It was only time. He had said so himself.

Only time.

Except that it was time without end, and he had known it from the beginning.

But that wasn't quite right either. One element of it was infinite, true enough - the part that was the absence of the young man who had once been the center of his world. But another element - the primary element - would end when the moment was right; when the damage inflicted by time's relentless passage would make it impossible to continue the existence he had embraced throughout his life.

Less than a year passed before he knew he had been right from the beginning. He had allowed himself to watch from a distance - had followed the articles in the Times and in the art magazines and read the insider reviews Lindsey thoughtfully provided for him, and things were turning out exactly as he had expected.

Justin was taking the New York art scene by storm, heralded by virtually every critic as a "new, sexier version of Jackson Pollack".

His first big exhibition was only three days away, at a very exclusive, very prestigious little gallery called Bergéree in the East Village.

Brian had received a personal invitation a week earlier, followed by dozens of messages on his answering machine, confirming the time and the place and the circumstances.

He had answered none of them, and failed to RSVP.

It was not that he didn't want to go, didn't want to see Justin. Didn't want to walk into the place where he would find the young man and promptly throw him down and fuck him through the floor. Yes, that was exactly what he wanted to do.

But he wouldn't.

First of all, it would be counterproductive. That time had passed. And secondly, it would violate the only rule he'd ever cared to live by: no excuses - no apologies - no regrets.

Brian Kinney did not allow himself to regret anything, and if, perhaps, there was a quiet spot deep in his heart - a dark, locked space contained within a pristine wall which was full to the brim with the tears he never allowed anyone to see or fathom - it was absolutely no one's business but his own.

Beautiful hazel eyes - eyes that had mesmerized an entire generation of gay men, along with a not insignificant number of women, gay or otherwise - gazed down into the dark amber of his drink and did not focus on the memories stirring in his thoughts.

He did not allow himself to dwell on the past, or to ponder any questions of what might have been. He had never once, for example, reflected on the fact that he had volunteered, during their very brief formal engagement, to give Justin exactly what he'd always claimed to want - total commitment, total love, total acknowledgement of his feelings. Of course, Justin had ultimately realized that a devoted, committed, totally faithful Brian was not the Brian he had fallen in love with. At almost the same moment, Brian had realized what Justin would be giving up in order to become his spouse, and known immediately that it was a sacrifice he could not accept and Justin would one day grow to resent.

It had been an intensely busy year.

Thus he had come to the only conclusion he could reach. Their commitment to each other - their love for each other - was simply not meant to be. So he'd found other things to occupy his time.

He had rebuilt Babylon, even though he'd meant to sell it; he had canceled the sale of his loft, and the purchase of the big estate Justin had wanted to christen "Bri-Tin", had grown his business into a huge success, with offices in Philadelphia and, just recently, in New York, although he never went there himself. He had even invested time and effort in a little private project of his own involving honest-to-God manual labor, and who the fuck would ever believe that about Brian Kinney? And he had regenerated his old lifestyle, in a renewed effort to fuck any new man who caught his fancy, although he never again indulged any predilection for repeats.

He'd developed a good relationship with his son, taking him on a Disney cruise and trips to California and Hawaii and spoiling him with designer duds for tots and an obscenely huge pile of expensive toys. He forced himself to spend holidays at Debbie's house so he could be a peripheral part of a family unit, and he and Mikey occasionally engaged in familiar adolescent behavior, to renew their connection to each other.

But inside, Brian remained alone. And more so with every passing day.

He sat on his horrendously expensive Italian sofa and spent a moment gazing at the framed photograph of his son, and listened as the phone rang. He made no attempt to answer it, and was not surprised when the voice on the answering machine sounded weary and frustrated.

"You're not coming, are you? I think I knew it all along. It's really over. Isn't it?"

There were a few seconds of silence, the sound of a deep breath being drawn, and a soft click.

Brian glanced at his watch. Almost ten, but not really too late.

He dialed the familiar number quickly, and was inordinately grateful that Lindsey's dulcet tones greeted him, rather than Melanie's brusque rumble.

"Are you going to New York?" he asked, without preamble.

"Yes, of course," she answered, not even bothering to chide him for rudeness. "Shall I meet you there?"

"No," he said sharply, "but I need a favor."

He explained quickly and succinctly what he wanted and then waited for Lindsey to respond. There was a heavy sadness in her voice when she did.

"Brian, why do you . . ."

"Will you just do it, please? Or do I need to make other arrangements?"

"I'll do it," she said quickly. "But can't you at least . . ."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, can we please not have another session of Dyke Psych 101?"

He could almost hear her frown. "Mel's right. You really are an asshole."

"Which has nothing to do with what I asked. So . . ."

"I'll do it," she answered with a sigh, "But I don't have to like it."

"No," he agreed. "You just have to do what I asked."

"And you?" she snapped. "What are you going to be doing?"

"Same as always," he replied easily.

"Brian," she said, after a slight pause, "we've talked to Debbie several times lately, and we've heard some ugly rumors about things happening in the Pit. Gay-bashing. Vigilante crap. Nasty graffiti on some of the Liberty buildings. Shit like that. Is everything okay? Are you . . ."

"Awww," he drawled. "The kwazy wesbians are worried about wittle old me? I'm touched."

"Don't be touched," she snapped. "Be careful. I don't want to have to explain to my son why his daddy had to depart to shop in that great Armani superstore in the sky."

Brian heard the genuine concern beneath the strident tone, but refused to respond with equal candor. "You know me, Linds. I'm indestructible."

In the small townhouse in Toronto, Melanie leaned forward across her partner's shoulders and called out her greeting. "Night-night, Asshole."

"Sleep tight, Cunt," he responded, equally loud.

He hung up and spent a few moments gazing down into his glass of JB. It was still early, and Babylon would be filled with energy and music and bright lights and plenty of firm young bodies, any number of whom would be more than happy to court his favor and suck his cock.

On the other hand, the semi-concealed doorway to the little space which he had come to consider his inner sanctum was slightly ajar, dark and offering no hint of what lay within it, but somehow not the least bit forbidding. The fruit of his own labors. He knew it was a little silly, but he was rather proud of his accomplishment.

He poured himself another drink and went seeking sanctuary.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 2:


Melanie came down the stairs, barely stifling a yawn, and paused at the landing to watch her partner/lover/better half (much better, she sometimes admitted, but only to herself) page through the colorful brochure she and Justin had designed to send to potential buyers and collectors - to whet their interest in his upcoming exposition.

But this was, apparently, not just an idle review, as Lindsey was busily scribbling on a yellow pad, taking notes on something.

"What's up?" asked Melanie, as she descended the last three steps.

"Just jotting down a few points."

Melanie lifted one quizzical eyebrow. "What kind of points?"

Lindsey did not look up to meet her partner's dark eyes. "Just . . . points."

Melanie pulled the brochure from Lindsey's fingers, and thumbed through the bright, glossy pages. She skipped over a brief bio of the artist, and a few reproductions of favorable reviews; skipped over a photo of Justin and a synopsis of the gallery and its history; skipped over a couple of pages displaying a selection of impressionist works, distorted visions of familiar objects rendered from strange perspectives. Compelling and stark and arresting, but impersonal - almost cold. Melanie kept scrolling through, until she came to a portrait - a face barely etched against shadows, a not-quite-profile rendered in dark values. Then she looked up and saw the shadows move in Lindsey's eyes.

"This one," she said, tapping her finger against a distinctive chin.

She turned more pages, until she came across a slender shadow limned against a scintillant light, a silhouette of dark hair against darker gloom.

"And this one."

More paging, more images, and then . . . a face. Pale, unfinished, vague. Unmistakable.

"And this one, most of all." Then she leaned forward and took the tablet from Lindsey's hand and saw immediately that she was right.

Her smile was just slightly smug. "How much is he willing to pay for them?"

Lindsey sighed. "No limits. Only . . ."

Melanie's smile shifted, touched with a wisp of sadness. "No names." It was not a guess.

"Right. No names."

"Any more?"

Lindsey nodded. "Just one, but it's not in the brochure. I'm not even sure he plans to sell it, but he might. Now."

"Why does he always have to be such an asshole?" Melanie demanded. "Why couldn't he just . ."

Lindsey stood and moved forward to wrap an arm around her partner. "How quickly they forget," she quoted with a small smile.

"What do you . . ."

"You stood right there in our old house, just a few days before we left, and you told him he had to be good to Justin - that he needed to remember how much Justin was giving up to be with him."

"Yeah. So?"

"So," Lindsey looked over toward the mantle where there was a framed snapshot of Brian and his son, "he remembered."

"And what? He gave up what he wanted? For Justin's sake?" Melanie laughed, and it was not a pretty sound. "Brian Kinney? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Lindsey just smiled. "Am I?"

She dropped a kiss on Melanie's cheek, quickly put her things away and went up to bed, while Melanie just stood and watched, not even bothering to try to conceal her skepticism.

Brian Kinney? Sacrificing his wants and desires for someone else's happiness?

Bullshit!

She looked down then at the image of Justin's face - a semi-profile sketch that graced the front of the pamphlet, a minimalist effort that focused on the huge eyes and the mop of hair and the smile which had earned him the nickname, Sunshine. The smile was beautiful; he looked really happy. And yet - was there really a shadow of sadness in those lovely eyes?

Would Brian have given up everything he wanted, just to be sure Justin was able to reach for his dreams? Brian Kinney?

Bullshit!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Ma-ah-ah!" wailed Michael, stretching the single syllable into three as his palm cradled the cheek his mother had just slapped. "What'd you do that for?"

"Because you're not listening to your mate," she replied smartly.

"And that's your business because?"

"Because he's right," she observed, with a cheeky grin for her son-in-law who was pouring soy milk over his serving of oatmeal (a dish that Debbie usually referred to as 'turds and whey').

"You should listen to your mother, Mikey," said a husky voice as a new arrival slid into the empty spot on Michael's left. "Be a good little wifey and obey your lord and master."

"Shut up, Brian!" Mikey snapped, not particularly in the mood to be teased - or to be addressed as 'Mikey'.

Brian spotted the smirk on Emmett's face as the big Nelly-bottom dumped sugar in his coffee.

"Somebody piss in his Cheerios?" he asked with a wink.

"Piss off!" snapped Michael. "Not that it's any of your business, but I don't see why I should have to go traipsing off to New York just because the twink has an art show."

Brian ducked just in time to avoid the flash of a spread hand that smacked the side of Michael's head with a sharp snap.

"Ma-ah-ah! Will you stop?"

"Shame on you," retorted Debbie. "That 'twink', as you so charmingly put it, is a member of this family, and we all need to show him our support."

Brian opened his mouth to respond, but wisely subsided when he saw that Debbie was still poised to strike.

"Hey, Brian," said Ted, from his seat in the corner, with his own version of a twink cuddled up beside him, "care to car pool?"

Brian flicked a spec of dust - more imagined than real - from the sleeve of his Armani jacket before fixing his accountant with a frigid stare. "Car pools are like boyfriends," he answered with a snarky smile. "I don't do either."

"So," said Emmett, pursing his lips to blow on his still steaming coffee, "when are you leaving, and where are you staying? The Ritz, maybe? Or the Plaza? Or are the two of you just going to rough it in Justin's little flat?"

"None of the above," Brian replied. "And what does a man have to do around here to get a cup of coffee?"

"Don't get your Prada panties in a twist," snapped Debbie, leaning over to fill his cup. "And stop dodging the question. Where are you staying?"

"Claridge's," he answered, bending over to inhale the aroma of his coffee.

The table went silent until Ben, Michael's partner, spoke up. "That's quite a commute."

Brian said nothing, lifting his cup to take a cautious sip.

"What is that?" asked Michael with a grin. "A hide-away for gay porn kings?"

"It's a world famous, five-star hotel," answered Ben as he studied Brian's face. "In London."

Michael blinked rapidly. "You . . . you're going to London?"

Brian nodded.

"After the show?" said Emmett, suddenly overwhelmed with visions of men in Elizabethan costumes and the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace.

Brian sipped before answering. "Instead of."

"You little shit!" cried Debbie, getting right down in his face, shoving forward to slosh his coffee, although he was agile enough to avoid the splash.

Brian, unperturbed, looked up at her and smiled. "It's business, Mother."

"Business, my fat ass!" Her eyes narrowed. "How can you do this to him? You know it will break his . . ."

"He," Brian cut in sharply, "is a hell of a lot stronger than you - any of you - give him credit for. He'll be fine."

"But . . ." Michael paused to avoid spluttering. "But we could all go together. Explore the Big Apple. Find their version of Babylon - shit like that. Why would you . . ."

"I told you. It's business."

"Business!" snapped Debbie. "And all the English ass you can fuck."

He grinned. "That too. We're considering expanding our operations 'across the pond'. Good for business . . ." The grin widened and grew slightly venal, "and good for me."

Somehow, although everyone at the table heard what he had said with perfect clarity, it was somehow not as loud as what he hadn't - quite - said.

"Debbie?" he said, after a moment of silence.

"Huh?"

"Breakfast?"

"What?"

"You planning to feed me, or . . ."

It was uncertain who was more surprised when she simply straightened up and went to order his omelet.

The question ringing in everyone's mind remained unspoken, but it continued ringing nonetheless.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian had a meeting to make - as always - and although he firmly believed in being fashionably late, he never pushed it to the point of rudeness. So he finished his omelet, drained his coffee cup, gave Michael a quick, thorough kiss on the mouth - designed to annoy Ben to no end - and made his exit.

The silence that lingered in his wake was deafening.

Blake left quickly, followed by Ben, both having jobs to attend, leaving behind the crucial core of a friendship that went back almost twenty years - the crucial core, minus one. The critical 'One' - the one who had always been the nucleus around which the others revolved.

Michael had been focused on tearing his napkin to shreds. Once that was done he looked up and stared at Ted. "Is he serious?"

Ted, as Brian's primary accountant, was eminently qualified to answer. "He might be," he admitted. "Some of our big clients have been making noises about expanding into European markets."

"But he could open up a branch over there without actually having to go himself," Emmett pointed out. "He did it in New York. Still hasn't been there, has he?"

Ted shook his head. "Left it all to Cynthia. Bet she never dreamed how lucky it would prove to be when she hitched her wagon to the star of the fag prince of Pittsburgh."

Debbie sat down beside her son, offering coffee refills to the three before serving one for herself. "And you don't find that the least bit suspicious?" she asked. "The fact that he once was so caught up in going to New York, he was ready to sell his beloved fuck nest - and now he can't be bothered to drop in, even when he owns an office there?"

"Yeah," said Michael softly. "But London. It's so far. You don't really think he'd . . ."

Ted stared into his coffee. "I think maybe there's nothing left here to hold him."

"It's his home," Michael insisted.

Debbie stirred her coffee while gazing out into bright, liquid sunshine, and was suddenly struck by a memory - the look in Brian's eyes on the day Justin had left for New York. He had been quintessentially himself on that day - brash and sardonic, witty and acerbic, supremely confidant. And yet - she had never been sure of what it was she had glimpsed in those hazel depths from time to time, and she knew he would never tell her.

But it was enough to make her wonder. Michael believed Pittsburgh was Brian's home.

But she wasn't so sure. She wondered, occasionally, if he had been forced to stand still and watch as every vestige of home had turned and walked away, with his blessing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Debbie Horvath, nee Debbie Grassi, AKA Debbie Novotny for much of her life, knew a thing or two about secrets and how to keep them. And another thing or two about pain, although no casual acquaintance would ever have entertained such a bizarre notion.

Debbie was belly laughs and crude humor, a foul mouth and an indestructible will, not to mention the Italian equivalent of a Jewish mother - squared, according to her only son.

But for all her brass and sass and superficial willingness to bare her own soul and everybody else's, Debbie knew full well which secrets needed to be aired and discussed and lampooned and exposed to a blast of fresh air - and which ones needed to be kept.

Brian Kinney was the perfect example of the latter.

There were only a handful of people who could lay any claim at all to knowing Brian - in other than a Biblical sense, of course. In that sense, the number of those with intimate knowledge of him was legion, and getting larger every day, or even every hour on some days.

But those numbers didn't count, although Brian would have disputed that premise vigorously.

But beneath all the glitz and the fucking and the raw sex, the number of people who had ever been admitted into the tiny enclosure at the core of his existence was minimal: Mikey, of course, who knew him best of all in some ways and, strangely, not at all in others; Justin, who knew him intimately but only through the eyes of love; Lindsey, who would probably have been his wife if they'd been straight, who accepted him for exactly what he was and who knew way more than she was ever willing to tell; Debbie's brother, Vic, who had finally succumbed just two years earlier to his HIV affliction after fighting it off for decades and who had had an uncanny ability to see through the bullshit and understand Brian better than almost anyone else. And Debbie - who believed, rightly or wrongly - that she knew him as no one else ever would or could.

It might have surprised her to learn that Brian sometimes agreed with her, but it would not have surprised her at all to know he wasn't particularly pleased to acknowledge it. Brian preferred to live beneath the layer of camouflage he'd created. He preferred to remain unseen and unknown, except for the surface persona he allowed everyone to see, and, for the most part, Debbie accepted that. Except, of course, for those times when she deemed the horseshit a little too thick and him a little too smug and in need of a subtle (or not) application of ego-busting.

Still, as she set a huge dish of cannelloni on the table and watched her husband and semi-permanent boarder (and the newest addition to her not-quite-adopted family) dig in, she was conscious of a vague disquiet lingering in her mind - a sense of impending gloom, if not doom. Was Brian really considering leaving Pittsburgh, and, if he was, what did it really mean?

Michael had told her once about an episode with his best friend, a quick little moment when Brian had mused about the perfection of those who had lived hard and died early, remaining forever young and beautiful. Legends like Kurt Cobain and James Dean and Jim Morrison.

She realized suddenly that she had never once been able to visualize Brian as an older man: Brian at 40 or 50; Brian as anything but young and beautiful. And it bothered her, although she had no idea why.

"Yummy," said Emmett, not quite drooling, but coming close as he sniffed at the aroma of his pasta. "Debbie, you are sooooo not good for my waistline, but who the fuck cares?"

She favored him with a smile. "You'll work it off later, Sweetie. Isn't it Cowboy night at Babylon?"

Emmett helped himself to a big slab of garlic bread. "It is," he answered with an exaggerated sigh. "Twinks in chaps.  Oh my God! A veritable parade of forbidden fruit - emphasis on the fruit, of course."

"Why forbidden?" she laughed. "I thought the idea was . . ."

"Oh, it is," he agreed. "It's just that they're all so eager to shake those fabulous little tushies in Brian's face, that the rest of us feel a little left out."

She winked at him. "But it doesn't usually take him long to make up his mind, leaving the field clear for the rest of you. Right?"

"What a wonderful way to look on the bright side!" he laughed. Then he frowned. "But lately, he's not . . ."

"Not what?" she asked, as he hesitated.

"Just not quite himself," he replied. "Not so quick on the uptake. Not so instantly interested, if you know what I mean."

She stared. "If you're trying to tell me that Brian Kinney has lost interest in fucking the latest twink-of-the-day, then I need to start getting ready for the Second Coming."

"No. Nothing like that. He's still the undisputed king of the fast fuck - not to mention the first fuck. He just . . . I don't know. It's like his heart's not in it."

Debbie chuckled. "Honey, his heart was never in it. Only his dick."

He smiled and continued eating, and she wondered, not for the first time, why he wasn't three hundred pounds of blubber.

Across the table, her husband, Carl, folded his newspaper and took a big swig of his beer. "You boys aren't going out cruising by yourselves, are you?" he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Emmett sighed theatrically. "Alas and alack, mon amis. There aren't many of us left to cruise, since Ted's found his one true love in Blake and Mikey's wrapped up in wedded bliss with Ben. And Brian - well, Brian doesn't really cruise, does he? Never had to. So that pretty much leaves little ol' fabulous moi. Right?"

"Yeah, whatever," answered Carl who was still, even after all the time he'd spent getting used to Debbie's world, not always comfortable with Emmett's flaming gayness. "But just be careful, OK?"

Debbie fixed her husband with a suspicious glare. "What's up, Carl? What do you know that you haven't shared with us?"

He took a big bite of cannelloni, possibly hoping Debbie might just let it go if he took long enough to chew and swallow.

No such luck. Her gaze was steely and unwavering.

Carl allowed himself a small sigh of frustration. "I don't really know anything. But there are rumors going around. Seems like Stockwell is making a little noise - trying to get back in the picture - and gay-bashing would be right up his alley. Let's face it; he tried to downplay his homophobia last time out, and it didn't work, and there are plenty of homophobic assholes out there who would love to see him succeed in his agenda." He paused and studied his plate, obviously not ready to meet his wife's eyes. But he knew she wouldn't be content until she knew it all, so he looked up, and pretended not to see the small flinch when she realized that he was trying to avoid saying something she would not want to hear.

"Let's face it, Honey. Prop 14 only failed by a tiny margin, and its supporters are still around and still itching to put all the queers in their places."

"Or their graves," she snapped.

He didn't bother to argue, taking another sip of beer before going on. "And we all know Stockwell's trial was a big joke. No way was he going to be convicted. Even after all his nasty little secrets were exposed, he still had a lot of supporters, and he's got a long memory. And now he's got some new financial backing," he continued gently. "You remember Chris Hobbs?"

"How could I forget the little bastard who got a slap on the hand for nearly killing our Sunshine. Why?"

"His father and grandfather are among Stockwell's newer financial supporters, and that's some big money, and big money still talks around here."

Debbie waited, knowing there was more.

"And . . ." Carl looked as if he could hardly believe it himself, "Justin's father too."

Debbie recoiled as if she'd been slapped. "How . . ." She paused to take a deep breath, and tried again. "How could he do that? After what they did to his son, how could he . . ."

Carl shrugged. "How could Brian's mother celebrate the fact that he got cancer as a 'reward' for his deviant lifestyle?" He reached out to touch his wife's face with gentle fingers. "I don't know how, Honey. I just know there's trouble brewing. We like to think we've come a long way since Matthew Shepherd, but sometimes I think we're just fooling ourselves. There's been more vandalism in the neighborhood lately, and more street fights. That Casey kid from down on Quinton Street wound up in the hospital when he tried to defend his cousin against a street gang. Neither one of them is gay, but the cousin is small and a little effeminate, and somebody apparently decided he was close enough to crossing the line to need a little lesson. He got off with a few bruises, but the other one - bigger and stronger - wound up with a broken arm and cracked ribs."

"Jesus, Carl," said Debbie. "You really think . . ."

