, but it's hard not to fall back into our old ways, back when we lived together by choice.

I haven't let myself sleep in Brian's bed unless I'm invited, one night at a time. In the beginning, Brian tried to get me to sleep with him every night - he said he was more comfortable having somebody warm lying next to him. So I offered to buy him an electric blanket. He laughed but he was pissed. I was pissed too - I have no intention of being merely a warm body in Brian's bed.

Sex has been happening a lot lately. Which is not really surprising for two sexually active guys being together every morning and night. At first, Brian was hurting too much but eventually we worked out some ways to have almost pain-free sex, and lots of times Brian just wants to be jerked off or to watch me jerking off. That's incredibly hot, having Brian watch me. We lie side by side on the bed, me in the circle of his arm, his breath warm and tickling as he whispers nasty hot things in my ear. One time Brian asked me to bring a trick home, he wanted to watch me fuck somebody. Like we used to. But I won't do that anymore and I told him so. I thought he might scoff at me, curl his lip in that scornful way of his, but he didn't, he just nodded. He didn't even seem surprised.

Now that Brian's almost back to normal, he wants to fuck every day. I try to resist him because it's only going to make me miss living here even more: the constant access to Brian's beautiful naked body, his kisses, the roller-coaster feelings that having sex with Brian puts me through. In my mind, I've purposely stopped calling it love-making. Because I've learned that you can't "make" love, and Brian does not really love me. Or at least, not the way I love him, not the way I want to be loved.

Oh, I'm not the romantic dope I was when I fell for Ethan. The romance with Ethan was what I thought I wanted, needed - yet I learned pretty quickly that romance wasn't enough. It was delicious at first, like Worcestershire sauce poured on top of a steak. Yet soon I realized that it was the steak I wanted, not the sauce.

What's ironic is that I never really loved Ethan, so in a way, I was cheating him of the kind of feelings he wanted, just like Brian cheated me. No, Brian didn't cheat me. He's always said, from day one, that he doesn't believe in love. You can't withhold something that doesn't exist.

But In the past few months, I've discovered that Brian used to believe in love. I don't know the details, but when he was a kid, he loved that guy Charlie, Vic's friend. And he admitted, not in so many words, that he loved a guy in college, loved him almost enough to throw himself off a rooftop. He won't talk about it and yet he showed me the guy's picture, an amazing thing for Brian to do. He's given me a couple peeks inside his armor now. At first, I hoped that meant he was opening up to me, but since he won't talk about it anymore, I'm beginning to think it was just Brian's way of showing me why he won't ever love again. When I start thinking like that, I get an unbearable pain in my chest.

After the doctor, we stopped for lunch at Luigi's - Brian's first time at our favorite Italian place since the accident. They made a great deal of fuss over him which Brian pretended to dislike, but in a way, I believe he enjoys it. I wonder if they'll do anything to welcome him back to his office? I talked privately to Cynthia and she felt pretty strongly that Brian won't want any recognition whatsoever. I agree, and yet as much as he bitches about things like that, I still believe he sometimes wants that kind of acknowledgment.

Brian says he doesn't like people and doesn’t want to have lots of friends, but I'm not sure anymore that I believe him. For one thing, there was this old guy, Jesse, who came to see Brian in the hospital. Brian wouldn't say anything about him except he knew him slightly at work, but when I asked Cynthia about Jesse, she said he’s one of the janitors. She had no idea how Brian knows this guy. I only talked to him for a minute at the hospital but he sure didn't give off any gay vibes. I offered to invite Jesse to visit the loft but Brian wouldn't let me. Yet it was obvious Brian liked Jesse, because he was so totally not being his normal asshole self when Jesse visited. Not like he was with every single other visitor. Wish I knew more about this guy.

The biggest problem in the way of Brian and I ever working out is not the love thing. Well, partly it's the love thing. Whoever I love is going to love me back, and say so. I don't need to have floor picnics, I just need to hear a man say he loves me too. But actually, the biggest problem is the fact that Brian won't talk to me about things important to him. His family, his past, and not much of his present.


Brian

Of course, it was almost worse than I anticipated, my first day back at work. Michael drove me to the office and I called Cynthia on my cell to come meet the car, so she could carry my briefcase while I crutched my way into the elevator and through the agency lobby to my office. The trip was a minefield of brief encounters with agency staff, everyone with big fake smiles and false words of welcome. If I weren't a partner, I'll bet most of them wouldn't have bothered.

By the time I collapsed into my desk chair, I was exhausted and wished I were home in bed. There was a huge bouquet of flowers in a glass vase on my coffee table which turned out to be from Vance himself, and throughout my few hours at the office, he and almost everyone else dropped by to welcome me back. I was getting more and more pissed, with all the interruptions I got virtually no work done, then an hour before it was time for me to leave, Vance called a finance meeting in the main conference room.

If Cynthia hadn't been there whisking visitors into and out of my office quickly, probably I'd have leaped from my window. She had the nerve to chastise me to behave myself, even after I told her that insubordination was grounds for termination. She only laughed and dared me to fire her, and after glowering for a moment, my fingers twitching to pick up something and throw it against the wall, I gave in and laughed. Without her, I’d be up shit creek and we both know it. That relaxed me a bit, and a phone call from Justin relaxed me even more. He promised a hot shower, what he called a 'deep, penetrating massage' and a prime rib take-out dinner from Les Gendarmes, if I made it through the day without killing anybody.

By the time I crutched my way down the hall to the conference room, I was really hurting and felt sure my jello-brain would not function much longer. But the 'meeting' turned out to be a fucking party to welcome me back. I just stood stock-still inside the conference room door staring in dismay at the decorations and a huge hideous cake in the center of the conference room table. If Cynthia had not been behind me with a hand on my arm, I would have turned and fled - as quickly as one can flee on crutches. She pinched my arm and when I glanced down at her, she smiled with clenched teeth, "Be fucking nice or I'll tell Justin."

Somehow I managed to be nice. Or as nice as anybody can expect me to be with dozens of people grinning and staring at me as I sat in one of the leather chairs and toyed with the piece of cake in front of me. Finally, the ordeal was over, and back in my office, I packed up all the reports and memos I'd had no time to read, while Cynthia waited to escort me downstairs as soon as Justin arrived. If I were using the cane as the doctor suggested I could carry my own briefcase, but it's impossible with crutches. Cynthia said she didn't mind carrying it for me, and she accompanied me into the elevator and out through the lobby to the street.

Justin was standing next to the car parked in the loading zone in front of the building. And to my great surprise, standing next to Justin on the sidewalk by the open car door was Jesse.



Justin

When I'd parked the car and went around to open the passenger door to be ready to help Brian get in, a man approached me and said hesitantly, "Mr. Taylor?" Immediately I recognized Brian's friend Jesse and I held out my hand and we shook.