"Can't prove anything," he replied, "since there were no witnesses. The cousin claims the toughs said they were gonna make sure he was never tempted to turn faggot; they deny it. But I don't think there's much doubt. They wouldn't dare pull shit like that if they didn't think they'd get away with it."

He took a deep breath and dropped the other shoe. "I think he's looking for payback, Honey. He's out for blood."

She went very still and her eyes were suddenly dark with shadow, and he knew immediately what she wanted to ask. But she didn't, and her silence was a major indicator of how frightened she was to hear the answer.

The two of them stared at each other, both having forgotten that they weren't alone at the table until Emmett cleared his throat. Debbie turned to look at him and was momentarily stunned to note the tears in his eyes.

"Did I hear you right?" he asked, barely audible. "Did Brian's mother really . . . really say that to him?"

Debbie frowned at her husband, before leaning forward and putting her arm around Emmett's shoulders. "That she did, Honey. But we shouldn't have mentioned it in front of you. Guess we've just gotten too used to having you around, but you know him well enough to know that Brian wouldn't want you to know about it. So if you ever mention it to him, he'll probably cut off your balls and feed them to you with milk and sugar, for breakfast."

"But . . ."

"But what?" she asked when he seemed reluctant to continue.

"But he's . . . he's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. How could she . . ."

She smiled. "And that makes him a hero, doesn't it? The entire gay world wants to fuck him, or to be him - or both." Her voice hardened. "And his own mother gloated when he was stricken with cancer. What does that tell you?"

Emmett shook his head. "That life sucks?"

She hugged him closer. "Sometimes, even for Brian Kinney."

Emmett was not, somehow, as surprised as he felt he should be.

And Debbie - Debbie played with the food in her plate, falling silent as she drifted back in time, as she allowed her mind to call up old memories and old images: Brian at 14, black and blue and bloody and broken, hanging on to consciousness with the last of his strength and remaining rigidly silent when pressed to explain the injuries. Brian at 15, stumbling to the door at two in the morning with his clothing torn and filthy and his back a mass of bloody welts, in agony but refusing to cry. Brian at 16, pulling himself up onto her porch with his one functioning arm, barely able to stand, with blood pouring from a swollen lip as he held himself at a strange, awkward angle to spare him some measure of the pain from broken ribs.

Brian - hurt and bludgeoned, and yet still - somehow - beautiful.

The physical abuse - or the marks it left at any rate - had ended when he got old enough and big enough to defend himself, but the physical abuse, as bad as it had been, had never been the worst of it. She didn't know when - or if - the emotional and spiritual abuse had ended.

Sometimes - even knowing all she knew about the history which had made him the man he was - he made her so angry she wanted to just beat the shit out of him herself. But she never would, because someone, at one time, had done quite enough of that, never managing to make the tiniest dent in the armor he wore around him.

Mikey knew, of course, and she was pretty sure that Brian knew, as well, although she'd never really told him. She was proud of her sons - the two of her heart, even if only one of them was of her blood - and she loved them both, though she didn't always want to. She loved Brian, and it hurt deep inside when she remembered how few were the people who understood that he deserved to be loved, and that he was capable of love in return.

He was, after all, Brian Kinney; out and proud - make that double-proud - and as arrogant as a young god. So, she thought with a rueful smile, what's not to love?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I love the night life.
I got to boogie . . .

Michael felt the rhythm pound through his bloodstream as arms wrapped around him from the back, and he felt the firmness of a massive dick move against his ass, and he smiled, not stopping to wonder if some people might think it a little strange that he could recognize the touch of that body as easily as if it had belonged to his life partner. Which it didn't.

He turned within the framework of those arms, and gazed into smoky hazel eyes that always seemed to spend a tiny fraction of time staring directly into his soul before glazing over with the warm luster of casual lust and affection.

Michael blinked and wondered if there would ever come a time when the first glimpse of Brian's face didn't make him catch his breath, just a little, and raise a mental fist against whatever gods might be. Nobody deserved to be that beautiful.

Brian offered him that smile - the one that was only for Mikey, or so he told himself - and took his mouth in a hot, lingering kiss, but only after making sure Ben was watching. Michael knew, on one level, that he should refuse the honeyed sweetness of those lips; knew that Ben, even though he seldom said anything, didn't much care for the sight of his husband being semi-devoured by the ranking gay stud of Pa. or for the fact that Michael was always Brian's first dance of the evening, whenever the couple visited Babylon. But Michael could not bring himself to break the pattern. Not because he enjoyed the kisses, although he did. And not because he never quite got enough of watching and feeling Brian writhe against him, although he didn't. But those weren't the reasons he was reluctant to change things. His reasons were more simple than that. He didn't resist Brian's kisses because he was the only person who still had an opportunity to do so. Because Brian didn't kiss anybody else, any more. Not like this.

Oh, he might drop a quick smooch on Em or Lindsey or some casual acquaintance who managed to claim his attention for a little while. Or even Cynthia, his girl Friday, on occasion. But real, deep, tongue-filled kisses were reserved for only one person. He only kissed Michael; everybody else he just fucked, one way or another.

They moved to the music for a while, body to body, until another set of arms, surprisingly strong, slipped around them, making Brian the filling of a queer sandwich. He leaned back, turning his head slightly, to brace against a buff shoulder, and fitting himself into the space beneath the brim of the silver spangled cowboy hat worn by the new arrival.

"Why, Grandma," he drawled with a grin, wriggling his hips suggestively, "what a big basket you have!"

Emmett laughed and nuzzled against the dampness of the soft hair at the nape of Brian's neck. "The better to fuck you with, my prince."

Brian laughed. "In your dreams, Queenie." But there was no hostility in words or tone, and he was content to continue dancing, braced in the arms of both his friends. And Michael reflected that this too was something new. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Emmett would have been hesitant to approach Brian, unless specifically invited to do so; when, if he dared join their little duet at all, he would have stepped in to embrace Michael, avoiding intimate contact with Brian's sculpted body. These days, he no longer had such reservations, although he undoubtedly knew there were lines drawn in the sand that he would be foolish to cross.

Nevertheless, Michael thought, as he watched how Brian allowed his big Nellie friend to enjoy the closeness of their bodies, there was a sweetness about the image of the two of them together, and neither seemed eager to pull away from the intimacy.

Until the inevitable happened. One moment, the three friends were moving as one; the next a new arrival shoved his way into the tableau, and Brian was suddenly targeted for individual attention.

Emmett watched and smiled as a sweet young thing in fawn-colored suede - chaps, vest, boots, and hat - draped himself against Brian's torso and wrapped well-muscled arms around his neck.

"I been looking all over for you," said the young man.

"Yeah?" Brian's smile was just slightly arch. "For what?"

"They say . . ." Dark, thick-lashed eyes fluttered closed as Brian wrapped an arm around a slender waist.

"They say . . . what?" he asked, pressing close.

"They say you're the best. They say nobody fucks like you."

The smile became a grin. "And you always listen to what 'they' say?"

The lithe body scooted closer. "Shouldn't I?"

Long-fingered hands gripped slender arms, hard enough to bruise. "How the fuck old are you?"

"Eighteen," came the answer breathlessly. Then the young man leaned close enough to whisper. "Legal - and old enough."

Brian smiled, and wrapped both arms around the boy's waist, resting his hands on the ass cheeks left bare by the chaps. Then he began to walk, pushing the firm young body along ahead of him.

"Brian!" Michael called after him. "We need to talk."

Brian didn't pause. He just turned enough to shout out his answer. "Later."

"But . . ."

Then he did pause, to maneuver his young partner around in a quick spin so he could see Michael's face. "Later, Mikey. Right now, I've got a lesson to teach." He smiled into dark eyes, and stroked a soft cheek with the back of his hand. "This won't take long."

Then he continued on his way to the back room.

"Shithead!" Michael muttered, to no one in particular.

Emmett, engrossed in an inspection of a line-up of chaps-clad bare bottoms, getting ready to compete for the title "King of the Babylon Cowboys" heard the note of disgruntlement in his friend's voice, and managed to drag his eyes away from the rosy mounds of flesh long enough to offer up a sympathetic hug.

"Let it go, Michael," he said, leaning close enough to be heard. "You know you're not going to change his mind. Brian Kinney doesn't do changing his mind."

"Yeah, but . . ."

Emmett deliberately looked away, not because he didn't want to see what was in Michael's eyes - he already knew what he would see there - but because he didn't want his young friend to see what might show in his own.

It wouldn't do for Ben's partner to realize that the whole world knew the elemental truth about what was in his heart. He was truly devoted to Ben - truly cared for him, truly loved him.

But his heart belonged to Brian - and always would.

"Where are you going?" Michael demanded as Emmett strode away, adjusting his spangled hat to a rakish angle.

"So many rosebuds," replied Emmett with a sweeping gesture toward the row of chaps-wearers, "so little time."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

: "Chapter 4"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I didn't do it for you."

Emmett had to bite his lip to suppress the grin that wanted to break out in response to that statement as he wondered how many times Brian had spoken those exact words over the years, with exactly the same intention: to find a way to do a friend a favor and simultaneously perpetuate the image of Brian Kinney, self-serving prick.

"Of course you didn't," he agreed, "but my mama would whup my little ass until it was beet red if I didn't smile and say thank you at the appropriate moment, and that would really cramp my style. Who, after all, would have any interest in a beet red Nellie bottom, hmmm? So thank you anyway, even if it's all just one-hand-washes-the-other business."

Brian did not - quite - roll his eyes, but Emmett knew it was a near thing.

"You just make sure my client's diva princess slash bitchy-cunt daughter gets the fabulous wedding of her dreams, so I get the fabulous contract of my dreams and make lots of fabulous lovely money."

Emmett adjusted his silver hat with a flourish. "Not to worry, Dahling. An Auntie Em wedding is becoming the newest status symbol for the nouveau riche, so serving your interest also serves mine. Getting in bed together is good for both of us."

Brian blinked. "Leave it to you to phrase it that way."

On impulse, Emmett dropped a quick kiss on Brian's cheek before whispering in his ear. "Not to worry, Hot Stuff. I won't tell a soul."

And Brian laughed out loud - a lovely, liquid, robust sound that Emmett found charming one moment, and melancholy the next, as he realized how long it had been since he'd heard it. He drained his Cosmo for lack of something better to do, and in order to conceal the softness in his eyes - a softness he knew Brian would not appreciate.

"So," said Michael, sidling up to the bar with Ben draped around him like a cape, "how was your twinkie?"

Brian smiled, ignoring the slightly snarky tone of the question. "Hot, tight, eager, sweet . . ." The smile became a grin," and currently cream-filled, metaphorically speaking, of course."

"You're disgusting," snapped Michael.

"And you, little prince, are pathetic," replied Brian, completely unperturbed. "Every time you venture out of your rose-covered cottage, you get your panties in a twist."

"Why do you want to go to London?"

"Because it's there?"

"Stop dodging the question. Why are you . . ."

Brian spun and leaned back against the bar, positioning himself so he could study the crowd for potential fuck-candidates, and offered his response with a bit of a throaty growl in his voice. "Because I want to have tea with the queen and check out the arse on the fabulous Prince Harry. Because I want to see what it takes to make the palace guards drop trou and bend over. Because I want to fuck my way across Piccadilly Circus and get sucked off as I float down the Thames. Because I want to hear how sexy that accent is when some Anglo-twinkie begs me to fuck him. Why the fuck do you think I want to go?"

"I think . . ." said Ben.

"Nobody asked you," Brian interrupted.

Once more, Emmett hid a smile, and wondered - as he often did - if Ben ever realized how much amusement he provided for Brian, especially whenever the professor donned his veneer of urbane sophistication - although that was absolutely not what Brian called it - exactly as if he were putting on a clean shirt.

Michael, meanwhile, was rolling his eyes. "Have you thought about this?" he demanded. "Really thought about it, I mean. Just imagine all the stuff we could all do together in New York. Especially considering how much we didn't get to do the last time we were there - also because of Justin. We could go to Times Square and Central Park and the Empire State Building and Radio City Music Hall, and . . . oh, oh, go see The Lion King on Broadway and shop at Bloomingdale's and eat at the Brooklyn Diner and go see Letterman and . . . I mean, I know we'd have to attend Justin's big show first, but we could make it quick, you know. We could pop in and . . ."

"And listen to smug, supercilious, pedantic, cunty little critics with bad comb-overs expound on the social significance of Dadaism and the deliberate negation of traditional artistic values while they surreptitiously check out your charming little ass and try to figure out how to maneuver you into the men's room. Then later maybe we could loiter at the Carnegie Deli to try to catch a glimpse of Liza and her entourage." He paused and regarded Michael with a lifted eyebrow. "Or maybe just cut to the chase and get mugged on the subway. All part of the attractions of the Big Apple."

"You don't have to be so sarcastic," Michael replied, not quite pouting, but coming close.

Brian looked up and spotted the steely spark of anger in Ben's eyes, there and gone in a blink, and he smiled. Then he carefully draped his arms over Michael's shoulders and pulled him close until they were eye to eye.

"Mikey," he said slowly, "listen to me. Are you listening?"

Michael huffed a dramatic sigh. "Of course I'm listening."

"You do not need me to go to New York with you so you can do all those things. You just grab the old ball and chain, strap the kid into his car seat in the rented minivan, and book a suite at the Plaza. Then you proceed to seek out all kinds of famous places to introduce to a little fag PDA and the sight of your fabulous little bum - Yankee Stadium, Broadway, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Guggenheim . . ."

"Jesus, Brian! Is everything about sex to you?"

Brian didn't even bother to try to frame an answer; he simply gave his oldest friend the look he always used when he wanted to say, "Are you fucking kidding me?" without actually saying anything at all.

Even Ben had to laugh.

"But I still don't understand why . . ."

Brian shifted and leaned forward to whisper three words in Michael's ear. "Yes, you do."

And Michael had a moment of epiphany, realizing that he did, indeed, understand. Then he had to turn away from his old friend, to conceal the surge of melancholy within him, not so much for what he knew as for what he did not know. He had always believed no one knew Brian as well as he - that no one else understood him at all. He had only recently come to realize that there were many facets of Brian's personality, his core, known to nobody. Not even him; not even Justin. Maybe not even Brian himself.

But the bottom line was that Brian would not react well to any suggestion of pity, no matter the source, and it was the height of stupidity anyway - for Michael Novotny Bruckner to waste a single moment feeling sorry for Brian Kinney, the model for Rage himself, the super hero with powers like no other.

Except there was something . . . something only half-formed and still seeking definition. Something was not quite as it should be. Something not quite . . . Brian.

"Hey, Emmy Lou," Brian drawled, "don't look now but your Southern Comfort just walked in."

Emmett 's face lit up as he turned to greet his current love interest who was actually a very old love interest: Calvin Culpepper, of the Hazlehurst, Mississippi, Culpeppers, was striding toward him, sculpted torso bulging in all the right places under a red satin western shirt that looked more poured on than worn.

They had kissed good-bye that morning when Calvin had departed for his new job as a physical therapist at Allegheny Hospital, and they had met up for lunch at the diner, but the intensity of the greeting between them would have been appropriate for soul-mates reuniting after months of separation.

Brian watched, wearing a small, enigmatic smile. Neither Michael nor Ted had yet come to accept Emmett's new obsession, both holding on to their doubts and their skepticism, given their old friend's less than spectacular track record in relationships. But Brian, for no reason anybody could discern, had welcomed the new arrival with typical sardonic humor, if not exactly open arms, and Calvin had blossomed under the attention, apparently able to see Brian with unambiguous clarity, without the filters created by years of exposure and experience.

And there had been an unexpected benefit from his fresh perspective; Emmett had begun to see things he had not noticed previously - things that initially surprised him, until he realized that these things had been a part of Brian all along, only no one had bothered to try to interpret them. Then he had wept, very privately, for the loneliness such a realization implied.

It reminded him of the title of an old Star Trek episode (dear to him because he'd always loved the manly physiques of its stars - along with the fledgling but innovative liberalism of its philosophy): Who Mourns for Adonis?

Who indeed, and Adonis would certainly never mourn for himself.

"Rico," called Brian, gesturing to capture the bartender's attention, "cosmos on the house for my friends."

"And for you, Mr. Kinney?"

Brian turned as the sultry, cultured voice fell on his ear, almost like a caress.

"You're not Rico," he said flatly, one quick glance taking in thick dark hair, cobalt blue eyes, lips that curved into a sweet smile begging to be licked and explored, broad shoulders, muscled arms, and a narrow waist.

"No, sir. I'm Tony. Rico's mom's in the hospital, so he asked me to fill in for him. Hope that's all right with you, Mr. Kinney."

Brian smiled and did not quite succeed in concealing his disappointment. "So . . . you work for me, right?"

The tall, buff young man glanced at his watch. "I do now, but in eleven minutes, I won't any more."

Brian leaned forward. "Maybe you'd like to explore your possibilities," he said softly, thick lashes dropping to camouflage the hungry gleam in hazel eyes. "In the back room." He turned and started walking away, pausing to glance up at the clock above the bar. Fifty-one minutes past midnight. He turned back, and his smile was hot enough to melt steel. "Just walk slow."

"Brian?" Michael called after him, the insipient whine in his voice threatening to break out into full-fledged frustration.

"Later, Mikey."

Michael was looking slightly bewildered. "What the fuck was that all about?"

"Jesus, Michael," said Ted. "You've known him all your life, and you still don't know he doesn't fuck the hired help?"

With great deliberation, Tony, the interim bartender, nodded to the young man who had just arrived to relieve him, carefully logged out of his computer access, and removed the western-style vest and spangled hat he'd been given as his costume for the evening. Then he moved around the bar and started toward the back, moving very slowly.

"Shit!" muttered Michael. "Poor fuck doesn't know what he's getting into."

Emmett drained his cosmo as he turned to stare into Michael's eyes. "Don't be silly, Sweetie. Of course he does. Just like everybody else here does. Granted, he's no saint, but one thing Brian Kinney does not do is lie about his intentions, or make promises he doesn't intend to keep. He just fucks; that's what he does, and that's what most guys want from him. It's what he was born to do. I mean, how many men do you know who can qualify as a walking wet dream, the way he does. You, of all people, should know that."

He paused and caught Ted's eye, and knew they were both thinking the same exact thing. Michael should certainly be familiar with the effect; he had, after all, spent his whole life studying that trademark strut as Brian walked away from him.

Michael watched until Tony disappeared down the stairs; for a moment, he even debated following him, and trying to make Brian see reason and understand how childish and perverted his actions were, but then he looked up and saw Ben's eyes, dark and shadowed and filled with something he couldn't quite identify.

"Is he ever going to grow up?" he grumbled turning back to the bar.

Emmett and Ted exchanged another look over the top of his bent head, and both of them heard the response they thought they should offer - but didn't.

Still, in their minds they heard it anyway. It was just two words, unspoken, but loud enough, somehow, to drown out the thumpa-thumpa.

"Are you?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It wasn't much to look at, day or night, light or dark. It was small, cramped, old, faded; the heating was problematic, at best, and the plumbing only barely functional. The walls were slightly less grimy than when he'd moved in, but only because his mother, on one of her whirlwind visits, had refused to leave him to live in such squalor and dragged two bags full of cleaning supplies up four flights of stairs, before proceeding to scrub everything in sight and resort to the use of caustic cleaners to remove years' worth of crud from the tiny toilet and miniscule sink that were the flat's only concessions to the concept of indoor plumbing.

The bed was narrow and lumpy; the furniture, warped and barely functional, and he'd been there just long enough to figure out that it would be just as miserably hot in high summer as it was freezing cold in dead winter. He had no kitchen, no shower (unless he ventured downstairs and waited his turn in line, inviting the speculative gazes of the two cougars who shared the fairly large apartment in the third floor southern wing or a groping by the elderly old queen who occupied the studio apartment across from the community bathroom). He had only one real window in the flat, and it looked out toward the roof of the adjacent house where he was pretty sure he was an object of great visual interest to the middle-aged bus driver who lived there.

His flat (he couldn't bear calling it a 'loft', even though the term would have been appropriate) had only one thing to recommend it; fully half of the north-facing wall had been replaced by a sloping skylight, exposing the cramped, dingy little room to the most beautiful, pure, natural light available anywhere within the five burroughs. And that made everything else unimportant. It didn't matter if he didn't eat here (although he did bring in take-out and his mother had insisted on buying him a tiny fridge for milk and juice and beer) or bathe here (Daphne's cousin never seemed to mind when he borrowed her shower, although she did sometimes stare at him a bit strangely) or even sleep here (although he mostly did). What mattered was that he painted here; he dreamed here; and he remembered here. This was where he lived.

He stood before his skylight and gazed out into the darkness, his left hand lazily rubbing the soft skin beneath his navel. There was little to see at this hour of the night, although there was never real darkness in the City. He looked up and tried to find a star in the night sky, but gave it up quickly. Nothing to wish upon - and no wish worth making.

In two short days, if any small percentage of his agent's customary bullshit could be believed, he would enter the ranks of "Self-Supporting Artists" - those who not only earned critical acclaim, which he'd already achieved in some small measure, but also a living wage, or the beginning of one anyway. Monica was convinced his exhibition would be successful enough that he might be able to get out of Bed-Stuy and upgrade to someplace in the Village.

He thought she was probably being overly optimistic and, maybe, just a trifle patronizing.

His stuff was good; even he knew that. But it was also something of an acquired taste. He knew that too. Although the art world was more tolerant and less condemning than other venues, it was still a bit of a stretch for the casual collector to be able to contemplate work that was blatantly homosexual in nature without a tendency to cringe away and turn the eyes elsewhere, resorting to surreptitious glances to satisfy both curiosity and any more prurient interests.

Still, it was good - original, fresh, even riveting in some ways, and completely non-derivative. He just didn't know if it was good enough.

And he didn't really know if it mattered, for he couldn't quite ignore a tiny little voice whispering deep in his mind, reminding him that the one person for whom it was intended, the one to whom it was meant to speak, would never see it.

Brian was gone, and Justin wasn't stupid enough not to know why. He had known it from the beginning, though he'd tried to deny it.

This was his dream - his chance to light up the world with his art and his gift - and he would never do that if he insisted on clinging to his past. He knew it; he understood it; he even believed it.

It was what he wanted, and he was poised on the brink of success.

But what would it mean without . . .

He knew Brian would never come for him, never step up to get between him and his dreams.

Never fit in to the world he wished to conquer.

It infuriated him that Brian had made the choice for him - that he had chosen to remove himself from the equation, to eliminate temptation. In some ways, he wanted to drive to Pittsburgh and storm into that exquisite loft apartment, and tell the prick exactly what he thought of him - before throwing him down and fucking the shit out of him.