"It's Justin, and you're Jesse, right? It's nice to see you again, have you talked to Brian yet?"

"Oh no, no," he shook his head, "I don't work till later tonight, but his girl Cynthia told me he was coming back today so I hoped if I came around, I might get to see him. Welcome him back."

"Brian's on his way down right now, he'll be here in just a minute. You didn’t go upstairs?"

"Oh no," he said again, "Wouldn't want to interrupt business. How's he doing? Better I guess, since he's back to work."

"Yes, lots better," I told him, then went on to explain that the cast was off Brian's leg, he was still in PT and would be for quite a while, but he'd been anxious to get back to the office. I studied Jesse while we were talking and I was surprised again - he just didn't seem like the kind of guy Brian would know. Brian's no snob but he's very standoffish, he won't give most people the time of day, and it was hard to imagine that Brian had some kind of friendship with an old straight guy, Jesse has to be fifty at least. Brian likes Vic but they've got history; why does Brian like this guy, I wondered?

"It was nice of you to visit Brian in the hospital," I said, "You should've come to see him at home too."

Jesse was shaking his head. "No, I wouldn't have imposed myself that way, we're just sometimes drinking buddies. Brian used to work late and we'd share a drop and a cigarette. I've missed our little talks, baring our souls," Jesse chuckled.

"I'll bet he's missed that too," I ventured, trying to imagine Brian baring his soul to anybody. Then we looked up and Brian and Cynthia arrived at the curb.

"Jesse!" Brian exclaimed, stopping to hand me a crutch so he could shake hands, the look on his face changing from concentration and pain to a big open smile. Jesse kept hold of Brian's hand and squeezed it hard.

"How you, doing?" Jesse asked, "I heard you'd be back to work today."

"Great," Brian replied, "I'm doing great, how are you?"

"Don't stand around any longer, you look beat," Jesse let go of Brian's hand and pointed at the open car door.

With a sigh and a nod, Brian agreed, "I am." He handed me his other crutch and lowered himself onto the car seat but kept his right foot outside the car so he could turn and keep talking to Jesse. "Did your son get that job in Colorado?"

"Yeah," Jesse agreed, "There's a long story about that - but I'll save it till you're up to par and back at work full-time."

I'd just shoved the crutches behind the seat and I quickly turned to interrupt, "Oh, don't wait for that," I said, "Why don't you come see Brian this weekend?"

Jesse was shaking his head, but after glancing at Brian's face, which briefly looked eager till he quickly assumed his usual blasé façade, I repeated the suggestion. "You could come by on Saturday or Sunday, Brian doesn’t have any plans yet. You'd like that, wouldn't you Brian?"

Brian dropped his façade, allowed himself to be real. "I'd like it very much," he looked at Jesse, "Whenever you can. If not this weekend, another time."

"If you're sure. . ." Jesse hesitated a moment, then nodded his head. "I'd like that, too. My grandson's got a soccer game Saturday morning, but other than that, I'm free."

"Saturday afternoon?" I suggested, and both men agreed. Then Cynthia handed me Brian's briefcase, and I almost laughed when I realized she was winking at me. I grinned at her, both of us acknowledging our own versions of Brian Kinney manipulation. Then everyone said good-bye and I got in the car to drive Brian home.

"You're an interfering twat," Brian told me as he pulled the seatbelt over himself and fastened it.

Traffic was heavy downtown and I couldn't turn to look at him, so I just said, "Oh, sorry - don't you want Jesse to come over? You seem to like him a lot."

Brian didn't answer for a moment, then he sighed and relaxed against the seat. "It's okay. And he's all right." 'All right' being high praise in Brian's book.


Brian

I was looking forward to Jesse's visit though I wondered if it would feel strange talking to him again after such a long absence, and then out of context in a way, having him at the loft instead of in my office. But when he arrived and Justin ushered him into the living room, I immediately felt comfortable with Jesse and he seemed to feel the same. I was on the sofa with my leg elevated, and he sat down in the chair on my right, turning slightly to face me. Justin was quick to play bartender, handing us each a small glass of JB. I'd purposely not taken any Vicodin since the day before. I'm needing it less and less anyway, soon I'll be able to drink anytime I want without throwing up.

When Justin brought over my cigarettes and an ashtray, I said, "Thanks, now go away."

Jesse threw a quick look at Justin - maybe to see if he was offended - but Justin was smiling. "I'm off - I've got my cell if you need to reach me. Have a nice visit."

"Wait a sec," Jesse's voice halted Justin, who turned to look at him inquiringly. "You're the young man who was attacked a year or so ago, aren't you?" When Justin merely nodded, he went on, "Sorry - maybe you don't want to talk about it?"

"Actually," Justin confided to him, "I do want to talk about it - but nobody else does."

Jesse just nodded. "That's normal - folks usually ignore things that make them uncomfortable. Did your physical injuries heal, or do you still have problems?"

Throwing an uncertain look at me (I was careful to keep my face impassive), Justin said haltingly, "Some small problems, motor skills with my hand, headaches, stuff like that. Nothing major."

"Good," Jesse nodded seriously, "I remember reading about it and I was afraid you'd be damaged for life. No thanks to that bastard that you're not. I never heard what happened to him?"

"Nothing," I said coldly, I can't bear to think about that son of a bitch walking around free. I hope to Christ I never run into him, I don't know what I'd do.

"Community service," Justin added.

Jesse nodded. "The justice system in action, huh? Are you mad about that, or were you able to let it go?"

Justin took a deep breath, then perched on the edge of the coffee table near my foot. He looked at Jesse intensely. "I'm trying to let it go. But sometimes," his face twisted angrily and his voice grew harsh, "Sometimes I want to kill him with my bare hands."

That jolted me, I hadn't realized that Justin still had so much anger inside. Jesse was nodding. "You probably both feel that way, huh?"

"Yes," I agreed, looking down to see my hands clenched on my lap. When I looked up, Justin was staring at me.

"You do?"

"Well, what do you think, Justin?" I could hear the impatience in my voice. "That bastard almost murdered you. Did you think I'd just forget about that?"

"I - I don't know. You never said." Justin's face was pink, he looked almost ready to cry, which somehow aggravated me even more.

I leaned forward, my clenched hands turning into white-knuckled fists. "Every day I worry that I'll run into that fucking prick, and I won't be able to keep myself from breaking his fucking neck!"

Justin was blinking his eyes hard, he's learning to keep his feelings from spilling over, I'm proud of him for that. "I didn't know," he murmured again. Then he reached out his hand to me, and I took it, squeezed his hand in mine. "Thanks," he said, smiling tremulously.

I cleared my throat. "You need to go now - you'll be late to Deb's."

"Okay." He jumped up from the coffee table and reached out to shake hands with Jesse. "Nice to see you again," he said. That boy has the best manners of anyone I've met in my life. Jesse stood up and watched Justin cross the polished floorboards and go out of the loft, turning to wave at us as he pulled the heavy door closed.

Jesse sat back down and shook his head. "I'd guess that young man's been through a lot, if half of what I read in the newspaper is true."

"Yeah." I leaned forward to offer Jesse a cigarette and take one for myself, then lit them with my Zippo. "His dad disowned him, he had it really rough at school, then he got bashed. He did make a good recovery, but it's been tough for him all right."

"I'd say he's lucky to have you looking out for him," Jesse exhaled a blue cloud and leaned back in his chair. "Lots of young folks don't have mentors helping them out."

I almost laughed at that. "I'm hardly a mentor for Justin. And I'm not looking out for him."

"You've stuck by him through all the grief, haven't you?"

"Sort of accidentally, most of the time," I hedged, but Jesse shook his head.

"Bullshit. I've come to know a bit about you by now, Brian, and I'd say, no offense intended, that you wouldn't cross the street for somebody you didn't care a lot about."

How could I deny that? I said nothing.

"So. . ." Jesse paused, then went on, "So, has it been accidental then?"

I just stared at him for a moment, tempted to make one of my usual flippant rejoinders, but I couldn’t do it. "No," I said at last. "Not accidental."

Jesse just nodded, he's not one to press his advantage. We sat in silence for a few minutes, then I sighed. Somehow Jesse makes me see things differently, I don't exactly know how. Finally, he said, "So I was right - Justin's lucky to have you on his side."

I couldn't let that pass. "He's not lucky. I'm just about the worst person in the world for Justin to be with."

"Oh, I don't know." Jesse took another puff of the cigarette. "Does he want to be with you?"

I pondered that question for a moment, though I've always known the answer. Finally, I admitted, "Yeah." There was another silence, then I added, "But he doesn't know what's best for himself. He's nineteen, for Christ's sake."

Jesse smiled. "I was nineteen when I married my wife. I knew I wanted her."

"It's different for straights," I answered him, almost angrily.

"Why is that, Brian?"

"Just trust me, it is." I wasn't going there. Not even with Jesse. "Can we change the subject?"

"Sure, of course." Jesse leaned forward to crush out his cigarette. "Sorry if I was prying too much. Let me tell you about my son, the big real estate baron," and he laughed, leaning back and crossing his legs. Jesse's son works for a national realty firm and just landed a job in Boulder, Colorado. Jesse'd been to visit him at Christmas and he told me all about it.

Jesse stayed a couple hours and when he left, I limped up to the bedroom to lie down, I was tired and thought I'd fall asleep, an afternoon nap has become almost a habit. But the minute my head hit the pillow, I started thinking about Justin, about the bashing. I'd been surprised to realize that he was still so full of anger. I shouldn't have been surprised - in his place I'd be mad as hell. I've always known that I should let him talk about it, but I didn't want to - it hurt too much to remember that night. Somehow I'd managed not to think how hard that made it for Justin, not to let him express his feelings. Just because I don’t need to express my own feelings. . .

Which is, of course, a fucking lie. Almost all my life I’ve shared my feelings with Mikey. We’ve been through so much together that by now, we hardly need words to know what the other’s feeling. Maybe I’d assumed Justin knew how I felt, without me having to tell him. Or maybe I was just wary of letting him see. . . inside. If you give people an opening, give them something to get their hands on, later they’ll use it as a knife to cut your heart out.

Michael never did, but Justin might. Justin already did, didn’t he? He screwed around behind my back, and though I shouldn’t have cared, in the end, it hurt like fucking hell. I remembered the night I gave Justin an ultimatum: Choose. And he didn’t choose me, did he?

Then I had to remind myself that I’d wanted Justin to choose his violinist. I knew that would be the best thing for everybody: give Justin the push he needed to move away from me, from my hopelessly cynical outlook – let him go be his age with another ridiculously romantic boy.

Ridiculously romantic. I’d tried that once. Tried it on and – being completely honest with myself as I lay there in the dark – I had to admit that I’d fucking liked it. For a few almost unbearably happy moments. It wasn’t real, though. It was something outside reality. I can’t even remember now what I was thinking as I got dressed in the tux and sauntered into the hotel to find Justin dancing with Daphne in the middle of the ballroom full of teenagers. Yet I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every moment of that dance with Justin. Though I’ve cursed myself since then a hundred times, a thousand times, for daring to think I could be happy like normal people.

Justin’s normal. He still can be, he’s not become truly cynical yet. His mother’s right, Lady Jennifer. I owe it to Justin to give him a chance at a normal life, with someone who can give him what he needs. He’s only nineteen, his whole lifes ahead of him. In some ways, he’s still almost unbearably young and hopeful.

Then I thought about Jesse's remark, that he'd been married at Justin's age. I know Justin wants to be with me again - or anyway, he would if I could manage not to be such a giant prick most of the time. If I would tell him things he wants to hear. I can feel part of me yearning to be the kind of man Justin wants, and it scares the shit out of me. That's not me. That'll never be me. And I can’t continue to fuck up Justin's life just because I – just because I –



Justin

Brian was lying down when I got back about seven but he wasn’t asleep. The loft was mostly dark so it must still have been daylight when he went to lie down, only a couple lamps were turned on. At first, I was trying to be quiet but he called out to tell me he was awake, so I quickly put away the stuff Debbie had sent for our dinner and pulled off my jacket, throwing it toward my desk chair. For a change, it landed there and not on the floor. Then I sat down on the bed next to Brian.

“Did you have a nice visit? I like Jesse. He likes you a lot, doesn’t he? Is he coming to see you again? Can I invite him for dinner sometime?”

Brian yawned and folded his arms behind his head. “Give me a dose of your energy, will you?”

I leaned forward and smacked my mouth against his and Brian laughed, stuck out a hand to grab my arm and pulled me down beside him. I kicked off my shoes and settled next to him, stretching out on top of the duvet.

“Did you and Michael finish painting Debbie’s shed?”

“Yeah, and she sent home some lasagna for our dinner, as payment. Are you hungry?”

“Soon. Stay with me here a while.”

“Okay.” I relaxed, even more, letting my whole body fall into Brian’s, being careful not to smash his bad leg.

“Mmm, you smell delicious,” he said, “Nice and sweaty.”

“I need a shower.”

“No,” he contradicted, “Nice clean teenage sweat smells good.”

“I won’t be a teenager much longer – I’m nineteen and a half already.”

Brian’s arm snaked around to pinch my ass. “Jesse said - “ He stopped, then went on, “Jesse said when he was nineteen he knew exactly what he wanted.” Brian pulled back and studied my face.

“Me, too.”

When he said nothing, I went on. “I want to be a good artist – not famous, but good enough to make a living doing what I like. I want to live in a nice place and drive a good car. I want lots of friends. I want to travel.” I stopped, and when Brian still said nothing, I ducked my head and laid my face on his chest, so I didn’t have to look at him. “And I want to be loved. By just one man who will love only me for the rest of my life. And he’ll tell me that he loves me, right out loud.”