He was enraged - and he was grateful, because he knew himself well enough to know that he would not have been able to make the choice on his own; grateful because Brian had chosen for him.

His hand drifted lower, and he slipped his fingers around his engorged cock and sprawled back on the bed, imagining other fingers touching him, working him, invading his body and sending him up into the stratosphere of euphoria. Brian's hands. He had always loved Brian's hands. And Brian's smile. And the sultry fire in those incredible hazel eyes. And the lines of that exquisite body. And Brian's dick. Absolutely like no other.

Shit!

He needed to get up and get dressed if he had any hope of being on time. Steven had scored tickets for Grey Gardens at the Walter Kerr Theater, and he would be very upset if Justin ran late, although he certainly knew by this time that the young artist had been thoroughly infected by a former lover with a love for the drama of arriving late enough to be the center of attention for avid eyes. And Justin still drew 'avid eyes', everywhere he went. He didn't notice it much himself, but he knew it to be true. It had been Brian, of course, who had drawn his attention to it; Brian, who had always bolstered his sense of his own beauty.

Brian - always.

Steven was a lovely man, probably the perfect man for Justin. Bright and educated and sophisticated and elegant. And very eager to introduce his young lover to the cultured, eclectic lifestyle he lived, centered around his recently remodeled brownstone in Soho. Steven was an investment counselor with a prestigious Wall Street firm - a product of old money and impeccable breeding and a family tradition of erudition and political connection. He was also quite beautiful and a skilled and generous lover.

And he loved Justin and wanted to marry him, without reservation and with every intention of allowing Justin to pursue whatever dream he might choose to seek.

Steven was perfect, except for one small fact.

He wasn't Brian.

But Brian was gone, and Justin knew he wouldn't be coming back, knew Brian had foreseen what Justin had refused to accept - that Justin Taylor, artist of world-wide renown, would never be able to co-exist with Justin Taylor, husband of Brian Kinney.

It was truly a case of two different worlds in which he could not exist concurrently.

And the rules they had established so long ago no longer applied, of course. To either of them. He was sure Brian had moved on - that he no longer limited himself to one sampling from any of his multitude of fucks, that he no longer returned to the loft every night, that he no longer withheld the sweetness of his kisses from his trick of the moment.

Strangely, breaking those rules - the ones he himself had imposed - had proved to be the hardest step to take. But he had managed it, because he knew he must, and because he could hear in his mind the scornful laughter of his ex-fiancé if he had admitted to such sentimentality.

He did love Steven. He really did.

With a deep breath, he pushed himself off the bed, ignoring the half-hearted protest of his semi-hard dick, and went to retrieve his best suit - the Armani that had been selected and tailored for him for . . . but best not to think about that.

Steven was waiting. Maybe it was time to join him and give him what he wanted, like an answer to the invitation he had delivered just yesterday, an invitation to spend the next two weeks at a fabulous resort in Tahiti, where splendidly appointed guest cottages were built out over the water and one could look down through a transparent floor to watch the magic of ocean life on display in a turquoise-tinted paradise.

Exquisitely romantic - and everything Brian Kinney would never be.

Maybe it was time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 5

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You scared the shit out of me, Kiddo," said Margo Renton, administrative assistant, social secretary, and Jill-of-all-trades for Maxwell Bates, owner of the Bergerie Gallery, an exclusive little showplace for up and coming, avant garde artists. Like young Justin Taylor. She was fanning her face with a copy of his brochure, her hand clinched at her chest.

"I'm sorry, Margo," Justin answered with an apologetic smile. "When I saw the lights on and realized someone was still here, I thought I'd just check in, and see . . ." He paused, and rosy spots erupted on his cheeks.

Margo, a painfully thin woman with eyes as dark as Renaissance-era stained glass and cheekbones to die for (he thought he'd like to paint her someday as a stereotypical representative of dykedom, even though she claimed she wasn't) was not given much to sentiment, but she couldn't quite resist favoring him with a tiny smile. "It's okay, Honey. First time out of the gate is always traumatic. So you want to walk around, and take a look?"

"Can I?" he asked, almost afraid to believe.

"You may," she said pointedly, with a glance at her watch. "If you hurry. No time for a leisurely stroll - I do hope to get home in time to actually spend a few hours in my bed - but a quick pass should be okay."

"It's pretty dark," he observed, stepping forward slowly.

"In that case," she answered, stepping back behind the ultra-modern, angular reception desk and reaching for a concealed switch, "let there be light."

She watched with a small smile as Justin walked slowly to the center of the display area and then simply stood, surrounded by his art - the accumulated production of his life. None of it was new to him, of course. And all of it was new to him.

Along the left hand wall, portable display panels featured his impressionist work - abstract and emotional, almost turbulent, even bordering on violence once or twice. Here was his passion: lust, love, terror, rage, his biting need to strike back, to avenge himself and to reach out and grab the things he hungered for, to possess that which he desired; strong shapes and silhouettes, studies of light and shadow rendered mostly in shades of ochre and gold, in earthtones with slashes of crimson and copper, slashed through with blades of obsidian and swirling tempests of brilliance, lurking beneath dark seas under a swollen, bleeding sun. Colors that might have been reflected in eyes that never seemed to be the same color twice, eyes that changed with the seasons and with the passions that touched the heart.

Farther in, a group of haunting sketches and bright portraits and still-life studies had been arranged to compliment each other - faces, bodies, an open hand, a length of rope draped over a fencepost, a lock of hair that curled around a strong jawline, fingers that stroked a swollen penis. Two women, locked in a steamy embrace; a faded jacket draped across a chairback; two men, silhouettes only against a twilight sky; a little boy burying his face against his father's shoulder; a classic Corvette streaking down a rain-swept highway; a child asleep on an old quilt; two hands clasped - man and child; a dirty city street, neon-lit and lurid; broken pottery and tarnished brass; laughing faces, frowning faces, pensive faces - joy and sorrow; hope and despair, certainty and doubt.

On the opposite side, brilliant sprays of color formed the foundation for his graphic efforts - things created in the same place which had given birth to Rage and Zephyr and J.T. - massive bodies and muscles contrasted with slender grace; dark justice tempered by luminous mercy; unswerving purpose touched by whimsy. It was the art of the streets, of the masses - the art of childhood dreams and fantasies and nightmares.

His eyes swept over it all, and he felt his heart start to race with a rare, unexpected sense of accomplishment.

Then he moved forward, his eyes finally finding what he had really come looking for. The art . . . of Brian.

Strangers or casual acquaintances might not have recognized the identity of the model for all of the pieces arranged along the back wall of the gallery, especially since some of the images were shadowed and unclear, and many were only fractured glimpses of a profile or a feature. But anyone who knew Brian Kinney - really knew him - would recognize him at once, needing only the most minimal clues; the sardonic life of one eyebrow, the sensual half-smile barely touching sculpted lips, the strong lines of a broad back tapering into a slender waist. Brian, walking away, his face only just visible but something in his posture or the cant of his head announcing that he was trying not to laugh; Brian sprawled in an easy chair, illuminated by a pale lamp, lost in thought; Brian at rest, eyes closed, bare and beautiful and totally natural; Brian in the shower, or running on a treadmill, or relaxing in a spa. Brain thinking; Brian laughing; Brian brooding - dancing, drinking, working, smoking . . . grieving. Only one like that. Brian . . . beautiful.

"Fuck," said a cultured voice, close enough to send warm air into the blond strands at the nape of Justin's neck. "I really, really want to hate him, but . . ."

Justin turned to smile up at Steven Fletcher. "But?"

Steven shrugged. "But I can't. Because you make me see him through your eyes." He paused then, and moved closer, studying one particularly bold image, featuring Brian standing at a window with his arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips and smoke curling around his face. "Is he really that beautiful?" he asked finally.

Justin looked away quickly, but not quickly enough to hide the flicker in his eyes. "This," he said with a sweep of his hand, "doesn't even come close. He's the most vital, most intensely alive person I've ever known. Bigger than life; bigger than . . . anything."

"And yet," said Steven, reaching up to brace his hand against Justin's shoulder, "here you are."

Justin nodded. "Yeah. Here I am."

The rest remained unspoken, but Justin didn't have to be a mind-reader to know what Steven was thinking. If Brian Kinney was truly the love of his life, what was Justin doing in New York?

It was a question he frequently asked himself - and just as frequently could not answer.

"Well?" said Margo, moving forward to adjust the spotlight on a charcoal sketch of Brian, asleep at his desk with his head propped on folded arms. "Does it please you?"

"Oh, yes," Justin answered, his smile more than justifying his nickname, although no one here even knew his nickname, which pleased him for some reason he didn't care to explore. "You've done a beautiful job. But . . ." his gaze swept the room.

"Ahhh," she responded, a glint of something ambiguous in her eyes, "you're wondering about the piece de resistance, aren't you? Well, it's in the perfect spot, along with its companion piece. Perfect, that is, if you decide to display it. Have you . . . decided, I mean?"

"Not really," he answered, shoving his hands into his pockets. It was a curiously touching gesture, making him look even younger than his twenty-four years. He had lost no time in shedding the suit coat and the tie he had worn to the theater, and was now completely relaxed in dark pants and a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and half unbuttoned. Margo thought his appearance perfectly charming - and achingly young.

"We're getting down to the wire, Hon," she said gently. "You're going to have to decide soon."

"I know."

Steven wandered a little further into the room, absorbing the energy and the beauty of Justin's work, allowing the young artist to follow with his eyes. Classically handsome, with dark hair, gray eyes, a sculpted face that always wore just a trace of stubble, and a tall, beautifully conditioned body, Steven looked perfectly at home in the elegant setting. He looked around the room, obviously savoring the items that caught his eye, but he couldn't quite resist glancing at the shadowed area at the top of the small, spiral staircase in the rear corner of the long, narrow room.

The gallery was not particularly large, but it was quite impressive. It had been converted from an old brownstone, and the contractor had carefully preserved the original lines and classic details of the structure. The main display area took up most of the ground floor, excepting only the shallow vestibule and reception alcove and a small utility area providing space for a tiny kitchenette and a powder room. Upstairs there was a balcony overlooking the main display room, leading to two offices - one for the owner and the second for Margo herself - and a small, secure area for storage of art work awaiting display or sale. In addition, there was a shallow offset, located directly adjacent to the stair well, and it was in this choice location that the gallery often displayed the primary feature of any exhibition. Featureless walls, covered with charcoal-colored raw silk, formed an octagonal chamber, a simple setting, with nothing to distract the eye of the viewer away from the room's focus. The lighting was dramatic and deliberate. Anyone who stepped into the alcove would see the artwork and only the artwork.

Such was the case now - pending Justin's decision.

There were two paintings set up on easels in the tiny niche, both covered with soft, dark drapes, with nothing else in the room except some tasteful greenery to soften the angles of the walls and floor. There was no window, no furniture. Nothing but the art.

The best things he had ever done, and he knew it - knew they were probably the best things he ever would do.

What he didn't know was whether or not he could bear to part with either of the two, or even allow anyone to see them.

One he'd finished only a few days before, using a tiny photograph to refresh the image in his mind, but mostly working from memory, calling up a vision of a powerful moment he knew he would never forget; the other he'd done just before he left Pittsburgh, and had kept completely to himself, except for one person. Lindsey had seen it when she'd come to help him pack up for the trip - seen it and gone to her knees, rendered completely speechless.

She'd never managed to say a word about it, but then, she'd never needed to.

He knew it was a masterpiece, that it had the power, in and of itself, to make him an artist of great critical acclaim.

If only he could stand to expose it to the world.

"Justin," said Steven, very softly, "I understand that this must be difficult for you - that your art is very personal. God! Is it ever! Anyone could see that, and feel it. You have a huge gift, to be able to reach out and touch people where they live. But if you really want to light up the world, to make people see life as you see it, as you want them to see it, you have to . . ."

"Let it go," Justin supplied, when it was obvious that Steven could not go on.

Steven confined his response to a quick nod.

Justin stood in silence for a moment, eyes closed, his breathing shallow and steady and calm, careful to betray nothing of the massive conflict that arose in his core whenever he tried to resolve this issue. Steven was right; it was difficult, but only Justin truly understood why. It wasn't simply a matter of opening up his past, allowing people to see it through his heart; it was a matter of releasing his hold on it.

To share it was to give it away.

When he opened his eyes, Steven was staring at him, frowning slightly, obviously discomfited by what he read in Justin's face.

"You're right," Justin whispered, stepping forward and starting up the stairs. "You're so right."

"Justin? What are you . . ."

The blond artist paused and turned to look down at the dashing young man who only wanted to give him the world - Paris, Florence, Vienna . . . Tahiti, for God's sake - who offered so much and asked so little.

"It's time," he said, his voice carefully emotionless, "to let it go."

Steven looked away quickly, unwilling to allow his young lover to interpret the flare of emotion in his eyes, but Justin had already resumed his climb and seemed to be focused on nothing but the shadowy alcove where the heart and soul of his work were cached.

Steven, meanwhile, turned back to study the display on the rear wall and moved closer to examine a particularly striking portrait in which hazel eyes, half hooded by a fringe of long lashes, contrasting beautifully with a crimson shirt, looked up at the artist solemnly, without a single nuance of humor or passion or emotion - a portrait of repose which should have been boring, flat, without depth or meaning - but wasn't. It shouldn't have been able to speak at all. Instead, it spoke volumes. It said, "You can look; you can want; you can seek. You can even touch. But you will never own."

Bastard.

Steven was careful to say nothing, to allow nothing to show on his face. But inside, beneath the layers of sophistication and the meticulously crafted public persona, he could not deny the existence of a fleeting urge to reach out and destroy what he knew he could never have. If he was very lucky - and very clever - he would achieve his goal; Justin would be his. But something deep inside him, in a place he never allowed anyone to see, confronted a truth he would never be able to change; he might manage to be the last to claim his young lover's heart, but he would never be the first.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The executive office of the owner of Babylon was neither large nor lavish, but it was distinctly Brian Kinney. There was very little furniture in the small room, but each item was a gleaming example of Mies van der Rohe's genius. There was only one painting, but it was an original by an artist who was currently unknown, but wouldn't be for long. Only one photograph occupied a place of prominence on the sleek surface of the desk, but it offered a likeness of an exquisite face, captured in a moment of bright laughter, and it was displayed in an antique Tiffany sterling silver frame. A bank of monitors covered one wall, the only visible evidence of a state-of-the-art security system. One decanter - Waterford crystal - containing Brian's favorite whiskey.

Spare. Lean. Elegant.

Like the man leaning back in his executive chair, illuminated only by the single lamp providing the sole source of light in the room which had no natural light of its own - no windows, no skylights, no reflections. He was more shadow than substance, but it was an elegant shadow - black Armani suit with jacket unbuttoned contrasting perfectly with a shirt of scarlet silk by the same designer, limned only by the lamp's indirect glow.

He wore scarlet often these days, and wondered if anyone ever remembered that Justin had always loved it when he wore that color. He rather hoped no one would make the connection.

In front of his desk, two men sat in Bauhaus chairs, waiting in comfortable silence as Brian poured out three shots of JB.

"You're looking good, Brian," said the larger of the two.

Brian smiled. "Thanks, Drewsie. You too."

Drew Boyd, star quarterback of the Ironmen and only recently outed, allowed himself a small grin. "Emmett's the only one who ever called me that."

Brian leaned forward, and there was something almost predatory in his posture. "You're lucky he didn't call you a lot worse."

The quarterback's eyes flared with a brief flash of anger, before he remembered the full circumstances of his final meeting with Emmett. Then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. You're right."

Brian smiled, silently reflecting that there were only a few people who would credit that he could admire a man's willingness to face truth without flinching. Still, he thought Boyd might be one of those who could understand and appreciate his attitude.

"So," he said after distributing the glasses, "what brings you here?"

Boyd leaned back in his chair, savoring the smoky sweetness of the whiskey. "Thought I'd do you a favor."

Brian's smile was just slightly venal. "Do you really think I need your favors?"

Boyd laughed aloud. "Don't be cheeky. Remember, I've seen you in your underwear."

"That's hardly a distinction."

"Anyway, I meant a different kind of favor. I hear you're looking to beef up your security."

For the first time, Brian allowed his gaze to wander, and to drift down and back up the body of the individual seated at Boyd's side. Broad-shouldered, buff, perfect six-pack, flat belly, dark hair and eyes and a lovely cleft chin (a feature Brian always found difficult to resist). This time, however, he'd make an exception, because he'd have no choice. This guy was straight - interesting, but straight. What a shame!

He looked the stranger straight (no pun intended) in the eye. "I take it that the beef he's talking about is you."

"It is. My name is Lance Mathis, Mr. Kinney."

"He's my cousin, Brian," said Boyd. "But he's a good man, for all that."

Brian nodded, studying the newcomer's face more intently. "Okay, let's get down to brass tacks, Mr. Mathis. I know queer when I see it, and I know straight. I'm never wrong. So how are you going to feel when - notice I didn't say 'if' - you have to stand up to a group of your fellow breeders in defense of a bunch of fags or a couple of drag queens?"

Lance Mathis smiled. "Do you know where I got my start in security? I grew up in Hyannisport. Near Cape Cod, you know. And my father worked his entire life for a pretty well-known family there. You've probably heard of them. And if there's any family, anywhere in the world, that's more devoted to equal rights for everybody, regardless of race, religion, or sexual preference, I can't imagine who they'd be."

Brian smiled. "Which would make you . . .?"

"Extremely well trained."

But Brian was not yet convinced. He leaned forward and braced his chin on his clasped hands. "Maybe we need to be a little clearer here. I frankly don't give a fuck about your political correctness - or lack thereof - or how liberal your family background might be or how much you're into the peace movement or Zen Buddhism. What I want is a strong man who knows how to use his fists when it's necessary, who fights when he needs to, not because he believes in the cause but because it's what he gets paid to do. That's what I'm looking for. Not some do-gooder crusader who'll get carried away in his devotion to truth, justice, and the American way, or some such crap. So can you deal with that, or do I need to look elsewhere?"

Mathis stood up and leaned forward, extending his right hand. "You're a straight shooter, Mr. Kinney. I didn't expect that, so no bullshit about my beliefs or my liberal leanings. Just my assurance that you'll get what you pay for."

Brian took the hand and shook it firmly. "Can't ask for more than that. You can start tomorrow. I assume you're expensive."

"The best always are."

Brian poured another round of drinks before pushing back and propping one Prada-clad foot on the corner of his desk. "I couldn't agree more."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


After Boyd and Mathis left his office, Brian spent a few minutes reviewing proposals for upcoming promotions and signing off on those he approved. Then the monitors lining the left-hand wall of the executive office flared to life as the big front doors were opened and regulars began to pour through the entrance, after getting the nod of approval from the over-sized muscle man Brian had dubbed "The Gatekeeper". Sipping at his whiskey, he sprawled back in his chair, spent a moment gazing at the lovely face looking back at him from the photograph on his desk, before spinning slowly to check the images on the monitors and gauge the size of the crowd. Then he smiled his satisfaction when he glanced at the exterior scenes to see the thick line wrapped around the block.

Another big night at Babylon; another sizeable chunk of change in his pocket.

He did not move nor turn his head when a discreet knock sounded at the door.

"Brian?"

"Hmmm?"

"Got a minute?"

Lazily, he spun away from the monitors to look up at the tall blond standing just inside the doorway.

His smile was minimal. "Barely. It's . . . Brett, isn't it?"

The blond's smile was a trifle slow in forming. "Actually, it's Brandon."

"Oh." Brian let his gaze settle on the computer monitor on his desk, obviously uninterested in continuing the conversation. "Sorry about that. I'm not good with names." He paused then, reaching out to tap in a command on his keyboard and then waiting a moment to check out the data that came up on the screen. Only then did he look back up at his visitor's handsome face. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Not exactly," said the man who had once set out to topple Brian's position as the most desired man in Pittsburgh - and failed. "Just wondered . . . can I sit down?"

With the regal aplomb of a king of the realm, secure in his arrogance, Brian nodded toward a chair. Privately, he had long since admitted that their little competition had been an exercise in stupidity. Still, it had been a victory, albeit a small one in the grand scheme of things. Nevertheless, in a world where failure was too frequently the norm, he always reminded himself to savor the triumphs. Even the small ones.

The visitor seated himself, and Brian waited, feeling not even a slight compulsion to break the silence.

Brandon braced his elbows against the arms of his chair, and steepled his fingers. "This is a little awkward."

One single lifted eyebrow was the only indication that Brian had even heard him.

Realizing at last that Brian was not going to give him any kind of verbal cue or comfortable opening, the blonde leaned forward abruptly and focused his gaze on Brian's eyes. "I want to know why."

"Why . . . what?"

"Don't fuck with me. You know what."

Brian shrugged. "It's been a long time. Why are you asking now?"

Brandon tilted his head and examined Brian's expression closely. "You're a busy man."

It didn't really qualify as an answer, but Brian let it pass. Then he decided abruptly that he didn't much care for this game. "I am indeed. As for your question, the answer is simple. Sometimes, a man discovers that having something is not nearly as much fun as wanting it. Your ass is charming enough, but in the end - if you'll excuse the expression - it's just an ass, not really very different from any other."

Brandon blinked. "One might say the same about your cock."

This time the grin was slow and easy and insolent. "One might. One might also say that Everest is just a mountain, or the Pacific is just an ocean. Right?"

He stood then and slowly removed his jacket and dress shirt, revealing the black wife-beater he wore beneath, his actions declaring that this little interview was over. Then he retrieved his new Hugo Boss leather jacket from the tiny closet in the corner and checked his image in the full length mirror on the door, as Brandon Wright watched, the rage swelling within him betrayed only by the tense lines of his body - rage tempered by an unexpected and unwelcome surge of lust.

He did not want this arrogant prick. He did not.

His dick, however, seemed to disagree.

He got to his feet and moved forward, almost - but not quite - invading Brian's personal space. "You know," he said in a soft husky voice, "if we walk in together, we'll attract every eye in the place."

Brian grinned before leaning forward and dropping a kiss on the blonde's forehead - the kind of kiss a rock star might bestow on a rabid fan - or a maiden aunt. "I already do, and I don't like to share."

Brandon looked down quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent Brian from identifying - and ignoring - the flash of fury in his eyes. With a final tug to make sure the leather jacket was perfectly arranged to show off the body beneath it, Brian stepped around the blond and opened the door, gesturing for his guest to make his exit.

Brandon paused as he turned to leave and stepped close again, to stare directly into Brian's eyes. "You're playing with fire, you know," he whispered, before leaning close and licking at Brian's lower lip.