I felt Brian’s heart beating beneath my cheek. Finally, he murmured, “You deserve all of that.”

Suddenly I thought, ‘It’s now or never.’ Soon Brian won’t need my help anymore, he’ll send me away, and I might not get another chance to tell him how I feel. I was scared, but I asked myself, what have you got to lose? So I took a deep gulp of air and I whispered, “I want all of that with you, Brian.”

His arms tightened around me and he pressed his chin on top of my head. “I know,” he said.

We lay in silence until finally, I couldn’t wait any longer. “What do you want, Brian?”

“I have everything I want,” he answered quickly, and I felt my heart sink. I started to pull away but he held me tight against him. “Almost everything,” he amended. Waiting, I lay still in his arm, feeling his breath ruffle my hair. Finally, he sighed and held me even tighter. “What I want, more than anything, right now, is for you NOT to throw your life away. I want you to be happy." He paused. "And you can't be happy with me.”

Pulling away so that I could look into his face, I nodded. “Maybe not. But I can’t be happy without you, either.”

We stared at each other, and for the first time, I felt like Brian was letting me look deep inside him. “Justin,” he said, pulling himself upright in the bed and grabbing my arms to pull me up beside him. “Justin, I’ve been lying here thinking about things, and I - I want to make a suggestion. A proposition.”

I waited, scared but not completely hopeless.

Finally, he said, “I want you to take a year off – from me.”

“What?”

“Throw yourself into school, date a lot of guys, be open to anything that happens to you. Enjoy yourself, and I mean, put your heart into it. You have so much energy, so much enthusiasm – I want you to have the best time of your life.”

He stopped, and after a moment I asked impatiently, “Well, then what? After a year, then what?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “No promises. No promises from you, no promises from me. But I need to know that you’ll give yourself a chance. With other guys.”

“I don’t want to.”

Didn’t I have any pride? Brian was pushing me away again, didn’t I have enough pride to back off?

No. No, I’ve never had any pride where Brian is concerned.

Brian swung his head away, stared off into space and ran a hand through his hair. “Nine months,” he said at last.

“I can’t live without you for nine months,” I said simply. I believe that with all my heart.

“Six.”

“Brian – “

“Six.” He turned back to stare at me. “Six months.”

I considered for a moment, then asked, “Can we still see each other?”

He was shaking his head. “Then what’s the point of – “

“Are you going to see that Rick again?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Promise.”

Brian laughed then, but he wasn’t amused, he was losing patience; I know the signs. “No promises, I said.”

“Promise you won’t see Rick.”

“Justin – “

“Promise I can still come over here sometimes.”

“Justin – “

“Promise.”

Brian dropped his head into his hands and pulled on his hair. “Aaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh!” he moaned loudly.

“Promise.”

“Fuck you,” he said, but it was a whisper. Then his arms reached out and grabbed me, pulled me hard against his chest and he covered my mouth with his lips, kissing me so hard and rough that I almost cried out.

When I could pry my lips away from his, I breathed into his mouth, “Promise.”

“Damn you to fucking hell, Justin Taylor,” Brian growled at me.

And then a moment later he whispered, “I promise.”

Brian

"I am not using a fucking cane!"

"Brian - "

"No."

"Mr. Kinney - "

"No."

There's a brief pause, then Justin suggests, "Brian could still use the crutches, couldn't he doctor? Instead of a cane?"

The doctor sighs; he's tried his bedside manner on me before and he prefers dealing with Justin. "Yes, of course, but it will be much easier to get around using a cane."

"No fucking cane. And no fucking crutches. I can manage without them, I've done it at home." The end. I'm finished, no more conversation.

I don't look at the doctor but I know what his face looks like: Controlled annoyance, his lips compressed tightly together; my peripheral vision shows that he's crossed his arms over his chest. I loathe doctors, they think they're God, all of them. I hear him take a deep breath, no doubt to calm himself, maybe to keep from punching my lights out.

"Yes, Mr. Kinney, you can manage without a cane, without crutches. But your balance is off, your center of gravity has shifted because of the weak leg. You can 'manage' to get around, no doubt. And you will certainly manage to fall down, too. You can believe me or not, I've only been an orthopedic surgeon for eighteen years." He takes another deep breath and tells me, "And if you fall hard enough, your bone will surely break again."

There's a long pause while I choose not to acknowledge him, and while Justin struggles to keep his mouth shut. I sense him fairly quivering with unspoken words. For a brief second that makes me angry with Justin, then the next moment I feel myself softening toward him. He's trying to mediate for me, the way he's been doing ever since the accident. To walk a fine line between doing what's best for me and not pushing too hard. A thankless job.

"Okay," I give in. Not for the doctor, not even for myself. For Justin. "I'll keep using the crutches. But no cane." I still don't look at them, but I hear Justin heave a sigh of relief.

"Very well." The doctor's voice is clipped. "Continue the PT three times a week, and see me again in two weeks." He turns to leave the room, but Justin stops him, grabs his hand and shakes it.

"Thanks so much, Dr. Kuchner," he says, giving his big Sunshine smile. Watching from the corner of my eye, I see the doctor visibly relax and return Justin's smile. That boy should go into politics. Or advertising.

When the door closes behind him and Justin turns back toward the table where I'm sitting with my bad leg stretched out on a pull-out shelf, I cock an eyebrow at him. "Well - aren't you going to tell me I'm an asshole?"

He shrugs. "Why bother? You know that already. Why don't we stop for lunch at Luigi's on the way home? I'm hungry for some Italian."

"Me, too. Think your favorite waiter - Salvatore? - would come home with us after lunch?"

"Ha ha." He pushes in the shelf and helps me off the table. "Sit down, let me get your jeans started."

Halfheartedly I say, "I can do it," but I watch him grab the jeans and bend over to help me put my feet inside the pants legs, and I lean on his shoulder as I stand to pull them up. Christ, I've been leaning on Justin so much the past couple months. I've told him it doesn't mean anything and he's said he understands. But it does mean something. When he hands me the crutches, I fit them under my arms and follow him out of the room.

Naturally I loathe the crutches, a bright blinking neon sign that a weak imperfect man is hopping around. But I absolutely will never use a cane. Canes are for old men, for broken-down useless wrinkled and helpless drooling old farts. I don't care if that's ridiculously vain, I really don't care. I won't do it.

On Monday, I'm returning to work. I'm limited to four hours a day, and though I scoff at the time imposition, to myself I'll admit that four hours sitting at a desk will tire me. I've pushed that limit at home and later paid the price of flat-out, lie-down-in-bed-and-die exhaustion. Even so, on my own, I realize that I'd continue to push the limits. But Justin knows me very well - he's lined up volunteer chauffeurs who will deliver me to work and pick me up four hours later. So the schedule is out of my hands.