Brian just smiled. "You're not that hot," he answered, and pushed his visitor out the door, none too gently.

Then he stood and waited while Brandon walked away, dismissing the tall blond from his thoughts as soon as he was out of sight.

No one would ever be able to say that Brian Kinney didn't live in the moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 6

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Justin stood in a thick pool of light at the head of the stairs, his hair reflecting bright gold under the directional beam of a perfectly-placed spot. Directly ahead of him lay the shadowed alcove that was his destination, the carefully arranged lamps above the arched entrance still dark, controlled by a concealed switch inside the doorframe.

He sometimes thought it was the most tragic conflict: light, so critical to the creation of great art, was ultimately a weapon which could completely destroy it. Thus the two items resting upon easels within the alcove remained shrouded in soft covers, protected from the treacherous glare of the spotlights which would paint them in liquid brilliance and draw every eye once switched on. Until that moment, they would remain in the dark. Safe. Protected. Unrisked.

Priceless - to him, anyway.

He paused and turned slightly, to look down to the display floor where Steven was standing motionless in front of one of the smaller, more intimate pieces - an image of Brian at his most inscrutable, perfect face just emerging from shadow, hazel eyes fully shielded, untouchable, unreachable - and irresistible.

Justin watched for a moment, and saw much more than Steven would have been able to credit - saw the tension in the set of broad shoulders, saw the slight hitch in the breathing, saw the involuntary clinching of the jaw. Saw and understood, knowing that, if the situation were reversed, he would be hard pressed to accept that another man was so central to his lover's very existence - central in his heart.

He knew it could not go on.

He turned away, leaving Steven the privacy of his thoughts, knowing he should invite his lover to join him, to share the intimacy of his work. Knowing he should, and knowing he wouldn't.

Not yet. First he had to face it himself - alone.

Moving forward abruptly, allowing himself no room to maneuver, he flipped the switch that filled the room with light and stripped off the covering of the smaller canvas.

Best, he knew, to make this a two-step process.

It was a compact piece, perhaps half life-sized. It was also simple - a head/torso shot of a man napping against brightly colored cushions, with an infant cradled against his shoulder, also sleeping; Brian Kinney with his hand curled protectively around his son's tiny body.

Justin had heard snide remarks made by several of Brian's friends when they'd looked at the snapshot from which the portrait had been painted, and he had been amazed by their indifference and their inability to discern the elemental truth revealed in the image.

He wondered if he was the only one who could see the incredible depth of the love displayed therein.

He thought not - hoped not - and, provided that he could bring himself to share it with the world, he was pretty sure others, people who did not know Brian - never would know Brian - would see it too, and wish for a moment that they were fortunate enough to know such an extraordinary young man.

His eyes were soft with luminous memories as he reached out to touch the face on the canvas. He knew all of Brian's friends and acquaintances - not to mention Brian himself - would have snorted their scorn at the notion that there was anything innocent about Brian Kinney. Honest? Yes - many would say to a fault. Unpretentious? Invariably. Straightforward? Guileless? Unapologetic? Yes, yes, and yes.

But innocent?

Perhaps, thought the young artist, it only existed in the eyes of the beholder. His smile was bittersweet. Was he the only one to see it, because he was the only one who wanted it to be so?

He didn't even pretend to know. Not anymore.

He only knew the portrait was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Except one.

He let his eyes linger for a moment, tracing the features with the tactile sweetness of memory.

Then he moved further into the enclosure, proceeding to stand before the larger portrait, closing his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Reaching, touching - lost in anticipation.

Lost, in fear.

There was nothing graceful or subtle or controlled in his movement as he jerked the drape away from the final canvas. And even then, he did not open his eyes right away.

It wasn't as if he didn't know what he would see. Or did not see it in his mind every hour of every day.

It was just . . .

He opened his eyes, and it was exactly as he'd known it would be.

Instantly, without a moment of transition or a second to prepare, he was there, inside the image, living the moment again.

He was still caught up in the look on Brian's face as he'd made his proclamation. It had been quintessential Brian, without the bells and whistles and hearts and flowers, without the embroidery. A statement of fact, without frills.

And it had echoed all the way down into Justin's soul.

"We're not like your parents. And we're not like a pair of dykes marching down the aisle in matching Vera Wangs. We're queers, and if we're together, it's because we want to be - not because there are locks on the doors . . .

"And when I come home, I'll also be doing exactly what I want to do - coming home to you."

Then Justin had summed up his own needs, his own conditions, surprising himself with the scope of his demands and how desperately he wanted Brian's agreement.

The kisses they'd exchanged following their moment of truth in the middle of Babylon's dance floor had been hot enough to draw groans of envy from the surrounding crowd.

They had come home together then, no further words being required, locked up tight in the intimacy of the moment, in the certainty of what had been said and, just as certainly, in what had gone unsaid, but had been heard anyway.

At least for that moment.

Later, Justin would allow himself to forget - to be coaxed and prodded and deluded and lured away, to be enticed and jerked into a place he never wanted to be.

But for that moment, he had felt the rightness of the connection between them.

That had been the night when he was finally able to taste and savor the truth of what had begun to grow in his heart. He had claimed, from the beginning, to love Brian, but he had been lying to himself. He had wanted Brian, needed Brian, lusted after Brian - even wanted to be Brian. But he had not really loved him - had not even known what real love was. Not until that night when he had felt it building inside him, and looked up to see it gazing down at him from Brian's eyes.

Words remained unspoken, unneeded.

They had barely made it to the bed, shedding clothes along the way, bodies straining, clinging, holding, blending, yearning to be one. Brian had taken one little detour - just long enough to hit the play switch on the sound system - before scooping Justin up in strong arms to rush him to the bedroom and toss him across the mattress.

But that was the last thing he'd done in a hurry that night.

They had fucked many times during their months together, in every conceivable configuration - face to face, front to back, spooned, Justin astride Brian's lap - impaled on his massive cock. There had been blow jobs, hand jobs, shower fucks, floor fucks, public fucks in Babylon's back room and all possible variations on the same theme - on the bed, on the sofa, on the kitchen table, on the lounge chair, bent over the sink, against the wall.

But until that night, Justin had never experienced what it was like to be worshipped by Brian Kinney. It would happen again, periodically, but it would never be quite as special, quite as perfect, as the first time.

Brian had started slow, nibbling at his lover's feet, licking and tasting and nuzzling and sucking. Then he'd worked his way slowly northward - ankles, calves, knees. Who knew that a tongue exploring the back of the knee could produce such mind-blowing sensations? It was at this point that Brian had paused to look up and study the look on Justin's face, his smile expressing his delight in his lover's trembling body and hitching breath, in the glow of lust and need that was almost visible beneath alabaster skin. He had moved on then to the thighs, the hips . . . laughing softly as he skipped over the main attraction, except for a quick swipe of his tongue to taste the bittersweetness of the precum dripping from the slit of Justin's cock, and continued the upward journey - belly, navel, chest, underarms, nipples (with special attention to the jeweled ring dangling from the right one.) Further, exploring the valleys and planes of the collarbone, the shoulders, the tender hollows of the throat.

"Brian?" Barely audible, barely breathing - barely even able to breathe, as his lover nuzzled into the velvet softness under his jawline.

"Hmmm?"

Hazel eyes, ablaze with lust - and so much more - had stared down into midnight blue.

"Make love to me."

For the space of one frozen heartbeat, Justin had feared he'd gone too far, as he saw the brief flare of furious resistance threaten to engulf the brilliance of desire, but he hadn't waited to give it a chance to grow. Instead, he'd surged upward, claiming that incredible mouth, driving his tongue into the velvety depths, into the place he most wanted to be.

Into the center of Brian Kinney.

Holding the kiss, refusing to release those lips, or the body that was wrapped around him, Justin had reached out and retrieved a condom and the lube from a bowl on the nightstand, and managed to twist his body just enough to gain sufficient access to sheath his lover's straining cock with the latex. Then it was time to pull back just a little - to invite Brian into his own center.

"Fuck me!" he'd whispered. "I want you to fuck me so hard, so deep, that I can feel you in my fucking throat."

Brian had shifted as if to turn Justin to his stomach, but the younger man had resisted. "No. I want to see your face."

Brian had hesitated briefly, but then he'd simply settled back against the slender body beneath him, and squeezed a generous mound of lube into his palm. He'd taken Justin's lips once more in a searing kiss as he worked his hand down between their bodies, past Justin's throbbing erection, past his perineum to the pucker of his opening. He hadn't wasted much time there, but he'd been thorough. One finger, then two, then three - scissoring to open the tight channel, to provide maximum access.

"You ready, Sunshine?"

"Always."

Another kiss, consuming and being consumed, and then . . .

He had been filled many times before, filled to the point of bursting - but never quite like this. The first time they'd been together - the first time he'd ever been fucked - Brian had told him that it would always hurt a little, that the hurt was a part of it - and Brian Kinney never lied. Well, almost never. But understanding had come only gradually, from experience. The pain was a part of it - a necessary part, that fired the nerve endings and opened the pleasure centers of the mind, preparing the way for the incredible sensations yet to come: the blue-hot pain of first entry, a strange blend of heart-stopping hurt and breathless anticipation, quickly morphing into red-hot pleasure as Brian adjusted his angle to make sure his cock stroked across the nub of his lover's sweet spot with every thrust as he pushed deeper and deeper until he was everywhere within Justin's slender body, filling him beyond capacity, beyond comprehension, and finally - finally - blossoming into the white hot ecstasy of an eruption to rival the Big Bang of creation.

Justin, so boneless with pleasure he could barely retain his grasp of reality, had felt the music swelling around them - the cadence of the song underscoring the grinding beat of their joining, the rasping voice saying everything that they could not manage to voice, the haunting lyrics wrapping them, driving them, caressing them as they held each other, resonating with the breaths they could not quite catch.

"I don't want to miss one smile;
I don't want to miss one kiss;
I just want to be with you,
Right here with you, just like this.
I just want to hold you close,
Feel your heart so close to mine,
And just stay here in this moment,
For all the rest of time."*

Justin had felt it fill him, as he let himself fall into rapture, into incredible sensation such as he'd never known before, exactly like a collision of stars, exploding into infinity. He flew, soaring on the melody and the euphoria within him.

And there above him, as his body convulsed, consumed in the fire of his own passion, he'd seen the vision - the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, or ever would see through all the years of his life.

Brian Kinney, caught in the mindless bliss of orgasm, mouth open and gasping, and eyes molten with desire and completion, sweat running in rivulets down across the muscle and sinew of a chest heaving for air, looking down and allowing his expression to say what his lips would not be able to whisper for a very long time.

Justin knew at once that he would paint it, because he couldn't not paint it, because he knew he would never see anything or experience anything or touch anything again that would fill his soul so completely.

Because this was his Brian - the center of his universe.

He came back to awareness of the moment slowly and had to force himself to stand still, to allow his racing heart to settle, to pull his consciousness back out of memory and into the now, with the chorus of the song still echoing in his mind.

"I don't want to close my eyes;
I don't want to fall asleep,
Cause I'd miss you, baby,
And I don't want to miss a thing.
Cause even when I dream of you,
The sweetest dream will never do.
I'd still miss you, baby,
And I don't want to miss a thing."*

It was still - probably always would be - his favorite song, and he could never hear it without remembering that night, and Brian's sardonic, tongue-in-cheek explanation for his fondness for Steven Tyler: lips twisted into a smirk, eyes barely twinkling, and a drawling voice observing that anyone with a mouth like that must be a world-class cocksucker because God, as everybody knew, didn't make mistakes.

"Jesus Christ!"

He had not heard Steven's approach, had not noticed when the older man had come to stand behind him and look over his shoulder, and he had to fight off an urge to turn around and push the man away. This was private; this was only for him; this was . . .
What he had to let go of, if he ever hoped to build a life without Brian. Steven reached out and touched the canvas, his finger trailing down across the image of the hand of the individual who was only seen as the object of the desire in the primary subject's eyes. One hand braced against a gleaming chest, one leg draped over a bulging shoulder, and one reflection - vague but definitely blonde - revealed in the luminous surface of hazel eyes.

"Jesus Christ!"

It seemed that neither of them could think of anything else to say.

Justin waited until his lungs could once again draw breath, until his heart ceased to hammer in his chest. Then he turned and walked out of the alcove, pausing only to extinguish the lights, leaving Steven standing there in the dark.

At the bottom of the stairs, Margo stood waiting, her face asking the only question for which she needed an answer, and Justin paused, eyes huge but somehow seeing nothing except a huge, gaping darkness that threatened to consume him.

"Well?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Yes, what?" She could not afford ambiguity. This was too important.

"Yes. Display it."

"And?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes." It was only a whisper. "Sell it."

Then he walked to the street door and made his exit, never looking back, and she watched him go, wondering why she was so sure he was leaving behind a piece of his heart, lost and never to be regained.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian leaned against the bar, sipping his JB, eyes scanning the crowd, pleased with the numbers and the excitement and the exuberance, less pleased by the visual reminders of the dark time in which they were living. His customers, as always, were a vivid, colorful bunch, running the full gamut of gay society. Drag queens and trannies, bears and twinks, subs and doms, tops and bottoms and every variation in between. And the beautiful people, of course - the ones that defied classification, that seemed to exist in a niche of their own, destined to be desired and watched and hungered for by everyone around them.

Like Brian, although he no longer spent much time reflecting on his place within their ranks.

But there were others in the crowd, unremarkable except for their ability to blend in while still, somehow, remaining separate. Since nothing in the gay community was the 'new' black - in that only the real black would ever do - they were dressed discreetly: black t's and jeans, or black muscle shirts or jackets, black boots. Completely unremarkable. And yet, if one knew what to look for, they were easy enough to distinguish from the exuberant dancers and drinkers and cruisers around them. It wasn't in their clothing or the shape of (hard) bodies; it was in their eyes. Eyes that were never still, never glazed with lust or vacant with drug-or-alcohol-induced euphoria.

The strong, stalwart, generally tall-dark-and-handsomes danced and talked and mingled and flirted; they appeared to party, but they never got lost in the role.

Brian knew a moment of sharp regret. There had always been a small number of security personnel at Babylon. Like any night club, anywhere, it saw its share of rambunctious patrons or belligerent party animals who didn't know when to quit or how to take 'no' for an answer. But not like this. The world had become an uglier place, and Brian had been forced to take measures to deal with it. He did it because he had no choice, but he didn't like it.

His budget for security staffing had more than doubled since he'd reopened the club.

"They're very good," said a voice in his ear. "If I didn't know what to look for, I'd never have noticed."

He turned and found himself almost nose to nose with Lance Mathis, and knew another brief moment of regret for things that were simply not meant to be. "Now you know how good you have to be," he replied. "Are you?"

"He won't let you down, Brian," said another voice, from his other side, and he looked around to find Drew Boyd pressed against his back.

Brian laughed. "In this neighborhood, this is called a Manwich, Boys. If you're not careful, you'll be giving people the wrong idea."

But Drew was no longer the shy, semi-virginal, freshly-outed infant he had once been, and he only edged closer, settling against the length of Brian's body, close enough to leave little to the imagination. "You know," he said softly, barely audible, "you're a legend in your own time, Kinney. Every time I hook up, every guy I fuck, tells me I haven't really been fucked, until I've been fucked by you. Maybe you'd like to demonstrate . . ."

Brian closed his eyes as he felt an agile tongue swirl around his ear.

Then he sighed and pulled away slightly, suppressing an urge to curse fate and the twisted, perverted, obscenely inconvenient sense of loyalty that kept him from taking advantage of an offer almost too perfect to resist. He turned to face the extremely well-endowed, extremely beautiful football player. "You're a real temptation . . ."

"But?" Drew's eyes were dark with lust.

"But you're . . ." Brian looked up and saw Emmett looking down at them from his place in the middle of the overhead catwalk, "off limits."

Boyd followed the direction of Brian's gaze, and his eyes softened for a moment. But they grew hard again, and distant, as Calvin Culpepper emerged from the crowd to claim Emmett's attention.

"Fuck!" It was barely a whisper, and Boyd was quick to look away, but not quick enough to prevent Brian from seeing what he was trying so desperately to conceal.

"Give yourself time," Brian said softly, leaning in to whisper directly into Boyd's ear. "You've still got a lot to learn, but . . ."

"But what?" The big football player was not in the mood for flirting or pleasantries. He desperately wanted to fuck. Even more desperately, he wanted to fuck this beautiful, delectable creature who was murmuring in his ear. And more desperately still, he wanted to . . . but he wouldn't let himself think about that.

Brian smiled. "When you're all grown up, you come back to see us. Something tells me he'll still be around."

"What about his Mississippi belle?"

Brian let his eyes drift down the massive body, and then back up before offering his answer. "You're a fucking football super-star with a dick even a dyke would die for. And you were there first. Right?"

Boyd's smile formed slowly, but brightened quickly to a full grin. "Thanks, Bri. You're a regular ray of sunshine."

Brian went very still, but managed to swallow the caustic response that trembled on his lips.

Meanwhile, Lance Mathis was letting his gaze sweep around the huge room, observing, learning, memorizing details and the lay of the land. "So," he said finally, after taking a generous swallow of his draft beer, "where's yours?"

"My what?" Brian allowed just a trace of annoyance to creep into his tone.

"Your security."

Brian laughed. "Your job will be to protect my customers," he replied, "and my source of income. Not me."

"That's very noble of you," Mathis answered with a doubtful grin. "But don't you think . . ."

"I'll tell you what I think," Brian interrupted, seeing no reason to curb his sarcasm or his annoyance over being questioned. "I think I saw this place go up in flames once before, and I don't intend to have to see it again. I think there's a big, bad, ugly homophobic world out there, full of fag-haters, that gets off on hurting gays, as much as they can, as often as they can. All gays, not any one of us individually. They don't know who we are and they don't give a fuck. They just want to do as much damage to as many of us as possible. And that is what I mean to prevent. That's your job. Got it?"

"Oh, I got it," said Mathis, "but . . . "

"But what?" Annoyance had escalated, now headed into full-blown anger.

Lance looked around again, eyes drifting from one face to another and reading an astonishing variety of emotions directed toward the man at his side: lust, of course - that was a given - fondness, envy, need, admiration, longing, sadness, and in a couple of cases, anger - deep, visceral and pulsing with dark energy. Shifting slowly, drawing closer to his new employer and managing at the same time to insert himself between those angry observers and the object of their rage, he framed his answer.

"But I still think you ought to be careful, Mr. Kinney."

Brian was pleased - but still annoyed - to note that the man displayed not the slightest nuance of being intimidated or bothered by his peevishness.

"After all, it would be a real shame if something happened to a Liberty Avenue Living Legend."

For a moment, Brian looked as if he might be considering taking a swing at something - or someone. Then he erupted with bright laughter. "Fuck you," he finally managed to splutter.

Mathis leaned forward with a grin. "In your dreams, Stud-Muffin."

But his eyes remained dark and watchful. He was rather surprised to realize that he was looking forward to his new job, and to getting to know this enigmatic individual who generated such an extreme range of passions from so many people. He had not expected that; had, in fact, expected to dislike the man who had been described to him as an arrogant prick - intensely.

Instead, he found he was marginally intrigued.

It would be interesting, and . . . He frowned as he went back to studying the crowd, watching the people who watched Brian as he moved off toward the catwalk, drawing attention as irresistibly as a magnet drew iron filings. Mathis suppressed a sigh and tried to tell himself he was imagining things. He didn't really have a bad feeling about this, did he?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was 80's Hard Rock night, and Pour Some Sugar on Me was blasting from the speakers as bits of white crystalline glitter fell from the ceiling.

Calvin and Ted were enjoying a dance together as Emmett shifted to allow Brian to squeeze into an open spot at the railing so they could share the view of the dance floor below. Abruptly, Emmett moved closer, draping an arm around Brian's shoulders and turning to stare directly into hazel eyes, pausing for just a moment to notice that the white glitter might look silly on everybody else but, on Brian, it looked magical - like fairy dust. Of course, he couldn't say as much; somebody might overhear and give him endless shit about being under the spell of the infamous Kinney mystique. Instead he leaned close and spoke softly - relatively speaking - for Brian's hearing only. "You could have fucked him, you know. I wouldn't have been angry."

Brian smiled. "I know."

"It would have been okay."

Again the smile. "I know."

"Asshole!" Emmett tried to swallow his grin, but wasn't completely successful. He knew why Brian had turned Drew down, and he also knew he would never succeed in getting Brian to explain himself. Brian Kinney didn't do explanations, but sometimes, if a person was very lucky and very persistent, that person might eventually begin to glimpse the nature of the truths that were never explained.

When Emmett leaned forward suddenly and dropped a kiss on Brian's temple, the younger man recoiled, shocked in spite of himself, pretending he didn't hear the barely audible "Thank you, Baby" that was whispered in his ear.

Determined to deflect any suggestion of sentiment, Brian regarded his old friend with a skeptical leer. "One day, Emmy Lou, you're gonna have to choose, between a cock and a hard place. You know?"

"You never heard of a three-way?" Emmett retorted.

Brian burst out laughing, providing a treat for almost everyone around him. "Ah, Auntie Em," he said finally, "you restore my faith in the fickleness of fagdom."

"Not to mention my unfailing fetish for fashion focus, Sweetie. I do so love a good alliteration, don't you? In fact . . ." The tall queen paused and framed Brian's face with his hands, a speculative gleam rising in his eyes. "I do believe I have the pluperfect latest fashion accessory for you, Hot Stuff."

Brian, never one to ignore any potential new development on the fashion front, simply lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, prompting Emmett to dart off into the crowd, returning just moments later with one hand concealed behind his back, to find that Brian was regarding him with blatant suspicion as he approached. "This doesn't involve anything weird, does it?" asked the slightly alarmed club owner. "No shaving my head or tattoos on my ass or anything . . . right?"

"Don't be silly," Emmett retorted. "Avant garde I may be, but even I know better than to tamper with perfection."

Brian blinked slowly. Had Emmett just called him perfect? Finally acknowledged the painfully obvious?

He had no time to think about it, as Emmett stepped forward quickly, arms raised, and deposited something soft and black on top of his head, pausing to adjust the new accessory to the just-right angle.

Then he just stood for a moment, enjoying the view. "Oh, yes, Baby Boy. It's definitely you."

Brian reached up to touch the very soft, very black, very expensive fedora that sat atop his head, adjusting it to the perfect rakish angle before turning to look into the nearest mirror. He'd never really been into hats, but . . .

"Damn!" he breathed.

Emmett grinned. "Like it?"

"I look . . ."

"Sizzling? Luscious? Edible? Fuckable?" Emmett suggested.

Brian twisted to check out a different angle. "All of the above?" he asked finally.

"Modest too." The new voice bordered just a bit on grumpiness. "And since when do you wear hats?"

"Since now," Brian answered. "I'm exploring my inner Indiana Jones. And what are you two doing here anyway? If you keep showing up like this, you'll risk losing your membership in the Stepford fags sorority."

"Charming as always, Brian," said Ben easily. "As for what we're doing here, ask Michael. He's the one who insisted we had to come."

"I did not," Michael retorted indignantly. Then he took a deep breath. "Well, maybe I did, but I couldn't just . . ."

Brian rolled his eyes and finished Michael's sentence. "Couldn't just leave me alone to run my own life?"

Ben and Emmett exchanged indulgent smiles, both knowing what came next.

Michael bit his lip, eyes downcast and filled with shadow, before he cocked his head and gave his oldest, best friend the pout that had been manipulating Brian for twenty-odd years. "Dance with me?" he asked finally.

"Fuck!" Brian whispered, obviously aware of what Michael wanted. Nevertheless, when Michael reached for him, he allowed himself to be pulled toward the dance floor, not wasting a single moment wondering if he was ever going to learn how to resist Michael's wiles.

They moved well together, in the manner of partners who have danced together over many years, and when they approached one of the small elevated platforms that were sprinkled around the floor, the couple who had been dancing there just disappeared, leaving the field clear for them, as if by magic.

They were belly to belly, with Michael's arms looped around Brian's neck, and Brian's hands resting at Michael's waist. They danced wordlessly for a while, forehead to forehead. Then Michael lifted his mouth and invited the kiss he knew Brian would not refuse.

"I don't want you to go to London," Michael said, shouting to be heard above the music. "I want you to go with us - to New York."

"Michael . . ."

"You're going to break his heart," Michael continued. "You know that, don't you?"

"Since when," Brian demanded, "do you give a shit whether or not Justin's heart is broken?"

Michael stared into Brian's eyes and felt compelled to offer up a tiny truth. "It's not his heart I'm worried about."

Brian's smile was lopsided. "You are so pathetic."

"I'm serious," Michael insisted, pulling Brian's head down so that they were virtually nose to nose. "Do you know how long it took me to accept . . ."

"Accept what?" Something in Brian's tone suggested that he might not want to hear whatever his old friend had to say.

Michael took a deep breath. "To accept that he could give you something I couldn't. I didn't want to believe it, but I did, finally. I had no choice." He paused, and his voice dropped to a level that Brian had to lean close to hear. "I finally saw the truth - saw that he was able to touch you in a way I never could."

Brian shrugged, stepping back and dropping his hands. "So he touched me. Lots of guys have touched me." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "And lots more will. That's not a reason . . ."

"Are you going away, Brian?" There was raw desperation in the question. "Are you leaving . . ."

He didn't say the final word, but Brian heard it anyway.

"Not to worry, Mikey," Brian assured him, nuzzling his nose into the hair curling around Michael's ear. "No matter where I am, you're always with me."

"But that's not the same."

Brian leaned forward and kissed his old friend again. "Nothing stays the same, Sweetheart."

Michael sighed. "So when do you leave?"

"First class on flight 2633 to Heathrow, Saturday afternoon at 5:30. A good meal, a few drinks, and a comfortable night's sleep - maybe a little extra-curricular activity in the loo - and I wake up to a brand new Sunday morning in jolly old England."

"But the opening is tomorrow night. You could still go with us. I mean, they do have flights out of LaGuardia to London, don't they?"

There was no smile in Brian's eyes as he went very still and looked down into Michael's face. "Listen to me, Michael. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening." Reluctant, petulant, but determined to hear whatever truth Brian was ready to share.

"I'm staying away from New York. Not just for him. Not just for me. For both of us. He's not coming back, and I'm not going after him, so neither one of us is going to be forced to sacrifice who we are in order to prove our love. That's not love. That's a fucking certificate of title."

"And when exactly did you figure that out?" Michael demanded.

Brian compressed his lips together, and huffed a small sigh before replying. "I always knew . . . from the beginning."

He turned then and began to move away.

"Brian . . ."

Michael followed, reaching out to try to compel his old friend to turn back, to continue the conversation, but Brian was obviously finished talking. Thus when Michael grabbed his arm, to spin him around to re-engage, Brian twisted and jerked free, causing him to stagger against the individual to his left. As luck would have it, that individual was one of the serving staff, laden with a tray filled with pitchers of frozen strawberry Margaritas. Pitchers and contents went one way, tray and waiter went another, and Brian went a third.

Of those involved in the collision, only Brian escaped unscathed - no doubt due to the luck of the Irish he always claimed for himself; the waiter and the individuals standing nearby were not so fortunate.

Emmett, who had just cut in on Ted and Calvin while swinging himself directly into the path of the glass deluge, stood rigid, his bright tunic transformed into a soggy, frosted, berry-crusted mess, accented by bright droplets of blood erupting from a cut on his forehead, the result of a flying particle of broken glass. Others were shaken or splashed or pushed aside or disheveled, but only Emmett suffered any injury.

Elsewhere, the music, the dancing, the noise went on, flowing on around the little eddy in the river of nightly chaos.

Brian, of course, was the first to recover and the fastest to react. He grabbed a towel from the bar and got to Emmett's side just as the big Nelly bottom scrubbed at his face with his hands, and opened his mouth to scream when he stared down at them and recognized the brilliant scarlet of fresh blood.

"Oh, my God!" he shrieked. "I'm bleeding." Brian caught him as his knees buckled and succeeded in easing him down to the floor, while pressing the towel against the contusion on his forehead as both Michael and Ted babbled incoherently, with Ben and Blake rushing forward to comfort their respective spouses but contribute nothing to resolving the situation.

Brian was too busy trying to clean away the blood from Emmett's wound to offer much in the way of comfort to the victim - confining his comments to a string of curse words, since he was not particularly given to murmuring sweet nothings - and Emmett was in full panic mode anyway, and not in the right frame of mind to listen to reason. Then there came a strange frozen moment as a shadow fell across Brian, just before he was abruptly lifted aside as easily as if he'd been a child, to be replaced by a massive body intent on nothing but getting down to the level of the tall young body bleeding so profusely all over the lime green sequins encrusting the front of a draped, bias-cut shirt.

Emmett continued to shriek without missing a beat, in the manner of a true classical diva. "Oh, my God! Am I bleeding to death? Oh, my God!"

Strong arms, massive arms, wrapped around the drama queen as a deep voice offered reassurances. "You're gonna be fine, Baby. I promise."

Emmett looked up, mindless fear blazing in his eyes, until he recognized the face bending over him.

He fell silent in mid-scream. Then he tentatively lifted one hand to touch the face looking down at him.

"Drewsie?"

"In the flesh, Baby."

"Am I . . ." Emmett paused and tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat. "If I'm dying, will you just . . . hold me?"

Brian rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to respond, but a hard look from Boyd caused him to rethink his smart remark.

"You're going to be fine, Honey," said Drew gently. "It's a nasty wound, but you've had worse. By tomorrow, you'll be as good as new."

"Will I be . . . scarred?"

This time, Brian couldn't completely suppress the urge to laugh, despite Boyd's not-so-subtle warning glance, so he leaned forward, stretching to see around the football player's broad shoulders. "On your feet, Scarlett," he drawled. "Tomorrow is another day."

Emmett allowed himself to be pulled up and set on his feet, but he was unsteady and very pale.

"Jesus, Emmy Lou," Brian muttered, "you really look like shit. Would you please cowboy up, and be a big girl. It's just a scratch."

Emmett sniffed hard and lifted his head in order to look down his nose at his friend. "The sight of blood always makes me lightheaded. It's a family thing, I'll have you know. My Aunt Lula once fainted and fell down a flight of stairs when she had a simple nosebleed."

"Geez, Emmett," said Michael, "you really look awful."

Emmett took advantage of the moment to put on his best Bette Davis hauteur. "And I'm freezing too. Must be in shock."

Brian rolled his eyes again. "You're not in shock. You're cold because you're wearing a pitcherful of frozen Margaritas. Put on your jacket, and you'll be fine."

Emmett grabbed the towel out of Brian's hand and tried to wipe the frozen glop off his chest. "I don't have a jacket," he said coldly. "It would spoil my entrance. And now I'm going to catch my death going out half-drowned into the cold, pitiless night."

Drew Boyd regarded his old flame tenderly before turning to settle an expectant gaze on the club owner.

"Shit!" said Brian. "Just go have a drink, on the house. It'll warm you right up."

"I don't want a drink," snapped Emmett, growing annoyed with the whole situation, with Brian, and with himself. "I want to go home."

Brian sighed, and, with one more roll of his eyes, slipped out of his brand new Hugo Boss jacket and draped it across Emmett's shoulders, laughing at the stunned look rising in Emmett's eyes. Finally, he took off the fedora and set it at a rakish angle atop Emmett's head. "There now," he said with a pained smile. "You've never looked better." Then he leaned forward and his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "And if it comes back with a stain, I'm going to cut off your balls and feed them to you on toast."

It was at that moment that Calvin Culpepper apparently decided to reassert his territorial rights. He stepped forward and took Emmett's hand to lead him, following Brian's gesture, toward the private rear entrance, usually only available to employees, leaving Drew Boyd standing on the dance floor wearing a strange, unsettled expression.

Brian nodded to his club manager, signaling him to make sure normal operations continued; then he guided Boyd to the bar where he requested a bottle of JB and a clean glass. "Here," he said, not unkindly. "Drown your sorrows with the good stuff while I go check on Emmie-Queen-of-Scots."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Deep winter had passed, but there was still a deep chill in the air as Brian stepped out into the alleyway behind the club. It was darker here than in the front, illuminated only by occasional street lights and a single fixture over the door. During the summer, there would be plenty of foot traffic (and fuck traffic) here, but it was still too cold for that. For now. Only employees used this entrance on a regular basis, and only management was allowed to drive through the passageway.

Brian wrapped his arms around his middle, trying to ignore the frigid air against his bare skin. Now where the fuck was Emmett?

He looked left, then right, and finally spotted a dark silhouette leaning against the wall at the end of the alley.

Shivering and muttering curses under his breath, he started forward. He was only half way toward his target when an SUV screeched to a stop at the corner, and three dark, bulked-up figures leapt from the vehicle and raced forward, attacking the lone figure leaning against the wall and dragging him back toward the street.

"Jesus!" Brian shouted, breaking into a run. "Emmett!"

He was only half way there when he saw one massive hand swing a metallic object in a sharp arc that ended with a solid clunk, as the 'something' connected with Emmett's skull.

Brian ran faster, barely aware of the sound of running footsteps behind him, or that another car had pulled up behind the SUV. He yelled again. "Leave him alone, you bastards!"

Then one of the three shouted something, and they all jumped back into the SUV and sped away, leaving Emmett crumpled motionless on the cold cement.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


*"I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" -- Diane Warren

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 7

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In some ways, Brian would never remember the events of those critical moments with any clarity. In other ways, he would never be able to forget them.

He would not remember, for example, that he had hesitated just long enough to shout for help before breaking into an all-out sprint to try to prevent disaster - but he would constantly relive the panic flashing through his body like an electric charge. He would not remember the flying leap that almost allowed him to grab one of the assailants as they raced away, but he would never forget the towering black rage that made him want to smash their faces with his fists. He would not remember the words one of them shouted at him as he tried to get to them, but he would clearly recall the snarl of hatred that twisted the shouter's face.

On the other hand, Michael, who'd been first to hear Brian's shout for help and first to respond, with Ben at his heels, would never forget a single moment of it, mostly because he had never been more scared in his life and also because it was one of those ultra-rare moments when Brian Kinney lost the ability to maintain the façade he customarily wore like a second skin. One did not forget such rare moments.

He had seen Brian angry on a number of occasions, and it was a small source of pride to him that he was one of the few who would even have noticed, for Brian, above all else, was perpetually in control of his emotions. In anger, he did not rage or roar or get physical; instead, he used the razor-sharp wit and agile tongue which could cut an adversary to ribbons without drawing a single drop of blood. That was Brian, and anyone who had ever been unlucky enough to incur his wrath had almost certainly emerged from the encounter feeling mangled and devastated but without a single bruise to show for it. In point of fact, most would probably have preferred physical wounds.

On the other hand, Michael had also been around on some of the exceedingly rare occasions when the Kinney gift for verbal slicing and dicing and reducing an opponent to a quivering mass of shame or impotence had given way before a fury too intense to swallow. He had even, on one occasion, been the object of that towering wrath. He still remembered vividly the sickening crunch of Brian's fist impacting with his own face at Lindsey and Melanie's anniversary party, after Justin had turned his back on Brian in order to play house with his fiddling twinkie. Of course, he also remembered what he had said to earn that anger.

To this day, he still didn't know if he was more ashamed of having actually made those ugly, outrageous, vindictive remarks or of failing to stand up and admit his culpability when everyone who witnessed the incident did what they always did, what they all seemed to need to do on a regular basis: blame Brian. Blaming Brian, without bothering to learn the pertinent details of any given situation, seemed to be what they all did best. Of course, they would usually learn later or figure it out for themselves - that the blame was misplaced, one way or another, but such understanding was usually relegated to an offhand random thought, mostly unexplored and almost never verbalized.

It was a process not unlike the chain of events when a sensational news story was discovered to be a total fabrication or a blatant mistake; the original headlines would have screamed in huge, bold-face type above the masthead on the front page; the retraction would be buried on page 41, below the obituaries.

Nevertheless, Michael knew that Brian in a rage was not a man to be trifled with, and he held his breath as he watched his oldest friend sprinting down the alley, knowing Brian was furious enough to take on all three of Emmett's attackers if he could just get to them in time. When Brian leapt forward, and one of the attackers paused to yell some filthy insult at him, Michael shouted out a warning, uncertain of whether he was more afraid for Brian or of Brian.

He was one of the few people in the world who knew what Brian was capable of, if pushed too far. He remembered the bloody broken hand of a football jock who had believed he could safely inflict humiliation and injury on a helpless faggot without fear of reprisal. He remembered bloody noses and black eyes resulting from Brian's willingness to defend those who were less able to defend themselves from the homophobes who delighted in terrorizing gay kids.

And he'd often reflected that Chris Hobbs - that piece-of-shit homophobic fuck who had attacked Justin with a baseball bat - was an incredibly lucky bastard. If Justin had not required Brian's total attention as he lay bleeding out his life on that garage floor, Michael was pretty sure Dobbs would have died that night, and probably very painfully.

Brian Kinney didn't start fights, but he frequently finished them.

Luckily, on this occasion the opportunity for a confrontation did not develop. The three had enough of a head start so they were able to make it into their vehicle and speed away before Brian was close enough to stop them.

Emmett was curled up on his side, with his arms wrapped tight around his head, when Brian dropped to his knees beside him, face frozen in a grimace of fear as he felt a huge solid block of ice form in his gut. Calvin arrived just a second later, from the opposite direction.

"Where the fuck were you?" Brian demanded, as he laid shaking hands on Emmett's back, desperate to feel the murmur of breath or the pulse of a heartbeat and terrified that he would find neither. His own breath came harshly, and he had to pause for a moment and shake his head, to pull himself back out of the grip of black memory and into the present.

This was now - not five years ago.

This was Emmett - not Justin.

"I went to get the car," Calvin answered, the pitch of his voice suggesting he was only a heartbeat away from panic. "Is he . . ."

Brian's fingers probed beneath Emmett's jawline and found . . .

"He's alive," he muttered. Then he felt the warm wetness coating his fingers. "But he's bleeding. Here, help me lift . . ."

But it turned out that no help would be needed. For the second time in a matter of minutes, Brian was shunted aside and replaced by a burly body with a single, unyielding purpose - to get to Emmett, to protect Emmett.

Brian, never fond of being manhandled, even under the best of circumstances, swallowed his annoyance and turned to deflect the human tide that was rushing forward, forming a clot of bodies blocking access to the path that needed to be clear.

"Get the fuck out of the way," he snarled, pushing Michael and Ben and Ted aside as Drew Boyd lifted Emmett and cradled him against his chest.

It was a testimony to the fear driving them all that the crowd fell back immediately, in complete silence, as Brian raced toward the corner with Drew, carrying Emmett as carefully as if he were a helpless infant, at his side, and Calvin bringing up the rear.

Behind them, Lance Mathis - who knew more than a little about police procedures - did his best to preserve the crime scene, but the central figures in the developing drama had no room for any thought beyond the immediacy of their need to get help. There was no mention of calling for an ambulance or dialing 911; they all knew it would be faster to take advantage of the silver Audi SUV still idling at the curb than to wait for help to arrive.

Brian was there first and behind the wheel without a single thought of who the rightful owner of the car might be or who should be driving, while Calvin hurried to help Drew slide into the back seat with Emmett still clasped tight against him, before leaping into the front seat as Brian peeled away from the curb.

The hospital was a fifteen-minute drive, even in light traffic.

They made it in nine flat.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When the silver Audi pulled up in front of the Novotny/Horvath residence, it was almost four in the morning, but the house was as brightly lit as a shopping mall at Christmas time. Brian sighed, wondering briefly if this interminable day was ever going to end, before shoving the gearshift into park, eliciting a sub-vocal throat-clearing from Calvin who was now seated in the back seat, arms wrapped firmly around tonight's hapless victim.

In the passenger seat, Drew Boyd tried to swallow a smile, but without much success. He was so relieved - so overjoyed actually - that Emmett had suffered only minor injuries - he would have smiled at almost anything. Nevertheless, if asked, he would have admitted that Calvin's irritation over Brian's less than reverent treatment of his trophy-Audi would have brought a smile to his face under any circumstances.

Brian turned to look into the back seat as Emmett stirred himself and sat up and shifted toward the door.

"You okay, Emmy Lou?" Brian asked softly.

Emmett kept his gaze averted, strangely touched by the gentleness he heard in a voice ordinarily laced with sardonic wit. "Except for having flashbacks - to my Hazlehurst days of infamy, you know - I'm fine as frog's hair, Bri."

Brian glanced toward the house and saw the front door open and a thick knot of bodies emerge.

"Ready to face the inquisition?"

Emmett sighed. "I don't suppose it would do any good if I employed my very best Garbo impression and announced that 'I just vant to be alone'."

Brian grinned. "I count two Novotnys and one Schmidt in that crowd, so . . ."

"Yeah. That's what I thought." Emmett paused for a moment, before reaching for the door handle, tugging his jacket - Brian's very expensive jacket - closer around him and noticing for the first time that the leather had been torn and shredded during the attack. He knew he should have been horrified, should offer abject apologies, but he couldn't, and the look in Brian's eyes told him he needn't worry about it any further.

"Hold on there," said Drew, hurrying to climb out of the car to race around to the other side to take Emmett's arm. "Let me . . ."

"No need," said Calvin abruptly, moving to do the same. "I can handle it."

Brian smiled into Emmett's eyes as the two scurried for position. "Don't you just love triangles?" he asked with a smirk. "It's my favorite geometric shape."

"Shut the fuck up," Emmett muttered, but a smile was tugging at his lips, even though he was still very pale - almost as white as the bandage obscuring his jawline on the left side of his face, and the smaller one stretched above his right eye.

"Enjoy it, Baby Boy," Brian whispered, leaning close. "You sure as hell earned it tonight."

Emmett tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow as he studied Brian's face. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" Brian was genuinely curious.

"You don't call anybody by pet names. Except Michael, and Justin, of course. But lately, you call me anything but Emmett."

Brian's smile was winsome. "Lately, I think of you as anything but Emmett."

Emmett frowned slightly, not quite sure how to take that answer. So he reverted to the original subject. "So getting bashed qualifies me for membership in some kind of elite club?"

"No," Brian replied, eyes going dark with shades of memory as he looked away. "But surviving does."

Emmett did not bother to offer up a verbal answer, but the gentleness in his eyes spoke volumes. He knew full well what Brian was thinking, and who he was thinking of.

"What are you doing standing out here in the fucking cold?" The voice was shrill and piercing and unmistakable. "Get him into the house before he freezes solid. I've got hot cocoa," said Debbie, marching up and latching on to Emmett's arm as he climbed out of the car. Then her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "With angel's balls, Honey. Just for you."

Few indeed were the individuals who would be brash enough or brave enough to risk the outrage of Debbie Novotny when she was in her smothering mother persona, but she realized quickly that she'd met her match - twice - when Drew Boyd stepped up to take Emmett's arm on one side, and Brian Kinney - the very same Brian Kinney she'd been attempting to intimidate for twenty years - stepped up on the other.

Neither Debbie nor Calvin Culpepper stood the smallest chance of deflecting either of those two irresistible forces in full protective mode.

Emmett hung between his two primary defenders like a rag doll, propelled along by the sheer force of their momentum, as some small part of him enjoyed being the focus of so much concern, not to mention reveling in the mastery of two decidedly alpha males.

There were a few moments of confusion inside the house as Drew and Brian helped Emmett out of his coat and got him settled on the sofa, as Calvin hovered for a bit before squeezing himself into the cushioned corner at Emmett's side, while Michael, Ted, Blake, and Ben took seats in a semi-circle facing the object of their concern, as Debbie served up hot chocolate for the crowd and his favorite comfort food - vanilla pudding laced with maple syrup - for Emmett.

Then she turned and spent a wordless moment (a genuine rarity for Debbie) studying the expression in Brian's eyes, before moving into the kitchen and pouring out two hefty servings of whiskey which she handed to Brian and Drew. Both thanked her with a silent toast, before retreating to separate corners of the room, glad to relinquish the spotlight but still painfully alert. Drew's eyes never left Emmett's face, but Brian pointedly shifted his gaze to stare out the window, seeking solace in the darkness. Still, he said nothing, watched nothing, contributed nothing, but he listened carefully as Emmett tried to answer Ted's typically-phrased no-nonsense question.

"What the fuck happened, Em?"

Emmett paused to take a sip of steaming cocoa before attempting an answer. "I don't really know," he said finally. "To tell you the truth . . ." He hesitated, glancing toward Brian before completing his response, "I don't remember much of it. Except for the crowbar. That made a lasting impression, let me tell you."

"Jesus, Em!" said Michael, eyes going wide and lightless. "That's what they hit you with?"

He nodded. "Think so. That, and a few well-placed kicks. Did it ever occur to anyone that steel-toed boots should be registered as lethal weapons? But their aim was off - with the crowbar, I mean - so it was just a glancing blow." He took another sip of chocolate. "Think it would have been a lot worse if Brian hadn't come out when he did. They were distracted, so . . ."