I'm longing to get back to work, and yet I'm feeling trepidation for various reasons. Partly my low energy of course, partly because I dread running the gamut of office staff welcoming me, glad-handing me, and all the false shit that that entails. Nobody really likes me at the office and that’s the way I want it. I'm aware of the nicknames, Killer Kinney being the mildest. I've never made an effort to know anyone and I've never let anybody get personal with me. I have no interest in being buddies with people at the office.

Except for Jesse of course. But he works nights so I won't get to see him for a long time. I find that I've missed his company, which is vaguely amazing. He visited me in the hospital, he met Justin. Later Justin asked if he could call Jesse, invite him to come visit me at home, but I said no. That's just a casual acquaintance kind of thing, not a friendship. Jesse wouldn't want to come to the loft, I wouldn’t put him on the spot like that.

I've never really done the friends thing anyway, not since college, and not much even back then. Most of my so-called friends are really Mikey's. Michael's my friend. Lindsay. And - Justin. Whenever I think of Justin as my friend, I do a sort of mental double-take. It took so long for me to recognize that Justin was more than just a great fuck. Almost from the beginning, I wanted him around me. I thought it was only for sex.

Following Justin out to the parking lot and handing him my crutches while I climb into the passenger seat, I think about that nebulous word 'friend.' Supposedly a friend is someone you count on to always be there for you. Like, Michael.

And Justin? He was on my side from the very beginning, even before I wanted him to be. Despite my best efforts to keep him from being. And have I been there for him? Mostly. Mostly I have. Not always the way he wanted me to be, but. . .

"You're deep in thought," Justin comments, throwing a glance at me as he pulls out of the stall and exits the hospital parking lot. He wants to know what I'm thinking but he knows better than to ask. And because he doesn't ask, I decide to tell him.

"I'm thinking about friends."

He hesitates, starts to speak, then stops abruptly.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." He pauses, then blurts out, "You know, people came to see you in the beginning, but you didn't exactly make them feel welcome."

I correct him. "I wasn't thinking of fucking visitors. And I didn't make people feel welcome at the loft because they were NOT welcome. I wanted to be left alone."

"Well, it worked."

I stare hard at him, trying to decide if he's being sarcastic. But he's not - or only a little. "I don't like a lot of people around. In the clubs it's okay. But not at home. I'm a loner - always have been."

"I know." He stops at a red light and turns to look at me.

I can't read his expression - he's learning to mask his feelings from me, damn it. He used to be transparent as glass. Then suddenly I think I know what he's not saying.

"I didn't mean - "

Justin just looks away, the light changes and the car surges forward. Fuck. This is exactly why I don't like to talk about feelings. People misunderstand. Things get confused. Things get emotional. I don't want to explain. It's fucking invasion of privacy. And I'm not going to explain myself to Justin or to anybody else.

Because I didn't mean him. Yet if I say I didn't mean him, then that implies that I want him to stay with me. And just because maybe I do want him to stay with me, it can't happen. I won't let it happen.

It's silent inside the car, and then I see my hand moving slowly across the seat. I watch it creep up Justin's arm and come to rest on the collar of his jacket. I watch my fingers squeezing his neck, and when he turns his head and gives me a reluctant smile, I feel my the corners of my mouth turn up in return. At the next red light, we kiss. Actions are better than words, and they don't paint you into a corner.


Justin

It won't be long now till Brian won't need me anymore. I have to prepare myself for getting pushed out of the loft once again. Maybe pushed out of Brian's life. I've tried not to get comfortable here, but it's hard not to fall back into our old ways, back when we lived together by choice.

I haven't let myself sleep in Brian's bed unless I'm invited, one night at a time. In the beginning, Brian tried to get me to sleep with him every night - he said he was more comfortable having somebody warm lying next to him. So I offered to buy him an electric blanket. He laughed but he was pissed. I was pissed too - I have no intention of being merely a warm body in Brian's bed.

Sex has been happening a lot lately. Which is not really surprising for two sexually active guys being together every morning and night. At first, Brian was hurting too much but eventually we worked out some ways to have almost pain-free sex, and lots of times Brian just wants to be jerked off or to watch me jerking off. That's incredibly hot, having Brian watch me. We lie side by side on the bed, me in the circle of his arm, his breath warm and tickling as he whispers nasty hot things in my ear. One time Brian asked me to bring a trick home, he wanted to watch me fuck somebody. Like we used to. But I won't do that anymore and I told him so. I thought he might scoff at me, curl his lip in that scornful way of his, but he didn't, he just nodded. He didn't even seem surprised.

Now that Brian's almost back to normal, he wants to fuck every day. I try to resist him because it's only going to make me miss living here even more: the constant access to Brian's beautiful naked body, his kisses, the roller-coaster feelings that having sex with Brian puts me through. In my mind, I've purposely stopped calling it love-making. Because I've learned that you can't "make" love, and Brian does not really love me. Or at least, not the way I love him, not the way I want to be loved.

Oh, I'm not the romantic dope I was when I fell for Ethan. The romance with Ethan was what I thought I wanted, needed - yet I learned pretty quickly that romance wasn't enough. It was delicious at first, like Worcestershire sauce poured on top of a steak. Yet soon I realized that it was the steak I wanted, not the sauce.

What's ironic is that I never really loved Ethan, so in a way, I was cheating him of the kind of feelings he wanted, just like Brian cheated me. No, Brian didn't cheat me. He's always said, from day one, that he doesn't believe in love. You can't withhold something that doesn't exist.

But In the past few months, I've discovered that Brian used to believe in love. I don't know the details, but when he was a kid, he loved that guy Charlie, Vic's friend. And he admitted, not in so many words, that he loved a guy in college, loved him almost enough to throw himself off a rooftop. He won't talk about it and yet he showed me the guy's picture, an amazing thing for Brian to do. He's given me a couple peeks inside his armor now. At first, I hoped that meant he was opening up to me, but since he won't talk about it anymore, I'm beginning to think it was just Brian's way of showing me why he won't ever love again. When I start thinking like that, I get an unbearable pain in my chest.

After the doctor, we stopped for lunch at Luigi's - Brian's first time at our favorite Italian place since the accident. They made a great deal of fuss over him which Brian pretended to dislike, but in a way, I believe he enjoys it. I wonder if they'll do anything to welcome him back to his office? I talked privately to Cynthia and she felt pretty strongly that Brian won't want any recognition whatsoever. I agree, and yet as much as he bitches about things like that, I still believe he sometimes wants that kind of acknowledgment.