All eyes turned to regard Brian, who, of course, ignored them all.

"Everything's a little fuzzy," Emmett continued. "When we were walking to the car, I was still feeling a bit shaky. From the sight of blood, you know. So Calvin told me to just stay there and lean against the wall while he went to fetch the car. I closed my eyes and waited. Then I heard the shriek of breaks, and . . . after that, it's only bits and pieces. I think they were shouting at me, but I don't remember what. It's just a big, ugly blur."

"But the doctor said you're okay, right?" asked Debbie, coming up behind the sofa and laying her hands atop his shoulders. "All set for the Big Apple tomorrow. Right?"

Emmett was slow to answer, his eyes once more seeking Brian's only to find the object of his interest still gazing out into the night. "Ahhhh, I don't think so, Deb," he said finally. "There's no permanent damage," he hastened to add, looking up to see the concern on her face. "The worst of it is a couple of cracked ribs, but I'm going to look like one of my Aunt Lula's crazy quilts for a while - all in black and blue - and I've got a mild sprain in my right ankle, so it's probably not a good idea for me to be doing a lot of walking. Plus my ugly purple bruises would only clash with Justin's beautiful primary colors artwork."

Brian was not quite able to suppress a grin. "We can't have that, now can we?" he muttered, but Drew Boyd was the only one who heard him. The brawny football player did not - quite - wink at him.

Debbie was nodding, trying to hide an upsurge of disappointment. It was not often she got a chance to visit New York for any reason, much less to rub elbows with the city's artistic elite. "Of course, you can't go traipsing around like that. And we're going to stay right here with you, to make sure you're okay and . . ."

"You most certainly will not," Emmett snapped. "Justin is counting on you, especially since some . . ." He hesitated, once again glancing toward Brian. "Since he'll be needing support from family and friends, and you're going."

"But we were all going together," Michael pointed out. "With you and Calvin."

"And you still are," Emmett repeated, "with just one tiny change."

"But, Honey," Calvin said suddenly, "I'm not leaving you here alone."

Brian leaned forward and cleared his throat. "So what am I? Chopped liver? He won't be alone."

Then he looked around and met Drew Boyd's eyes and immediately recognized the flash of gratitude he read there, just before Boyd looked away, deliberately resuming his inscrutable expression.

"You?" laughed Michael. "You're going to look after Emmett? You couldn't take care of a goldfish."

Brian smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "Oh, I don't know," he drawled. "You're still around, aren't you?"

For a moment, no one spoke, as they tried to ignore the elephant in the corner, for they all knew the truth of it, one way or another. Especially Michael and Debbie, who had lived it. Brian Kinney had protected and defended Michael from all comers - bullies and bashers, sadists and sociopaths - since the day they'd first met, when they were only fourteen years old. Because of more recent events, it wasn't a memory they particularly enjoyed resurrecting, especially Michael, who still wondered, sometimes, how he could have allowed himself to forget so much and let it slip away, as if it hadn't mattered at all.

Except that it had mattered- would always matter - no matter how hard he tried to deny it.

"I'll be just fine," said Emmett, overriding the awkwardness. "And you," he added, dropping a kiss on Calvin's cheek, "absolutely must go along. Unless, of course, you want to try to stuff Debbie into Ted's fuck-me-mobile."

"Hey," said Theodore, "how come when Brian buys a vintage 'Vette, nobody says a word? But when I buy a Miata . . ."

Eight pairs of eyes regarded him in complete silence.

"Okay, okay," he mumbled. "I see your point."

"Look," said Debbie firmly. "It's not that big a deal. I'm sure Justin will be just fine, and . . ."

Everybody was a bit surprised when it was Brian who spoke up. "You should go, Deb. You should all go."

"Well, so should . . ." But something in his eyes caused Debbie to fall silent, something that reminded her of why Justin had gone to New York in the first place, and why she sometimes felt the stirring of a vague sense of guilt when she considered how Brian's life had turned out.

They had all believed that convincing Justin to pursue his big dreams in New York would ultimately be in his best interest, would save him from throwing his life away on the Brian Kinney they all professed to know so well - the one who would never be able to commit to anything on a personal level.

None of them, apparently, had spared a single thought of what it would do to Brian, because . . . well, because Brian could take it - had always taken it, no matter what life decided to dish out to him. And because he could, no one ever spent a lot of time worrying about how he would manage it. He just would, and that was all that mattered. But sometimes, once in a great while, she wondered; sometimes she felt a moment of doubt and uncertainty. But not often, and not for long.

Still . . .

How, she wondered, would the rest of them cope if they were forced to endure . . .

But she didn't want to think about that. Instead, she wanted to concentrate on all the good things in her life - all the things which had worked out exactly as she'd wanted - all the parts of her idyllic existence. Her son and his partner and their cozy home, her grandchildren, her man, her extended family.

She carefully avoided looking toward Brian Kinney.

Debbie wasn't much given to introspection or to reflection on causes and effects or old mistakes, but she did know some mistakes could never be corrected, and just didn't bear thinking about.

Instead, she managed to swallow the empty feeling rising within her, and felt a huge rush of relief when Carl Horvath came through the door. The pundits had it all wrong, she thought; it was distraction that was truly the better part of valor.

Carl had not had a good day and wasn't really in the mood for socializing. Nevertheless, since he'd become a part of Debbie's life, he'd been forced to adapt himself to her lifestyle and her schedule. He knew she was a good woman, with a big heart and a kind soul, but he also knew she was prone to see things the way she chose to see them rather than as they really were, which meant there were certain things she would prefer not to know.

Therefore, he knew he had to be careful in choosing his words; he simply wasn't up to dealing with escalating hysteria at the end of such a day, just a couple of hours before the beginning of one that promised to be just as harrowing.

When he walked into the house, the first person he saw was Brian Kinney, in familiar circumstances. Brian - with the group, but not really of the group, and painfully aware of the distinction. Carl often wondered why none of the rest of them seemed to notice it.

One look into shadowed hazel eyes told him he need not have worried about any confrontation with Kinney; if such a confrontation were to happen, it would not be tonight, and it would be at the time and place of Kinney's choosing.

The detective often thought it was amazing how far young Kinney was willing to go to protect the people who orbited around his life, not to mention how unaware of the depth of his protection those same people remained.

But Debbie was an entirely different matter. He sometimes felt like he had developed the skill of walking on egg shells to a new artform.

When everyone turned to look at him, he knew there was no way out of revealing certain pertinent facts to them. Eggshells, indeed.

He took a moment to hang up his coat before turning to face the questions in their eyes. "I don't have much to tell you," he said quickly, before looking over at Brian. "Except that your new security man would have made a hell of a cop. If you're smart, you'll put him in charge and let him run the whole operation as he sees fit."

Brian nodded, but offered no comment.

"But there wasn't much to be done. We got a broad description of the vehicle - a big, black or dark blue expensive SUV - might be a Caddy or a Lexus but no one was sure - with some kind of logo on the rear glass. Three men who attacked Emmett, all wearing dark clothes and caps, and one or two more waiting in the car. Most of the witnesses thought they were white, but not everyone was sure."

"That's all?" Debbie's voice was almost at screech pitch.

Carl once more glanced toward Brian, and saw what he was looking for in dark eyes.

"So far," he replied to Debbie, before looking down at Emmett. "You okay, Kid?"

Emmett, who was almost as fond of Carl as he was of Debbie, simply smiled and nodded.

"Good. Think you'll be up to coming down to the station tomorrow, and giving us a statement?"

Emmett looked as if he'd rather take a root canal, but he nodded anyway.

Then Carl turned back to look at Brian. "You want to make sure he gets there?"

Brian's smile was diffident, as he reflected that Horvath was skilled at getting what he wanted without divulging more than he had to. It was probable no one else would comprehend that Emmett wasn't the only one who would face questioning.

"I think that's my cue," said Brian in lieu of a direct answer. "It's late, I'm fucking beat, and I've got meetings in the morning, so . . ."

"But you don't have your car," said Michael. "How will you . . ."

Brian held up a hand to forestall his old friend's protest. "I've been walking Liberty Avenue since I was fourteen, Mikey. I think I can find my way without too much trouble."

Then he proceeded to retrieve his worse-for-the-wear jacket from the coat rack, shot Emmett a quick, slightly venal grin, and headed for the door.

"Hold on a minute," said Horvath, before turning to speak privately to Drew Boyd for a few seconds. The football player listened intently, before nodding and stepping into the kitchen where he took a cell phone from his pocket and made a quick call. Then both he and Horvath crossed the room to join Brian at the entry, where Boyd paused for a moment to look once more toward Emmett, his face softening slightly as he nodded good night.

No words were exchanged between the two, but then again, none were needed.

Calvin Culpepper was sitting very still, eyes fastened on his hands which were folded tight in his lap, and Brian felt a quick pang of sympathy for the southerner, who was truly a very nice guy. Only everyone knew that, sometimes, nice guys really did finish last. It wasn't a particularly pleasant thought, but it was very true.

On the porch, Brian zipped his jacket before turning to face Carl Horvath, only slightly surprised to note that Drew Boyd was still waiting there beside them.

Horvath got right to the point. "We don't know much about what happened tonight, Brian, but we know enough to be alarmed. There's some ugly crap going on right now, and Liberty Avenue is suddenly at the center of the shitstorm. So I want you to be careful. Until we know more, it's best not to take chances."

"What chances?" Brian replied impatiently. "I'm just . . ."

"Just walking down Liberty Avenue," Horvath interrupted. "Like you've done since you were fourteen. Yeah, I know. But it's a different world today, and not necessarily a better one. Every kid that runs the street now is a potential target."

The grin flashed again. "Well, thanks for the compliment, Detective, but I'm not - quite - a kid any more."

"No. You're a very successful businessman, and someone who's never made any secret of being gay. That could put a big fat bull's eye on your back."

Brian shook his head, still unwilling to concede any concern. But then he looked up and saw something shift in the detective's eyes - something dark and filled with foreboding. "OK," he said softly. "What is it you're not telling me?"

Horvath drew a deep breath. "So far, there's nothing to tell, except to point out that it's stupid to take unnecessary risks." Then he grinned. "And Brian Kinney might be many things, but stupid ain't one of them."

"So what is it that you want . . ."

He was interrupted by a squeal of brakes as a dark green Range Rover came to a stop at the end of the driveway.

"I want you to get in that car and go home. No going back to Babylon; no stops at Woody's or anywhere else. And . . ."

Brian didn't bother to suppress a sigh. "And?"

"No tricks."

The sigh became a chuckle. "You can't possibly think that a trick could be responsible for this."

But Horvath was not amused. "And you can't possibly know what I'm thinking. So just humor me. OK?"

"For how long? I've got a reputation to maintain, you know."

Horvath nodded toward the car idling at the curb. "Yeah, well, one night without fucking ain't gonna cost you your title, Champ. As for tomorrow - we'll see. Bur for now, just be a good boy, and let your new chief of security see you home."

"Fuck!" snapped Brian, irritated for no good reason.

"Is that an invitation?" called Drew with a smile, from his place at the bottom of the front steps.

"Fuck you!" Brian retorted, without missing a beat.

Carl then patted him on the shoulder, and made brief eye contact with Boyd, who was still smiling. "Don't worry," said the quarterback. "I'll see that he does as he's told."

"What are you?" Brian snarled. "My daddy?"

But he didn't wait for an answer, choosing instead to stalk down the driveway toward the waiting Rover.

By the time he made it to the car, with Drew just a step behind him, Brian had progressed from mild annoyance to a simmering anger. He had never liked being ordered around or treated like a child in need of protection - even when he was a child in need of protection - which he had almost never received anyway. He had spent his entire life taking care of himself, many times under circumstances that put him in extreme peril, and come through unscathed. Mostly.

And it didn't assuage his ill humor at all when he climbed into the passenger seat to note that Lance Mathis was wearing a smile clearly stating that he knew his new boss was on the verge of being royally pissed.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Brian demanded.

"I called him," said Drew as he slid into the back seat.

"For what?"

"To see that we both get home safe."

Brian turned to glare at his newest employee. "I told you. I don't need protection."

Mathis smiled. "Whatever you say."

"And who made you my chief of security? Did I miss something?"

The smile widened to a grin. "You've been a little busy."

"Fuck this!" Brian snapped, and twisted to reach for the door handle, only to find himself immobilized by arms like steel bands wrapped around him from behind. "What the fuck . . ."

"Brian." Drew Boyd's voice was very soft, but there was a note of iron in it demanding Brian's undivided attention. "We can stay here like this all night if you insist on acting like a shithead. I spend my days taking on 300-pound linebackers, so do you really think you're going to manage to get away from me? And besides, it's not like I'm not enjoying the view, if you catch my drift." And he deliberately let one hand slide down inside the leather of his captive's jacket, to caress a patch of bare skin.

"I - don't - need - a - babysitter!" Briansnarled through clinched teeth, heaving himself sideways and around and managing to dislodge Drew's wandering hand when he surged up and took the quarterback's mouth in a violent kiss which was more a physical assault than an exercise in foreplay, so he reasoned that it was not - technically - a violation of his self-inflicted rule - mostly.

To his own surprise, Drew pulled back and burst out laughing. "You're one tough little shit," he admitted, "and I really, really would love to fuck you through the floor." But he paused then, and cupped a surprisingly gentle hand around Brian's face. "But I'm guessing that's not going to happen." His voice sank to a whisper. "For more reasons than one." Then he nuzzled for a moment at Brian's ear, dropped a small, chaste kiss on his brow, and loosened his grip. "Now sit down and shut up, and let Lance do what he does best."

"Which is what?" Brian demanded, slightly breathless and not happy about it.

It was Mathis who provided an answer. "Keep you alive, to fuck another day."

Brian chewed a bit on his bottom lip before settling back against the leather headrest and closing his eyes - the closest he was prepared to come to an admission of defeat. He still wasn't pleased with how things were going, but he thought - maybe - he could learn to live with it.

For now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The delegation from Pittsburgh, along with Melanie Marcus, stood in the middle of the art gallery, eyes wide as they tried to take in everything at once. But it was almost too much to comprehend.

Not the space so much, as the gallery was actually not as large as the one where Lindsey had been employed before taking off to Toronto. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in elegance, and in the stature of its clientele. They had barely entered the building before they'd spotted two internationally acclaimed movie stars and a world famous fashion model whose face had been on every major magazine in the world during the past year. They all recognized those luminaries, of course, but it was left to Ben to identify two best-selling authors, a Grammy-winning composer, a couple of major political movers-and-shakers, and one Pulitzer-winning playwright. On the other hand, it was Ted who attached famous names to a couple of stars of the Metropolitan opera and some members of the elite of New York society. There were also network news people, some familiar actors and actresses from major television programs, and one hugely successful talk show host.

"Wow!" Debbie's normally raucous voice was barely audible. "Sunshine's really hit it out of the ballpark with his first swing, huh?"

"Absolutely," replied Ted. "It's hard to believe he almost gave up everything to be . . . well. He should be grateful he didn't pass up the chance to be here. That would have been a real tragedy."

Calvin Culpepper, who still didn't feel completely at home among these individuals who were Emmett's family in all but blood, looked around with interest and noted that all the guests seemed to be mesmerized by the quality of the artwork. But Calvin knew the story of Justin and Brian, had listened carefully to the details as Emmett told the tale, and couldn't help but wonder.

This was undoubtedly a triumph for the young artist, but was it enough, he wondered, to make up for what he had sacrificed to achieve it?

Then again, he reminded himself, he didn't know Justin at all, and he knew Brian only slightly, so it certainly wasn't up to him to draw conclusions. And judging from the looks on the faces of his companions - these people who knew both parties extremely well - he was probably way off-base. They looked as if they were certain this occasion would provide everything Justin had ever wanted in his life.

Although he had seen something in Emmett's eyes when they'd said their good-byes earlier in the day - something that seemed to suggest otherwise.

"And what about the new boyfriend?" asked Debbie. "Jesus! Jennifer must be over the moon. This guy is every PFLAG mother's dream."

"You think?" asked Michael softly. "Because she doesn't exactly look overjoyed."

They all turned then to study Jennifer Taylor as she stood talking to Lindsey and one of the critics who had the artistic clout to make or break a young artist. From the look on his face, he was preparing to do just that, to Justin's advantage. There was no mistaking the look of pride in Jennifer's eyes as she watched her son conversing with several members of the social elite, explaining a fine point in one of her favorite examples of his work: a self-portrait of the young blond standing at a window looking down at a busy street, with a pair of firm, muscled arms wrapped around him from behind. There was no face to identify the owner of those arms - but then again, there was no need for one. Anyone who knew Justin, knew him as he had been before he abandoned the wilds of Pittsburgh for the rarefied atmosphere of New York, would know immediately.

Jennifer had always loved that painting - had even planned to purchase it, if she could swing the price - but her hopes had been dashed when she saw the discreet but irrefutable tag affixed to the frame when the exhibition opened. Sold. She hadn't realized that some of her son's work had been subject to early sales, as a courtesy to established gallery patrons.

The show was proving to be a huge success, in part because of the gushing reaction of so many of the visitors to the gallery, especially those among the rich and famous who never had to worry about stretching the budget to cover a luxury purchase, and in part because of the pre-sales, which included the pieces Jennifer quickly recognized as Justin's genius in its most elemental, pristine form.

Including the focal points of the entire exhibition - the two paintings residing in their special niche at the top of the stairs.

How could anybody look at those two magnificent works of art, she wondered, and fail to see the core truth of her son's existence? Brian Kinney might be physically absent from his life, but he lived still in Justin's heart. She thought it likely that he always would, even though Justin and all his Pittsburgh friends were busy denying it.

Steven was at Justin's side, as he had been all evening, one hand constantly touching the young artist - at the nape of his neck, on his shoulder, stroking the small of his back. Just touching, lightly, almost casually, but with great purpose.

Jennifer had the strangest notion that the hand was the equivalent of the discreet "sold" signs affixed to many of the works of art on display.

She was being irrational, and she knew it. If she could have designed a man to partner her son - having finally conceded that there would never be a woman who would set him "straight" - Steven would have been close to perfect to fill the bill. Handsome, sophisticated, cultured, socially adept, generous, loving, and blessed with old money and the bluest of blood; what was not to love? She watched as he basked in the glow of Justin's success, as proud of his lover's accomplishments as he would have been of his own, and she smiled when he glanced toward her, undoubtedly having sensed the weight of her regard.

What was not to love indeed? Except . . . but there was no point in going there. The past was dead; there was no going back, and she truly had no idea why she should even want to. It wasn't as if the one her son had left behind had been his perfect match. She knew that; hell, they all knew it. And she turned to exchange smiles with the crew from Pittsburgh to reassure herself. It was there, in all their faces. They knew, as well as she did, this was where Justin belonged; this was what he was meant to do, and what he never would have done if . . .

She looked once more toward her son and caught him staring at the canvas before him, a strange, winsome little smile touching his perfect lips, as Steven laughed in response to some witty comment from the talk show host who was not known as a huge supporter of the arts.

Jennifer wasn't sure, but she had a fleeting notion that Justin had not heard a word the man had said.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 8         

"You gotta give the devil his due." Debbie's comment was meant to be discreet, but it fell into a conversational lull in the gallery, like a stone into still water, sending out ripples in all directions, threaded through the quiet sweetness of the music of a string quartet. "He may be a total shithead, but you can't deny that Brian Kinney makes one drop-dead-gorgeous model."

The Pittsburgh delegation, dressed in their most elegant attire, which ran the sartorial gamut from the formality of the tuxedos worn by Ted, Blake, and Calvin, through the more casual business suits sported by Michael and Ben, to the spangled scarlet of Debbie's satin gown and Melanie's characteristic black sheath, was standing in front of a canvas that was more shadow than light, displaying the subject in profile, definitely not clad in his Sunday best - or anything else, for that matter - emerging from a striated cloud of steam or a swirl of smoke, indistinct, unclear - and unmistakable.

Nearby a tall, slender man with salt and pepper hair, elegantly decked out in an Armani suit, Prada shoes, mother-of-pearl cuff links from Tiffany's, and a crimson silk scarf, was studying another rendering of Brian, this one a view from the back, showing just a bare shoulder, the nape of the neck caressed by dark, sweaty hair, and a nuance of jawline. "Is that the model's name?" he asked softly. "He permeates the entire exhibit, even in the works that don't focus on him - and forgive me for saying it, but he doesn't look like a total shithead."

"That's because you're seeing him through the artist's eyes," said Melanie quickly, secure in her certainty that Justin had never been able to see Brian as he was, rather than as he wished him to be.

The man turned piercing gray eyes to her and studied what he saw in her face. "Really? I'm not sure I'd agree with that. I find that artists are usually able to see things more clearly than other people. They tend to put aside preconceived notions and see truth."

Melanie turned to look at the next portrait, a backlit profile of Brian's face, chin balanced against his fist, obviously lost in thought, and even more beautiful than usual. "Trust me," she said firmly. "That's not the true face of Brian Kinney."

"Pity," said the man. "I'd like to meet the man who could inspire such a vision."

Justin and Lindsey approached at that moment, just in time to hear the comment.

"Yes," said Lindsey firmly. "You would. How are you, Gareth?" The soft gallery lighting enhanced her blonde delicacy and the beaded, re-embroidered ivory silk of her bias-cut gown.

"I'm fine, Lindsey. And I want to thank you for sending me a heads up about this exhibition."

"My pleasure. I thought you'd like it. And this is the artist. Justin, this is Gareth Kyle. He writes for the Times."

"I know who he is," said Justin with a diffident smile, stepping forward to shake the columnist's hand. "Thank you for coming, and thank you for recognizing the inspiration for so much of my work."

"Your muse?"

Justin winced, not at all comfortable with the connotations inherent in that word. "No. My first love. At least, he . . . was." He looked away then, momentarily dismayed and wondering if anyone had noticed his hesitation, or if anyone would understand how hard it was for him to speak of Brian in past tense.

Kyle's smile was slightly wistful. "I'd love to 'recognize' him, in person."

"Yeah," Justin replied softly. "So would I."

"Shit!" Melanie muttered, not quite under her breath. "The asshole's not even here, and he still manages to steal the show."

Of them all, only Calvin, Blake, and the Times columnist noticed the quick frown that touched Justin's face, and the tiny flare of resentment that flashed in the depths of blue-on-blue eyes, but none of them could avoid noticing when the young artist abruptly took Michael's arm and pulled him away from the group. When Debbie stirred as if to intercept them, it was Ben who stepped forward and stopped her, with a murmured insistence that she give the young men a moment of privacy. Her grimace clearly indicated what she thought of his suggestion, but she accepted it anyway, albeit not very graciously.