Brian says he doesn't like people and doesn’t want to have lots of friends, but I'm not sure anymore that I believe him. For one thing, there was this old guy, Jesse, who came to see Brian in the hospital. Brian wouldn't say anything about him except he knew him slightly at work, but when I asked Cynthia about Jesse, she said he’s one of the janitors. She had no idea how Brian knows this guy. I only talked to him for a minute at the hospital but he sure didn't give off any gay vibes. I offered to invite Jesse to visit the loft but Brian wouldn't let me. Yet it was obvious Brian liked Jesse because he was so totally not being his normal asshole self when Jesse visited. Not like he was with every single other visitor. Wish I knew more about this guy.

The biggest problem in the way of Brian and I ever working out is not the love thing. Well, partly it's the love thing. Whoever I love is going to love me back, and say so. I don't need to have floor picnics, I just need to hear a man say he loves me too. But actually, the biggest problem is the fact that Brian won't talk to me about things important to him. His family, his past, and not much of his present.


Brian

Of course, it was almost worse than I anticipated, my first day back at work. Michael drove me to the office and I called Cynthia on my cell to come meet the car, so she could carry my briefcase while I crutched my way into the elevator and through the agency lobby to my office. The trip was a minefield of brief encounters with agency staff, everyone with big fake smiles and false words of welcome. If I weren't a partner, I'll bet most of them wouldn't have bothered.

By the time I collapsed into my desk chair, I was exhausted and wished I were home in bed. There was a huge bouquet of flowers in a glass vase on my coffee table which turned out to be from Vance himself, and throughout my few hours at the office, he and almost everyone else dropped by to welcome me back. I was getting more and more pissed, with all the interruptions I got virtually no work done, then an hour before it was time for me to leave, Vance called a finance meeting in the main conference room.

If Cynthia hadn't been there whisking visitors into and out of my office quickly, probably I'd have leaped from my window. She had the nerve to chastise me to behave myself, even after I told her that insubordination was grounds for termination. She only laughed and dared me to fire her, and after glowering for a moment, my fingers twitching to pick up something and throw it against the wall, I gave in and laughed. Without her, I’d be up shit creek and we both know it. That relaxed me a bit, and a phone call from Justin relaxed me even more. He promised a hot shower, what he called a 'deep, penetrating massage' and a prime rib take-out dinner from Les Gendarmes, if I made it through the day without killing anybody.

By the time I crutched my way down the hall to the conference room, I was really hurting and felt sure my jello-brain would not function much longer. But the 'meeting' turned out to be a fucking party to welcome me back. I just stood stock-still inside the conference room door staring in dismay at the decorations and a huge hideous cake in the center of the conference room table. If Cynthia had not been behind me with a hand on my arm, I would have turned and fled - as quickly as one can flee on crutches. She pinched my arm and when I glanced down at her, she smiled with clenched teeth, "Be fucking nice or I'll tell Justin."

Somehow I managed to be nice. Or as nice as anybody can expect me to be with dozens of people grinning and staring at me as I sat in one of the leather chairs and toyed with the piece of cake in front of me. Finally the ordeal was over, and back in my office, I packed up all the reports and memos I'd had no time to read, while Cynthia waited to escort me downstairs as soon as Justin arrived. If I were using the cane as the doctor suggested I could carry my own briefcase, but it's impossible with crutches. Cynthia said she didn't mind carrying it for me, and she accompanied me into the elevator and out through the lobby to the street.

Justin was standing next to the car parked in the loading zone in front of the building. And to my great surprise, standing next to Justin on the sidewalk by the open car door was Jesse.



Justin

When I'd parked the car and went around to open the passenger door to be ready to help Brian get in, a man approached me and said hesitantly, "Mr. Taylor?" Immediately I recognized Brian's friend Jesse and I held out my hand and we shook.

"It's Justin, and you're Jesse, right? It's nice to see you again, have you talked to Brian yet?"

"Oh no, no," he shook his head, "I don't work till later tonight, but his girl Cynthia told me he was coming back today so I hoped if I came around, I might get to see him. Welcome him back."

"Brian's on his way down right now, he'll be here in just a minute. You didn’t go upstairs?"

"Oh no," he said again, "Wouldn't want to interrupt business. How's he doing? Better I guess since he's back to work."

"Yes, lots better," I told him, then went on to explain that the cast was off Brian's leg, he was still in PT and would be for quite a while, but he'd been anxious to get back to the office. I studied Jesse while we were talking and I was surprised again - he just didn't seem like the kind of guy Brian would know. Brian's no snob but he's very standoffish, he won't give most people the time of day, and it was hard to imagine that Brian had some kind of friendship with an old straight guy, Jesse has to be fifty at least. Brian likes Vic but they've got history; why does Brian like this guy, I wondered?

"It was nice of you to visit Brian in the hospital," I said, "You should've come to see him at home too."

Jesse was shaking his head. "No, I wouldn't have imposed myself that way, we're just sometimes drinking buddies. Brian used to work late and we'd share a drop and a cigarette. I've missed our little talks, baring our souls," Jesse chuckled.

"I'll bet he's missed that too," I ventured, trying to imagine Brian baring his soul to anybody. Then we looked up and Brian and Cynthia arrived at the curb.

"Jesse!" Brian exclaimed, stopping to hand me a crutch so he could shake hands, the look on his face changing from concentration and pain to a big open smile. Jesse kept hold of Brian's hand and squeezed it hard.

"How you, doing?" Jesse asked, "I heard you'd be back to work today."

"Great," Brian replied, "I'm doing great, how are you?"

"Don't stand around any longer, you look beat," Jesse let go of Brian's hand and pointed at the open car door.

With a sigh and a nod, Brian agreed, "I am." He handed me his other crutch and lowered himself onto the car seat but kept his right foot outside the car so he could turn and keep talking to Jesse. "Did your son get that job in Colorado?"

"Yeah," Jesse agreed, "There's a long story about that - but I'll save it till you're up to par and back at work full-time."

I'd just shoved the crutches behind the seat and I quickly turned to interrupt, "Oh, don't wait for that," I said, "Why don't you come see Brian this weekend?"

Jesse was shaking his head, but after glancing at Brian's face, which briefly looked eager till he quickly assumed his usual blasé façade, I repeated the suggestion. "You could come by on Saturday or Sunday, Brian doesn’t have any plans yet. You'd like that, wouldn't you Brian?"

Brian dropped his façade, allowed himself to be real. "I'd like it very much," he looked at Jesse, "Whenever you can. If not this weekend, another time."

"If you're sure. . ." Jesse hesitated a moment, then nodded his head. "I'd like that, too. My grandson's got a soccer game Saturday morning, but other than that, I'm free."

"Saturday afternoon?" I suggested, and both men agreed. Then Cynthia handed me Brian's briefcase, and I almost laughed when I realized she was winking at me. I grinned at her, both of us acknowledging our own versions of Brian Kinney manipulation. Then everyone said good-bye and I got in the car to drive Brian home.

"You're an interfering twat," Brian told me as he pulled the seatbelt over himself and fastened it.

Traffic was heavy downtown and I couldn't turn to look at him, so I just said, "Oh, sorry - don't you want Jesse to come over? You seem to like him a lot."

Brian didn't answer for a moment, then he sighed and relaxed against the seat. "It's okay. And he's all right." 'All right' being high praise in Brian's book.


Brian

I was looking forward to Jesse's visit though I wondered if it would feel strange talking to him again after such a long absence, and then out of context in a way, having him at the loft instead of in my office. But when he arrived and Justin ushered him into the living room, I immediately felt comfortable with Jesse and he seemed to feel the same. I was on the sofa with my leg elevated, and he sat down in the chair on my right, turning slightly to face me. Justin was quick to play bartender, handing us each a small glass of JB. I'd purposely not taken any Vicodin since the day before. I'm needing it less and less anyway, soon I'll be able to drink anytime I want without throwing up.
When Justin brought over my cigarettes and an ashtray, I said, "Thanks, now go away."

Jesse threw a quick look at Justin - maybe to see if he was offended - but Justin was smiling. "I'm off - I've got my cell if you need to reach me. Have a nice visit."

"Wait a sec," Jesse's voice halted Justin, who turned to look at him inquiringly. "You're the young man who was attacked a year or so ago, aren't you?" When Justin merely nodded, he went on, "Sorry - maybe you don't want to talk about it?"

"Actually," Justin confided to him, "I do want to talk about it - but nobody else does."

Jesse just nodded. "That's normal - folks usually ignore things that make them uncomfortable. Did your physical injuries heal, or do you still have problems?"

Throwing an uncertain look at me (I was careful to keep my face impassive), Justin said haltingly, "Some small problems, motor skills with my hand, headaches, stuff like that. Nothing major."

"Good," Jesse nodded seriously, "I remember reading about it and I was afraid you'd be damaged for life. No thanks to that bastard that you're not. I never heard what happened to him?"

"Nothing," I said coldly, I can't bear to think about that son of a bitch walking around free. I hope to Christ I never run into him, I don't know what I'd do.

"Community service," Justin added.

Jesse nodded. "The justice system in action, huh? Are you mad about that, or were you able to let it go?"

Justin took a deep breath, then perched on the edge of the coffee table near my foot. He looked at Jesse intensely. "I'm trying to let it go. But sometimes," his face twisted angrily and his voice grew harsh, "Sometimes I want to kill him with my bare hands."

That jolted me, I hadn't realized that Justin still had so much anger inside. Jesse was nodding. "You probably both feel that way, huh?"

"Yes," I agreed, looking down to see my hands clenched on my lap. When I looked up, Justin was staring at me.

"You do?"

"Well, what do you think, Justin?" I could hear the impatience in my voice. "That bastard almost murdered you. Did you think I'd just forget about that?"

"I - I don't know. You never said." Justin's face was pink, he looked almost ready to cry, which somehow aggravated me even more.

I leaned forward, my clenched hands turning into white-knuckled fists. "Every day I worry that I'll run into that fucking prick, and I won't be able to keep myself from breaking his fucking neck!"

Justin was blinking his eyes hard, he's learning to keep his feelings from spilling over, I'm proud of him for that. "I didn't know," he murmured again. Then he reached out his hand to me, and I took it, squeezed his hand in mine. "Thanks," he said, smiling tremulously.

I cleared my throat. "You need to go now - you'll be late to Deb's."

"Okay." He jumped up from the coffee table and reached out to shake hands with Jesse. "Nice to see you again," he said. That boy has the best manners of anyone I've met in my life. Jesse stood up and watched Justin cross the polished floorboards and go out of the loft, turning to wave at us as he pulled the heavy door closed.

Jesse sat back down and shook his head. "I'd guess that young man's been through a lot if half of what I read in the newspaper is true."

"Yeah." I leaned forward to offer Jesse a cigarette and take one for myself, then lit them with my Zippo. "His dad disowned him, he had it really rough at school, then he got bashed. He did make a good recovery, but it's been tough for him all right."

"I'd say he's lucky to have you looking out for him," Jesse exhaled a blue cloud and leaned back in his chair. "Lots of young folks don't have mentors helping them out."

I almost laughed at that. "I'm hardly a mentor for Justin. And I'm not looking out for him."

"You've stuck by him through all the grief, haven't you?"

"Sort of accidentally, most of the time," I hedged, but Jesse shook his head.

"Bullshit. I've come to know a bit about you by now, Brian, and I'd say, no offense intended, that you wouldn't cross the street for somebody you didn't care a lot about."

How could I deny that? I said nothing.

"So. . ." Jesse paused, then went on, "So, has it been accidental then?"

I just stared at him for a moment, tempted to make one of my usual flippant rejoinders, but I couldn’t do it. "No," I said at last. "Not accidental."

Jesse just nodded, he's not one to press his advantage. We sat in silence for a few minutes, then I sighed. Somehow Jesse makes me see things differently, I don't exactly know how. Finally, he said, "So I was right - Justin's lucky to have you on his side."

I couldn't let that pass. "He's not lucky. I'm just about the worst person in the world for Justin to be with."

"Oh, I don't know." Jesse took another puff of the cigarette. "Does he want to be with you?"

I pondered that question for a moment, though I've always known the answer. Finally, I admitted, "Yeah." There was another silence, then I added, "But he doesn't know what's best for himself. He's nineteen, for Christ's sake."

Jesse smiled. "I was nineteen when I married my wife. I knew I wanted her."

"It's different for straights," I answered him, almost angrily.

"Why is that, Brian?"

"Just trust me, it is." I wasn't going there. Not even with Jesse. "Can we change the subject?"

"Sure, of course." Jesse leaned forward to crush out his cigarette. "Sorry if I was prying too much. Let me tell you about my son, the big real estate baron," and he laughed, leaning back and crossing his legs. Jesse's son works for a national realty firm and just landed a job in Boulder, Colorado. Jesse'd been to visit him at Christmas and he told me all about it.

Jesse stayed a couple hours and when he left, I limped up to the bedroom to lie down, I was tired and thought I'd fall asleep, an afternoon nap has become almost a habit. But the minute my head hit the pillow, I started thinking about Justin, about the bashing. I'd been surprised to realize that he was still so full of anger. I shouldn't have been surprised - in his place I'd be mad as hell. I've always known that I should let him talk about it, but I didn't want to - it hurt too much to remember that night. Somehow I'd managed not to think how hard that made it for Justin, not to let him express his feelings. Just because I don’t need to express my own feelings. . .

Which is, of course, a fucking lie. Almost all my life I’ve shared my feelings with Mikey. We’ve been through so much together that by now, we hardly need words to know what the other’s feeling. Maybe I’d assumed Justin knew how I felt, without me having to tell him. Or maybe I was just wary of letting him see. . .inside. If you give people an opening, give them something to get their hands on, later they’ll use it as a knife to cut your heart out.