"How is he?" Justin, speaking very softly, knew full well he didn't have to specify who "he" was.

Michael did not - quite - squirm. "He's . . . Brian - doing what he always does. Did you expect him to fall apart?"

Justin sighed. "I don't know what I expected, except . . ."

Despite himself, Michael felt a surge of sympathy. "Except you thought he'd follow you here."

After a brief pause, Justin nodded. "I didn't think he'd just walk away."

Michael looked over at one of the many images of Brian's face that lined the wall in front of him. "He didn't. Remember? You're the one who walked. Not that I blame you," he hastened to add when he identified the flash of anger in Justin's expression. "It was what everybody thought you should do, and I guess your success here proves that everybody was right. Only . . ."

"Only?"

"Forget it. I'm just . . ."

"No. I don't want to forget it. Tell me what you were going to say."

Michael hesitated. Then he took a deep breath. "I just never quite understood why you had to come to New York to paint, especially after Brian . . . " He paused then, reluctant to turn their conversation into a hostile exchange. Justin surely knew, as well as Michael did, that the concessions Brian had been willing to make, for Justin's sake, had been unprecedented - even unimaginable to those who thought they knew him best. "I mean, don't people paint in other places?"

"Yeah. They do." Justin paused to survey the crowds around them, to spend a moment basking in the glow of his success, as he listened in on the appreciative murmurs of the browsers, which he wanted to interpret as validation of his choices as old, familiar doubts assailed him. "So he's really OK then? I don't need to worry about him?"

Michael's sympathy was immediately replaced by a surge of irritation. "He's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake! He's survived more shit than you can even imagine, throughout his whole fucking life, and he'll sure as shit survive you too. In fact, he's on his way to London. Looks like Kinnetic is going to be opening up a new office there."

Justin swallowed his own annoyance, understanding that Michael did not like having to explain Brian's vulnerabilities - or even acknowledge that he had them. "Like the one he opened here?"

Michael flushed. "Yeah. Only, according to Ted, it was Cynthia who did all the work here. I don't think Brian has much stomach for the Big Apple these days."

"Really? I remember a time when it was all he wanted."

"Yeah, so do I. What can I say? Things change."

Justin turned quickly, to give his old frenemy his full attention. "So is that what you're telling me? That he's moved on? Are you saying that . . . he doesn't love me any more?"

It surprised Michael how much he wanted to shout out his response, to confirm Justin's suspicions by denying what he knew to be the truth. But ultimately, he couldn't. "No. I'm not saying that. But you should know him well enough to understand that he's never going to come after you. He's never going to allow his need or his love for you to interfere with the life he thinks you want." He looked up then, and saw Steven making his way toward them. "And it looks like he's right. Your new main squeeze seems to be everything Brian isn't - a perfect candidate for your affections. Your mother - and mine - must be so proud."

There was no way Justin could fail to identify the faintly acidic quality of that statement, but there was also no time to respond to it as Steven was upon them then, eyes full of questions and concerns, with Justin's mother and best friend approaching from another direction. The young artist put on his most dazzling smile, determined to entertain his guests, to sparkle for his audience - to stifle the ugly little voice which kept repeating the same phrase over and over in his mind. He could have come here - to be with me - and he's going to London instead. He could have come here.

He looked up at Steven, and saw the love and pride in the eyes gazing back at him and came to a sudden decision, wondering why it had taken him so long to see the light.

The conversation then turned to introductions and reminiscences and catching up with gossip, old and new, and deliberately ignoring tired, unanswered questions. But there was ultimately no way of hiding from the face looking down at them from every canvas on the wall behind them; they were all aware of it, though most managed to maintain their silence and maneuver the conversation toward other topics.

Except for Debbie Novotny, of course, who had never maintained her silence about anything, for any reason. She wound up at Jennifer's side, with Daphne standing wide-eyed and flushed nearby, while Steven regaled the rest of the group with a running commentary about the volume and value of Justin's sales and the intensity of the critical acclaim the show was generating. Debbie tried to pay attention, but was quickly lost in the logistics and vagaries of artistic marketing; then she looked up and found herself the focal point of a pair of hazel eyes that almost seemed to follow her as she moved. It was not a particularly comfortable sensation, and she deliberately turned away. Then she concentrated on telling herself it was just her imagination insisting she was still being watched.

"Pretty fuckin' impressive, huh?" she asked, speaking more softly than was her wont. "Guess there can't be any doubt any more about him doing the right thing."

Jennifer, elegant in a dark green Dolce & Gabanna frock, looked puzzled. "The right thing?"

"Yeah." Debbie laughed, and heads turned to follow the sound. "It's pretty damned obvious that coming to New York opened all kinds of doors for him. He's a big success story now."

Jennifer turned to look at her son, who was staring up toward the second story, toward the niche that sheltered his two most special paintings - the two the general public never got a chance to purchase as they'd already been sold before the exhibition opened - and she noted that he looked comfortable and relaxed. But not terribly . . .

"Yes," she said softly. "I guess he is."

"And the new boyfriend . . . well, who wouldn't be pleased as punch? Handsome, classy, rich, attentive, and treats Justin like he's some kind of precious jewel. Just about perfect, right?"

"Right."

Debbie frowned. "Look, Honey. You might try for a little more enthusiasm. This is every mother's dream, for her kid. Isn't it?"

Once more, Jennifer studied Justin's face; then she turned and saw a flicker of something in Daphne's eyes as the young woman moved away. "Is it?" she asked quietly. "Is it really?"

"What do you . .."

"Look at him, Debbie." Jennifer's voice was suddenly harsh, like the friction of shifting shards of broken glass. "Really look, and let go of your preconceived notions about what you want to see. What you'd want to see if he were your son. Look at him, and tell me what's really there."

Debbie tried to do as Jennifer asked. Tried to find the right thing to say . . . and wound up choking on her silence.

Jennifer said nothing more; she simply walked away, following Daphne to a small loveseat near a window alcove, for she knew she would not get the blunt, uncompromising answer she was looking for from Debbie. Although honest to a fault, Debbie had one major shortcoming in any attempt to explore truth; she saw the world through lenses distorted by her own dreams of conventional fairy-tale endings. Debbie loved Ben, whom she had come to accept as her son's permanent partner, although that acceptance had come slowly because of his HIV-positive status. But she had never quite gotten over the fact that Michael had once had a doctor for a lifemate - the ultimate achievement for the scion of a less than affluent family. The pleasure of speaking the phrase "My son-in-law, the professor" would never quite measure up to the joy of being able to utter the words, "My son-in-law, the doctor."

As for Brian . . . Jennifer honestly didn't understand why Debbie's opinions of the young man wavered so drastically. Sometimes she appeared to love him like a surrogate mother would; other times, she seemed eager to condemn and abandon him to whatever fate awaited him. And she had never been reticent in expressing her disapproval for the way he treated Justin, choosing to believe the worst of her son's longtime friend and blame him for every bump in the rocky road of his relationship with Justin.

Jennifer would have liked to believe that everything was Brian's fault; it would have been comforting, but it wouldn't have been fair or accurate. Justin had made his share of mistakes too. She closed her eyes and remembered a scrawny musician with a ridiculous goatee. Debbie and the group she thought of as her extended family had accepted Ethan Gold and welcomed him into the group without a second thought, never realizing that he was a pretentious, posturing little cretin who would prove adept at saying the things Justin wanted to hear and meaning none of them.

But Daphne was a different story. Daphne knew Justin like no one else did - not even Brian. And Daphne would not split hairs over truth.

"So," said Jennifer as she took a seat beside her son's best friend since childhood, "what do you think?"

"I think what I've always thought," Daphne answered, taking a tiny sip of champagne from a fluted glass. "Justin's a huge talent, Mrs. Taylor. He deserves every success."

Jennifer turned once more to look at her son, who was now in deep conversation with Lindsey Peterson and a couple of eccentric looking young men in less-than-formal dress. "I agree, but that's not what I meant."

Daphne shifted in her seat, and her eyes moved quickly from one place to another, as if unsure where she wanted to rest them. Finally, she settled for staring into her glass. "Mrs. Taylor, I don't . . ."

"Daphne, please." Jennifer's voice was very soft, just above a whisper, but it was very firm and filled with resolve. "You know what I'm asking. Is he . . . "

"Steven is very good to him," Daphne interrupted. "He's a really nice guy, and he loves Justin. He's even been kind enough to tag along with us while Justin shows me the sights, and you know he has to be bored to tears. We took a carriage ride through Central Park, and I'm sure he just wanted to roll his eyes and look at us as if we'd gone crackers. But he didn't. He was really sweet and caring, and he'd do anything for Justin. Anything at all."

"And?"

"He's perfect, isn't he? I can't imagine how he could be more perfect. Can you?"

Jennifer said nothing. She just quirked one eyebrow - and waited.

"Except," said Daphne slowly, "for one thing."

Jennifer sighed. "Which would be what?"

Daphne refused to look up, becoming enthralled in watching the bubbles rise in her goblet. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Taylor. I know what you want to hear - what you want to believe. And if I could give you what you want, I would."

Jennifer sighed. "It's all right, Daphne. I think I have some idea of what you're trying to say."

"I know you don't want to face the truth. I know it goes against everything you've ever wanted for him." Daphne looked up then, and there were tears in her eyes. "But I can't change it, any more than you can. Steven is perfect . . . except that he's not Brian. I don't know what the future holds for Justin; I hope he's able to be happy with whatever lies ahead. And if he chooses Steven, I hope they can make a life together. But the bottom line is never going to change; in this one respect, he is never going to change. Nobody is ever going to replace Brian in his heart." She looked down again, and her voice sank to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Jennifer took a deep breath; then she rose and moved slowly toward the corner of the room where the largest, most detailed portrait - life-size - of Brian Kinney was framed in a pool of light. She was surprised to find Daphne at her side when she stopped to stand looking up at it.

"Mrs. Taylor . . ."

"Don't you think it's time you called me Jennifer. After all, you're a major force in my son's life."

Daphne smiled. "OK, Jennifer. Would you mind if I gave you some advice?"

Jennifer smiled. "At this stage, I think I could use some."

"You might not like it much."

The smile grew broader. "There are plenty of things that I don't like much, but that doesn't mean I don't need to hear them."

Daphne nodded, and spent a moment considering how to phrase her suggestion in the least offensive way. Then she realized it wouldn't matter much; if Jennifer wanted to be offended, she would be, no matter how tactfully the idea was presented.

"When you look at Brian," Daphne said softly, with a glance toward the stunning face captured on the canvas, "you still see what you saw the first time you looked at him. Even though you try not to. Even though things have changed drastically over the years, you still see the man who stole your baby boy's innocence. You see the predator - the child molester your husband accused him of being."

"No, I . . ."

"Yes, you do," Daphne insisted, although her voice was very gentle. "That's the first thing you see. And then, you begin to see all the other versions of Brian Kinney. You see the image he allows others to see. For example, you see him through Debbie's eyes - as the brash, bold, uncompromising, flamboyant rake, who always cast the shadow that kept Michael from the limelight; who loved Michael, but couldn't be in love with him the way Michael (and his mother) wanted. Then you see him through Lindsey's eyes, as the heartbreaker who knew exactly what she wanted from him, but refused to pretend to be someone he wasn't in order to make her dreams come true. You see him as Mel sees him, as the man who was first in Lindsey's heart and might - just might - still hold that title, now and forever, and the person who was able to father Gus, something she couldn't do. You see him as Ben sees him, as the obstacle to his total happiness with Michael. As Ted sees him, with jealousy and envy and a suppressed rage over the fact that he can strive for it his whole life but he'll never be Brian. Even as those who don't really know him see him. As the maverick, the rogue, the one who dares to challenge everybody's conventions and refuses to compromise what he expects of himself and everybody else. Even . . . what he demands from Justin."

Jennifer stared into the eyes of the portrait, that glowed with so much life yet revealed so little. "OK," she said slowly. "If you're right - and that's a big if - how should I see him? What should I see when I . . ."

Daphne's smile was gentle. "You have to cast off everybody else's perceptions, and forget what they see when they look at him, because here's a fundamental truth. Every one of them sees Brian as they need to see him and as he allows them to see him, to enable them to feel smug and self-satisfied and condescending, or, sometimes, just to survive with ego intact. But the truth is that this guy is the most honest, most upfront, most truthful man I have ever known. And I can say that because I don't see him through the eyes of love, although I will admit to spending about an hour in the throes of Brian Kinney infatuation, just like everybody else in the world. But ultimately, I only see him as the man who lives in my best friend's heart, and that's how I judge him. And I honestly don't understand why so few of us see him as he really is - as the most generous, caring person I've ever known - because he not only busts his balls to take care of all the people he cares about, he also makes sure they never have to say thank you. Most of the time, in fact, they don't even know about it, because they don't want to know. It's easier that way. Is he a narcissist, the way Melanie loves to proclaim? Just take a look at him." She nodded toward the beautiful portrait, and laughed. "Shit! Can you imagine anybody who looks like that not knowing that he's fucking beautiful? But that's strictly from the physical perspective. Inside . . . that's different."

Then she paused and turned to stare directly into Jennifer's eyes. "And one more thing. If you can put aside all the filters imposed by everybody else's opinion and see him clearly, you'll realize he's also the person who'll love Justin as no one else ever will. Every day for the rest of his life. He was willing to marry him, for God's sake, even though he absolutely does not believe in marriage. I mean, why should he? Given the state of the institution, why should any of us? But he was willing to do it. For Justin. And that's the bottom line. For everything he does, for everything he doesn't do. It's always for Justin, and it always will be. Even if they never see each other again. Even if Justin chooses to stay away from him forever, to build a new life with a new partner, to put the past behind him. Brian will allow it - will live with it - and will go on loving Justin as he always has, without ever once trying to put him in a cage. For Justin. It always bothers me that almost nobody understands that. It says a lot about the man he is, and it's a shame there are so few who are able to hear it."

"But why?" asked Jennifer, stunned by the depth of Daphne's certainty. "Why would he . . ."

But Daphne was turning away, having spotted Justin moving toward them. Still, she paused and favored his mother with a sympathetic smile. "I think that's a question I have no right to answer," she explained. "One you should put to Brian. And maybe, if you catch him in the right mood and at the right moment, he might give you an answer. Not necessarily an honest one, but honest enough, perhaps, for you to be able to figure it out. Because Brian doesn't lie, you know. Not when it matters. He might sidestep and obfuscate and camouflage and deflect, but he doesn't lie."

With a final smile, she went to find Justin, who was understandably excited about the success of the night. He had sold eleven of his paintings, for a respectable sum, and he had drunk enough champagne to be feeling no pain.

Then Daphne noticed the pale specter of old misery in his eyes as he glanced once more toward the niche at the top of the stairs, and she revised her opinion. The pain was never entirely absent. Probably never would be. But he was learning to live with it.

She wanted to be happy for him - wanted to believe it would all turn out for the best. Wanted not to know he was learning to close himself off, to turn away from what he had always wanted most to settle for what he was currently wanting in any way at all.

The evening wore on, and it was late when the crowds began to thin.

It was Steven who proposed that the group of old friends should decamp and resume their reunion at a small, all-night bistro down the street. Justin and almost everyone else assumed he was just tired and looking for a more comfortable spot to loosen his tie, sit back and have a drink and relax, but Daphne understood his motivation when she spotted Margo Renton going into the display area at the top of the stairs with a young man at her side, carrying packing materials. It was immediately obvious that the show was really over, and the two paintings were about to be crated for shipping.

Daphne considered how it might feel to stand by and watch as the products of one's creative genius - the offspring of one's lifework - were boxed up to be sent away, to a new home in a strange place, never to be seen or touched again.

She was glad then that Justin was going to be spared that experience.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You're looking particularly lovely tonight, Daphne," said Ted as they all settled into an over-sized booth at the dark and sooty old tavern called Nathan's Pub. She smiled as she shrugged out of her jacket, and her silver tunic, bright with beaded embroidery, glistened in the light shed from the frosted globe of the wall sconce behind them.

Justin flashed his friend a mischievous grin. "Yeah. Brian always said that he'd fuck her."

"The ultimate Kinney compliment," sniped Melanie. "Gotta love it."

"There are plenty who do," said Ben, and Michael looked at his husband with a surprised smile. Comments issued in defense of Brian were rare in this group; from Ben, they were even rarer, and Michael was pleased. His smile faded slightly, as he gave his reaction further thought. Things had been different since the night Babylon had gone up in flames. So had Brian, and so had Ben's attitude toward his husband's oldest and best friend. Michael was glad - he thought. Still, it had always been a tiny source of comfort for him to know Ben would take his side in any dispute with Brian, no matter what. He realized abruptly that he didn't want to think about the possibility of a change in that attitude.

"So," said Melanie quickly, eager to change the subject, "have we decided our itinerary for tomorrow? Anybody up for a tour of Yankee Stadium? Or . . ."

"Jesus, you really are a dyke," laughed Ted. "I was thinking more along the lines of a matinee of Mamma Mia. Or a major shopping spree at Bloomingdale's."

Lindsey laughed. "Ted, you're living proof that fags have replaced diamonds as a girl's best friend."

Debbie turned to Justin, her smile beaming. "What about it, Sunshine? How about you give us a tour of your favorite places?"

Justin smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but paused as Steven wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Debbie," said the broker. "We have a plane to catch."

"Really? I didn't know you were planning a trip," said Jennifer. "Where are you going?"

Steven smiled. "We're off for an adventure in paradise. The South Pacific. Specifically, Tahiti."

"Oh-my-God!" said Daphne, turning to Justin. "That is sooo romantic. But I thought you were still thinking about it."

Justin did not offer a verbal response. Instead, he simply gave her a tiny smile, but she still managed to hear the words he didn't bother to speak. It was there in his eyes; Brian was going to London.  That was explanation enough.

"Well, he finally made up his mind," explained Steven. "Tomorrow morning, we're off on a flight to the coast. Then on to New Zealand. And from there, we sail to Fiji and surrounding points. We'll be at sea for ten days on a sailing schooner, before debarking at Papeete, where we'll spend another week at a luxury resort."

"Wow!" said Debbie, obviously impressed. "That's some trip. Sounds almost like a honeymoon, doesn't it?"

Jennifer and Lindsey both just happened to be looking straight at Justin at that moment, and both had a momentary urge to recoil from the flash of anger which sparked in his eyes as he turned to look at the woman who had taken him in off the streets, time and time again. In spite of everything, it seemed, there were some things he was not prepared to tolerate.

"No," he said quickly. "It doesn't."

"Or maybe you could elope," Debbie went on with gusto, obviously having missed the thunderous expression on Justin's face. "Have the captain of the ship perform the ceremony. Could anything be more romantic than that?"

"Wow!" laughed Steven, raising his glass toward Debbie and totally unaware of the not-so-minor typhoon brewing at his side. "I like your style."

"Do you?" said Justin, staring down at the shot of whiskey - Jim Beam, of course - the waitress had just set down before him. He lifted the glass and swallowed the liquid in one gulp, never once looking up toward the man who had been so quickly accepted by his old friends as his new boyfriend. When he spoke again, there was a hoarseness in his voice which said much about the depth of his annoyance. "Well, hey, why stop there? Maybe we can get the natives to toss rose petals on the waves for us and play the Wedding March on their ukeleles as the sun goes down over a turquoise sea. Then you can lock me into a chastity belt - to safeguard your conjugal rights, of course - and keep me tucked away on some deserted island, so I'm forever off-limits to the rest of the world."

He looked up then, and met Daphne's gaze, and she flinched away from the pain and the anger she read in his eyes. He stood abruptly and stared directly into Debbie's face. "I am never going to be part of an arrangement, that is governed by locks on my door."

Then he turned and strode out of the tavern, leaving a shocked silence behind him.

"Now what the fuck does that mean?" asked Debbie, still stunned by the level of venom she'd heard in the young artist's tone.

Melanie rolled her eyes. "What do you think it means?" she snapped. "It means Brian Fucking Kinney strikes again."

"Melanie," said Ben, very calmly. "For once, could you just shut the fuck up?"

The sudden silence around the table and the look on Ben's face proved that no one was more shocked than Ben himself, except maybe for Michael, who could not quite suppress the smile that trembled on his lips. He had always considered himself Brian's primary defender, but he knew he'd failed to live up to the title on a few occasions. And now, it was surprisingly comforting to realize he might have a little help, once in a while.

When Steven muttered a hurried good night, and took off after Justin, the group from Pittsburgh lingered at the table, each musing in his own way over the unexpected turn of events.

Some were stunned; some were disturbed; some were complacent, and a couple were having trouble controlling an urge to laugh. And Melanie sat frozen and silent, still trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

My house has many rooms; I occupy but a few. The rest go unvisited.

Brian sat at his desk and studied the framed sketch he had just removed from the shipping carton in which it had arrived. He read the words that circled the drawing, as he idly played with the big swath of bubble wrap which had protected it. He'd always found it surprisingly therapeutic to pop those bubbles, especially in stressful moments.

This shouldn't be such a moment, or so he told himself. He was here, in his element so to speak; in the place where he "would never grow old". Or so he comforted himself when submerged in one of his more maudlin moods. He didn't allow himself to dwell on the fact that such moods seemed to be coming more frequently of late. At any rate, there was certainly nothing to be concerned about in this solitary sanctuary.

The office was dim, illuminated only by the gooseneck lamp that generated a cone of radiance on one side of the desk, leaving the rest of the room a study in shades of gray. Even the security monitors were dark.

Thus, there was nothing to distract him from his examination of the drawing, except for the dull thumpa-thumpa background of the music in the club - muted by the sound dampening properties of the room's heavy insulation - and the haunting mellow majesty, newly remastered, of John Coltrane's Blue in Green, playing on his private sound system.

He told himself that the tightness in his chest was only because he'd picked up a case of sniffles during his midnight adventure of the previous evening. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with the feelings stirring inside him, generated by the artist's rendering of a poignant moment.

It was a detailed sketch: Justin sleeping, face cradled against a pillow with one hand cupped beneath his chin, mouth slightly open, dark lashes emphasizing the smooth expanse of perfect skin. And hovering above him, Brian's face, eyes lowered to gaze at the sleeper, his expression open and vulnerable, yearning . . . and needful.

The words were printed in an oval arc around the image - saying nothing or saying everything, depending on how one looked at it. Bright fleeting images of Justin - a thousand different Justins but all, at heart, the same - flickered in his thoughts, stirred his memories, reminded him of what had been and was no longer.

My house has many rooms.