Michael never did, but Justin might. Justin already did, didn’t he? He screwed around behind my back, and though I shouldn’t have cared, in the end, it hurt like fucking hell. I remembered the night I gave Justin an ultimatum: Choose. And he didn’t choose me, did he?

Then I had to remind myself that I’d wanted Justin to choose his violinist. I knew that would be the best thing for everybody: give Justin the push he needed to move away from me, from my hopelessly cynical outlook – let him go be his age with another ridiculously romantic boy.

Ridiculously romantic. I’d tried that once. Tried it on and – being completely honest with myself as I lay there in the dark – I had to admit that I’d fucking liked it. For a few almost unbearably happy moments. It wasn’t real, though. It was something outside reality. I can’t even remember now what I was thinking as I got dressed in the tux and sauntered into the hotel to find Justin dancing with Daphne in the middle of the ballroom full of teenagers. Yet I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every moment of that dance with Justin. Though I’ve cursed myself since then a hundred times, a thousand times, for daring to think I could be happy like normal people.

Justin’s normal. He still can be, he’s not become truly cynical yet. His mother’s right, Lady Jennifer. I owe it to Justin to give him a chance at a normal life, with someone who can give him what he needs. He’s only nineteen, his whole life ahead of him. In some ways, he’s still almost unbearably young and hopeful.

Then I thought about Jesse's remark, that he'd been married at Justin's age. I know Justin wants to be with me again - or anyway, he would if I could manage not to be such a giant prick most of the time. If I would tell him things he wants to hear. I can feel part of me yearning to be the kind of man Justin wants, and it scares the shit out of me. That's not me. That'll never be me. And I can’t continue to fuck up Justin's life just because I – just because I –



Justin

Brian was lying down when I got back about seven but he wasn’t asleep. The loft was mostly dark so it must still have been daylight when he went to lie down, only a couple lamps were turned on. At first I was trying to be quiet but he called out to tell me he was awake, so I quickly put away the stuff Debbie had sent for our dinner and pulled off my jacket, throwing it toward my desk chair. For a change, it landed there and not on the floor. Then I sat down on the bed next to Brian.

“Did you have a nice visit? I like Jesse. He likes you a lot, doesn’t he? Is he coming to see you again? Can I invite him for dinner sometime?”

Brian yawned and folded his arms behind his head. “Give me a dose of your energy, will you?”

I leaned forward and smacked my mouth against his and Brian laughed, stuck out a hand to grab my arm and pulled me down beside him. I kicked off my shoes and settled next to him, stretching out on top of the duvet.

“Did you and Michael finish painting Debbie’s shed?”

“Yeah, and she sent home some lasagna for our dinner, as payment. Are you hungry?”

“Soon. Stay with me here a while.”

“Okay.” I relaxed, even more, letting my whole body fall into Brian’s, being careful not to smash his bad leg.

“Mmm, you smell delicious,” he said, “Nice and sweaty.”

“I need a shower.”

“No,” he contradicted, “Nice clean teenage sweat smells good.”

“I won’t be a teenager much longer – I’m nineteen and a half already.”

Brian’s arm snaked around to pinch my ass. “Jesse said - “ He stopped, then went on, “Jesse said when he was nineteen he knew exactly what he wanted.” Brian pulled back and studied my face.

“Me, too.”

When he said nothing, I went on. “I want to be a good artist – not famous, but good enough to make a living doing what I like. I want to live in a nice place and drive a good car. I want lots of friends. I want to travel.” I stopped, and when Brian still said nothing, I ducked my head and laid my face on his chest, so I didn’t have to look at him. “And I want to be loved. By just one man who will love only me for the rest of my life. And he’ll tell me that he loves me, right out loud.”

I felt Brian’s heart beating beneath my cheek. Finally, he murmured, “You deserve all of that.”

Suddenly I thought, ‘It’s now or never.’ Soon Brian won’t need my help anymore, he’ll send me away, and I might not get another chance to tell him how I feel. I was scared, but I asked myself, what have you got to lose? So I took a deep gulp of air and I whispered, “I want all of that with you, Brian.”

His arms tightened around me and he pressed his chin on top of my head. “I know,” he said.

We lay in silence until finally, I couldn’t wait any longer. “What do you want, Brian?”

“I have everything I want,” he answered quickly, and I felt my heart sink. I started to pull away but he held me tight against him. “Almost everything,” he amended.

Waiting, I lay still in his arms, feeling his breath ruffle my hair. Finally, he sighed and held me even tighter. “What I want, more than anything right now, is for you NOT to throw your life away. I want you to be happy." He paused. "And you can't be happy with me.”

Pulling away so that I could look into his face, I nodded. “Maybe not. But I can’t be happy without you, either.”

We stared at each other, and for the first time, I felt like Brian was letting me look deep inside him. “Justin,” he said, pulling himself upright in the bed and grabbing my arms to pull me up beside him. “Justin, I’ve been lying here thinking about things, and I - I want to make a suggestion. A proposition.”

I waited, scared but not completely hopeless.

Finally, he said, “I want you to take a year off – from me.”

“What?”

“Throw yourself into school, date a lot of guys, be open to anything that happens to you. Enjoy yourself, and I mean, put your heart into it. You have so much energy, so much enthusiasm – I want you to have the best time of your life.”

He stopped, and after a moment I asked impatiently, “Well, then what? After a year, then what?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “No promises. No promises from you, no promises from me. But I need to know that you’ll give yourself a chance. With other guys.”

“I don’t want to.”

Didn’t I have any pride? Brian was pushing me away again, didn’t I have enough pride to back off?

No. No, I’ve never had any pride where Brian is concerned.

Brian swung his head away, stared off into space and ran a hand through his hair. “Nine months,” he said at last.

“I can’t live without you for nine months,” I said simply. I believe that with all my heart.

“Six.”

“Brian – “

“Six.” He turned back to stare at me. “Six months.”

I considered for a moment, then asked, “Can we still see each other?”

He was shaking his head. “Then what’s the point of – “

“Are you going to see that Rick again?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Promise.”

Brian laughed then, but he wasn’t amused, he was losing patience; I know the signs. “No promises, I said.”

“Promise you won’t see Rick.”

“Justin – “

“Promise I can still come over here sometimes.”

“Justin – “

“Promise.”

Brian dropped his head into his hands and pulled on his hair. “Aaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh!” he moaned loudly.

“Promise.”

“Fuck you,” he said, but it was a whisper. Then his arms reached out and grabbed me, pulled me hard against his chest and he covered my mouth with his lips, kissing me so hard and rough that I almost cried out.

When I could pry my lips away from his, I breathed into his mouth, “Promise.”

“Damn you to fucking hell, Justin Taylor,” Brian growled at me.

And then a moment later he whispered, “I promise.”