One part of Brian hated the sketch and hated Lindsey for drawing it and sending it to him, for knowing him well enough to capture the essence of his soul in a drawing. Another part of him loved it, and realized she had known how it would make him feel and why he would never allow anyone else to see it. He knew exactly where it would hang.

He remembered when she had first recited those words for him, in the process of telling him about her confrontation with Sam Auerbach. He had been careful, at the time, not to react, not to allow her to see how such simple phrases had struck a chord within his own consciousness, but apparently not careful enough. It surprised him sometimes how well she knew him, under certain circumstances. Almost as much as it surprised him when she demonstrated that she didn't know him at all, under others.

I occupy only a few.

He thought it ironic that she had uttered the phrase which provided a clue to the man he was, but failed to connect the dots. He didn't often allow himself to think about all the parts of him he had deliberately shut away over the years, parts that would have left him too open, too vulnerable, too accessible.

A very small, smug smile touched perfect, sensual lips. Brian Kinney - Enigma. It was the role he'd been playing all his life; the one he intended to continue to play. It pleased him somehow to realize that most people sought to be understood, to be needed; to know that Brian Kinney was unique, in this as in all things.

The smile became a chuckle as he imagined - for just one second - how Justin would respond to such an observation. The twat would wind up crouched on his knees, shouting with laughter and gasping for breath.

Providing, of course, he was ever around to hear it, which he wouldn't be. Brian did not allow himself a sigh. He simply took a deep breath, spent a moment indulging in a small surge of pride over the achievements of the young man who had stolen his heart; then he deliberately shut down those thoughts, positive that Justin was exactly where he was meant to be - where he would always be - free to soar, to fly, to light up the world with his talent. Unfettered, unbound, unshackled. Unanchored.

The rest go unvisited.

He spent another moment taking in the details of the sketch, illuminated by the palette of reflected memory, as his fingers traced over the contours of that beautiful face.

Unvisited, indeed.

When a discreet knock pulled him out of his momentary reverie, he was grateful for the interruption and quickly tucked the drawing into a desk drawer before pressing the switch to unlock his office door.

A distraction - any distraction - was preferable to sitting here in the gloom and mourning for what was no longer his to mourn.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Justin was sliding into the back seat of a cab when Steven caught up with him and managed to push his way inside before the vehicle pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires and a pulse of smoke.

"Justin," the broker panted, trying to catch his breath after his mad dash, "what the fuck was that? Why would you . . ."

But Justin was in no mood to be subjected to a third degree. Instead, he found himself eager to strike out - thirsty for blood.

"Why would I what?" he snapped. "Why would I resent my loving companions planning out my life for me? Why would I object to playing a role in some fantasy shit that they - and you - want to write for me? Why would I be sick and tired of hearing the sniping directed at the man who saved my life, the man who could have been here and . . ."

He fell silent abruptly, and turned away, unwilling for Steven to read the depths of the devastation in his heart.

The young broker could not quite suppress a sigh. "Is that why you agreed to go to Tahiti with me? Because he isn't here."

Justin continued to gaze out the window. "Do you want the ugly truth, or a pretty, comforting lie?"

Moving slowly, tentatively, Steven wrapped his arms around Justin's shoulders and braced his forehead against a stiff, hunched shoulder. "Justin," he whispered, "I just want you. However I can have you. Whatever you're willing to . . ."

The young artist turned then, to regard his companion with weary eyes. "Even if I say that you will never have me entirely? Even if I make you understand that I can never really leave him, and seeing him today or never seeing him again won't change that. Is that really what you want?"

"Not exactly," Steven admitted. "But I'm willing to believe that time will change things. One day, he'll be a part of your past, instead of the focus of your present." He looked away then, and his voice sank to a whisper. "Or the promise of your future."

Justin shook his head. "I agreed to go to Tahiti because Michael told me that Brian is on his way to London. That's the bottom line. Not because I have all these romantic fantasies; not because I want to be swept away by some Prince Charming on a white charger or sail off to paradise with my knight in shining armor." His voice was suddenly hard and cold. "But because I don't want to be here, in this country, when he's not. Now - you decide if that's a good enough reason for you, because there's nothing you or any of my so-called old friends can do to change that."

"Justin . . ."

"No," It was almost a snarl. "I've left this unsaid for too long, and I need to say it. For you and for me."

He paused then and waited, realizing he was teetering on the brink of a no-return moment, and willing to allow Steven a chance to back away, to never have to hear what he needed to say. Of course, refusing to hear it would be tantamount to riding off into the sunset - alone - but it should be Steven's choice to make, and Justin would not do anything to force the selection.

Finally, after a long pause, Steven shifted and turned to look out the window, obviously unwilling to meet Justin's gaze or to witness the play or emotions in his companion's eyes. "Go ahead," he said softly. "Say whatever it is you need to say, Only . . ."

"Only what?"

"When you're done, I get to say my piece. OK?"

Justin just nodded. Then he spent a few moments composing himself and organizing his thoughts. When he finally began to speak, his voice was surprisingly calm, almost emotionless. "I'm not sure how to say this so you'll understand, but I'll try. And you need to know that I'm not exaggerating. This is the way it is. Whatever I am today, I am because of Brian Kinney, no matter how much my old buddies try to dispute it. He saved my life, and then, he gave me everything I needed to become the man I am. Without him, I'd be dead, but it's more than that. Without him, I'd be lost and frightened and timid and afraid of my own shadow. He dragged me back into the world, when I was ready to just crawl into a hole and die. He didn't just give me everything he had to give; he gave me everything I needed to be able to rejoin my life, instead of just letting time roll along without me. He was the center of my life, my world, my universe . . . my heart." He paused then and turned to look at his companion, refusing to say more until Steven shifted to meet his eyes. "And he still is," he said then, refusing to flinch from the pain he read in Steven's expression. "Will that ever change? Maybe, but I'm not sure. But I do know one thing, and you need to know it too. I'm here, in New York and in this place in my life, because he refused to take advantage of the opportunity to tie me to him and keep me with him. And right now, all he'd have to do to bring me back would be to pick up the phone and simply say four words. 'Come back to me,' and I'm there."

He reached out then and touched Steven's face with gentle fingers. "And I don't really think that will ever change. I think some part of me will spend the rest of my life waiting for that call. Not that he'd ever make it, because he'd always feel like it would put pressure on me to do what he wants me to do, rather than leaving me free to make my own choices."

"He loves you that much?" whispered Steven.

And Justin was surprised by how easily the answer came to him. "Yeah. He loves me that much."

Steven's eyes fell, and he was suddenly fascinated by the clinching of his own hands. "Then - forgive me, but - what the fuck are you doing here? To be loved like that, by someone you obviously love just as much - why would you hesitate?"

It was Justin's turn to sigh. "Because I need to be everything that I can be. That's what he expects from me. That's the gift he gave me. If I just run back to him, just turn away from everything he pushed me to explore, then I . . ." He saw the disbelief in Steven's eyes, and fell silent, offering a rueful smile. "I know it doesn't make sense. Most of the time, it doesn't make sense to me either. But if I don't reach for the stars, if I don't explore all the possibilities he helped open for me, then he's going to believe that I sacrificed my life - my golden future - to be at his side. And the really bizarre part of all this is that he'd be right. I'd do it without a second thought, and I'd be happy with it. I know I'd never regret it - until the day I'd have to look into his eyes and know he's blaming himself for taking away the life he thinks I want to live. I have to grow into the man he thinks I am."

"For how long?" The question was barely audible.

Justin did not - quite - shrug. "As long as it takes."

Steven thought about it for a moment, before offering a small smile of his own. "You do realize that's totally fucked up, don't you?"

"Yeah." Justin replied, relaxing into a small laugh. "That's practically a textbook definition of Brian and Justin. Totally fucked up, but . . ."

Neither of them spoke for a while, as the taxi sped toward Bed-Stuy. Then Steven took a deep breath and reached out to take Justin's hands in his own. "Well, I confess this is all a little disconcerting." Then he smiled. "Actually it's more than that; it's a fucking revelation, and I won't pretend that it's easy to swallow. But I still want you to go with me," he said softly, deliberately not lifting his head to meet Justin's eyes. "I understand that you don't - that you can't love me . . . yet. But I'm not willing to give up on us. I don't expect perfection, and I don't expect you to forget Brian. Just, maybe, you can make a little room in your heart for me, so that, one day, maybe he won't be your everything. I won't pretend I'm happy with it, but I'm a patient man. And I think you . . . we . . . are worth waiting for."

Justin closed his eyes, and tried not to see the face that always came to him out of the darkness. "You're sure you want to settle for . . ."

"Let's not be too quick to define it," Steven interrupted, with a small, self-conscious laugh. "As for what I want, let's think about it. Times Square and the cold grunge of late winter, or exploring Papeete with your oh-so-charming ass? Bed-Stuy and the smell of garbage trucks, or snorkeling at Moorea? Clinging to a subway strap, or nude sunbathing at Venus Point? Which do you imagine I'd choose?"

Justin grinned, touched and aware that he should probably be ashamed of taking advantage of Steven's feelings. "Well, when you put it that way . . ."

Steven's smile was brilliant, but he was very careful to allow himself not the slightest nuance of gloating over his small victory. It was certainly not all he hoped for - nor all he was determined to have when all was said and done - but it was a start. The beginning of the end - for Brian Kinney.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 9

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"Hey, Boss."

Brian was little more than a dark silhouette against the cone of light beside him. "What's up?" he asked softly.

Alonzo Velez stood framed in the doorway, uncertain if Brian was having one of his intensely private moments. Lately, he seemed to be having them rather frequently. "Can I get you anything?"

Brian looked up at his club manager with a single lifted eyebrow. "Such as?"

Alonzo shrugged and offered up a tentative smile. "Whatever."

The second eyebrow lifted, to join the first. "Since when do I not ask, when I want something?" He sounded more curious than annoyed, for which Alonzo was grateful. Brian was a good boss - even-handed and appreciative and generous to a fault - but he did not suffer fools gladly, or at all, if he could help it.

Alonzo stepped further into the office and closed the door behind him. "Sorry," he said as the tentative smile widened. "The truth is that some of the regulars are asking about you. You know how they are. They just like to know you're around."

"Really?" Brian was obviously skeptical. "How do they even know I'm here? And why does it matter to them anyway?"

"I don't know how they know," Alonzo admitted. "They just do. Maybe they check for your car when they come in or something. As for why it matters, your guess is as good as mine. But it does. So are you planning to spend the whole night up here by yourself?"

"Now you're sounding way too much like a Jewish mother," answered Brian, becoming slightly impatient with the entire conversation. "I'll be down later. Now, unless there's something else . . ."

"As a matter of fact, there is. Emmett is waiting to see you."

Brian sat back in his chair, and an arc of golden light touched his face, exposing a trace of confusion in his eyes. "And?"

"Just wanted to give you a heads up."

Abruptly, Brian stood and came around the desk until he was face to face with his employee. "OK, that's it. What the fuck is going on?"

"Nothing. I just thought you'd like to know."

"Since when," Brian said slowly, eyes never leaving Alonzo's face, "is it your job to screen my visitors? You've never done it before, and . . ."

"Actually," Alonzo interrupted firmly, "I have. I just never thought it was necessary to tell you how many times we intercepted visitors who were . . . um . . . well . . ."

"Who were what?"

The Latino from Trenton fidgeted for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and figured it was time to come clean. "Who were determined to get into your pants, by whatever means they could. We always figured you preferred to choose your tricks yourself, instead of being chosen. Not," he said quickly as he saw a flicker of anger surge in hazel eyes, "that you couldn't have handled them yourself. We just took it upon ourselves to make sure you didn't have to."

Brian stood unmoving for a moment, obviously deciding how he felt about his employee's admission. Then he smiled, and Alonzo was swept by an intense feeling of relief, only to reflect, moments later, that it shouldn't matter so much. It was just a job, and Brian was just a boss. Although . . . it wasn't, he admitted reluctantly. And he wasn't.

"But," Brian said suddenly, "even though you may have been intercepting my more enthusiastic visitors, you've never before found it necessary to check with me before admitting friends or acquaintances or business appointments. Not even last night. So why now?"

"Well," Alonzo replied slowly, "it's just . . ."

Brian barely managed to swallow a huff of resentment. "Where is he?"

"Ummm . . ."

"Come on," the club owner snapped, patience worn completely through. "Where's Mathis?"

Finally, Alonzo grinned. "Planted at the top of the stairs, like your own personal commando. And you can trust me when I tell you that nobody is getting past him, without your explicit permission."

"Cerberus at the gate? That's not what I hired him for," Brian almost growled. "He's supposed to be protecting my customers. Not me."

"He is protecting your customers," Alonzo replied calmly. "From his vantage point, he's got a view of the entire interior of the club, and his staff is covering the few areas that he can't see from where he is."

Brian frowned. He wasn't quite sure exactly how Mathis, newly hired, had become his chief of security. It had just seemed to be the natural thing to do, especially considering he had previously had no one in that position. Up to this point, each contracted guard had patrolled his own specific area of the club, without oversight. It was, he guessed, a sign of the times that he had felt compelled to reorganize and upgrade the service.

"Yeah, but . . ." he started, still not pleased with the unexpected ramifications of the arrangement.

"Boss," the club manager said gently, "let him do his job. He knows what he's doing."

"But I don't need a babysitter or a bodyguard."

Alonzo just stared at him for a moment, saying nothing but letting the look in his eyes say it all. Then he decided to speak, but only with an oblique reference to what they'd been discussing. "We live in hateful times, Mr. Kinney. Strange when you consider that so many of the haters identify themselves as Christians, and I was always taught that God is love, but it is what it is."

Brian returned to his desk and sat down, leaning back and propping his feet on the corner of his desk. "No arguing with that," he conceded, "but it still doesn't explain why I need a bodyguard."

"Maybe you don't," Alonzo admitted. "But what if you do? It can't hurt anything if your security chief keeps an eye on you, now can it?"

Brian grinned. "Could cramp my style."

Alonzo laughed outright. "Jesus Christ Himself could be standing over your shoulder watching every move you make, and every trick you fuck, and it wouldn't 'cramp your style' one bit. And you know it."

"Yeah, okay," Brian retorted, reluctantly accepting that this was an argument he was not going to win. "However, I still want to talk to him. But let Emmett in first."

In the semi-darkness, Coltrane's horn launched into How Deep Is the Ocean, and Brian pulled a handful of files out of a desk drawer, grateful for something to do, something to focus on, something to get lost in - besides the music.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Emmett arrived at the door of the executive office, Brian was in full professional mode, examining a contract proposal with a local distillery for establishing a new line of credit for the club. He waved Emmett to a chair as he called up the company's background information on his computer and spent several minutes comparing data between the new vendor and one he'd done business with in the past.

Emmett was content to sit and wait, losing himself in the soft jazz renderings rising from the owner's private music system. The slow, elegant measures of Naima seemed to ride the current of the smoke from Brian's cigarette.

When his examination of the vendor's files was complete, Brian was finally ready to talk, but Emmett, by that time, had lapsed into a state of semi-euphoria, drifting within the eddies and currents of the music.

After calling his friend's name twice, Brian chose to simply sit and wait until Emmett settled back into himself. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to be or anything to do that demanded his immediate attention. He had, after all, spent the entire night deliberately not thinking about where he might have been, had circumstances been different.

Thus, when Emmett finally shook himself and opened his eyes, it was to focus on an image of a beautiful face - a truth that even the most ardent Brian-hater could not dispute - wrapped in the gentle melancholy of Coltrane's sax and draped in a carefully woven web of forgetfulness.

Emmett sighed and felt a deep abiding sadness stir within him - a sadness he knew to be little more than a pale reflection of the great gulf that existed in the heart of his companion.

"Brian?"

"Hmmmm?"

A beat of silence before Emmett continued very softly. "Do you need a minute?"

Brian sat up quickly. "Why the fuck would I need a minute?" he snapped.

But Emmett refused to engage. "Because you're having a bad day. Because it has to be eating you alive, even if you refuse to admit it or think about it."

Brian sat back in his chair and compressed his lips, as he always did when he was biting back words he didn't want to say. "You're pathetic," he said finally, not quite smiling. "How's your booboo?"

Emmett flexed one shoulder with a grimace. "Mending," he admitted, "but manageable, proving, of course, that you can't keep a good queen down."

"You're an inspiration to us all, Little Mary Queen of Scots," Brian laughed. "So you wanted to see me?" He lifted one sardonic eyebrow. "You're not suing me, are you?"

"Hmmm. I hadn't thought of that." Emmett rolled his eyes. "Let's see now. Could I get used to a life filled with Armani and Versace and Gucci? A Rolex on my wrist, as I sip Dom Perignon and drive around in my Lexus?"

Brian simply waited, certain that Emmett would get to the point, once he'd worked it out for himself.

"I suppose I could, but . . ."

"But?" Brian prompted when Emmett fell silent and looked for a moment as if he were unsure how to proceed.

"But there's something that I want more. Something I think I need."

Once more, Brian leaned back, slouching comfortably. "Such as?"

Uncharacteristically, Emmett refused to meet Brian's eyes, choosing instead to stare off toward the darkened security monitors, as he took his time formulating an answer. "I need," he said finally, "to understand."

"Understand what?" And there was a sudden, definitive coldness in Brian's voice.

Emmett took a deep breath. "Understand why you're here, and, more to the point, why you're not somewhere else, somewhere you really should be."

Brian sat up straight and squared his shoulders. "Does the phrase 'none of your fucking business' mean anything at all to you?"

Emmett nodded. "Yeah. It means what it's always meant. It means you're going into camouflage maintenance mode, in order to stay concealed beneath the layers of distortion you always use to distract anyone who might get a glimpse of who you really are, but . . ."

"I don't have time for this," Brian said abruptly, getting to his feet.

"Yes. You do." For once, there was not even a tiny nuance of uncertainty in Emmett's voice as he raised his eyes to stare directly into that perfect face. "And if you don't, you need to make time. Because I'm not the only one that needs this, Brian. You need it too."

"Now why would you think that I . . ."

"Because nobody should have to walk alone, all the time."

Brian went very still, almost forgetting to breathe. "What the fuck are you talking about, Emmett? I'm never alone, unless I choose to be."

"Sorry, mon ami," Emmett replied softly, "but the truth is that you're always alone, because you always choose to be. And we - the people who are supposed to be your friends - we've allowed it, because it was convenient. Because it gave us what we needed, and it cost us nothing. Because it left us free to take advantage of the situation, without giving anything back."

Brian sat back down, but there was no disguising the anger in his voice when he answered. "In case you didn't hear me the first time, what the fuck are you talking about? I don't . . ."

"Don't what? Don't need anybody? Yeah, we all understand that. You've trained us so well, we wouldn't dare question your ability to stand alone. And the shame of it is that we let you get away with it. We all bought into your act."

"Look, Emmett, I don't . . ."

"A few years ago," Emmett went on, ignoring Brian's attempt at deflection, "Michael and I were sitting and talking one night, and we both realized how easy it is to assume that we know each other, as friends, until we realize how little we really know. How often we cover ourselves up, and refuse to share who we really are, and how often we don't tell each other the important stuff. That happens to all of us, but it happens even more when one of us is so determined to stay hidden inside the façade he presents to the world that he blocks everyone who attempts to get close enough to see the truth. We all just assume that we know each other, and it comes as a real shock when we find out we don't. Not really. Which is why you - especially you - take us all by surprise sometimes. Because we only know the person you allow us to see - the callous, heartless shit you profess to be. Because we're never allowed inside, to see who you really are."

Brian 's face was a mask of disinterest as he stared into the eyes of a friend who had suddenly transformed himself into a potential menace. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an open book."

Emmett grinned. "Yeah. Fuckin' Finnegan's Wake."

"Jimmy and I go back a long way," Brian laughed, slightly surprised by the aptness of Emmett's literary reference. "It's the Irish in me."

"It's the bullshit in you."

Brian's eyes went wide. He was totally unaccustomed to being challenged by Emmett Honeycutt, and he had to remind himself that Emmett was a lot sharper than most people could imagine.

"Jesus, Brian! You had cancer, for fuck's sake, and none of us even noticed, until the radiation hit you so hard that you couldn't hide it any more. Don't you think there's something totally fucked about that?"

Brian chose not to respond, still uncomfortable with even the most casual reference to his physical trauma.

"Anyway, here's the thing," Emmett continued. "If I expect you to open up to me - to let down those walls that you've built around yourself - then I have to be willing to do the same, don't I? So here goes.

"Ever since I came to Pittsburgh - lo, those many years ago - I've portrayed myself as an out-and-proud gay man. Reveling in my flame, so to speak."

"Except for your little side-trip into pseudo-heterosexuality," Brian pointed out with a slightly venal smile.

Emmett clasped his hands. "Yes, and leave it to you to remind me of that little episode. But, nevertheless, the reality - my foundation, if you will - came from a separate place. You see, I never had the option you have - or Michael or Teddy or Justin or millions of other queer boys. There was never a closet deep enough to hide what I always was. Even if I'd had a closet, which I didn't mostly. But if I'd had one . . ." He looked up and deliberately allowed Brian to see the misery in his eyes. "If I'd had one, I'd have used it. Out and proud didn't come easy to me, Brian. I had to learn it. When I was growing up, I was the laughing stock of Hazlehurst, Mississippi, and the terrible burden that my family had to bear. My mother loved me, I guess, but she was never able to face the truth about what I was. Not even on her deathbed. I was there when she died, and so were all my brothers and sisters, and she called each one of them by name as they took her hand to say their good-byes. Except me. She looked right through me, and said nothing, and I understood why. She couldn't stand to look at me, to see what I was. Because she considered me to be her failure. Truth is that only my grandmother and my Aunt Lula were ever able to accept me and love me. For the rest, I was the ugly, shameful secret that couldn't be kept. The pervert. The abomination. And I . . . God, I wanted to be straight, Brian. I wanted to be cured - to make them proud of me. Every night, I'd get on my knees and beg God to 'fix me'. And every morning, I'd curse Him for not answering my prayer."

Brian closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the dreadful truth he read in the lines of Emmett's body, in the tightness of his mouth, and the clinching of his fists. But he was still Brian Kinney, he of the hard heart and the sharp tongue. "And you're telling me this because?"

Emmett sighed. "Because I need to know who you are, and I can't expect to do that unless I let you know me as I am. Because I never let you know before. I never let anyone know. But I was wrong to keep it hidden, because it's a part of what made me who I am today. I can never go back to Hazlehurst. I didn't even go back for my father's funeral. Because I wasn't invited - didn't find out about it until he'd been dead and gone for over a year - but I wouldn't have gone even if I'd known. Because I can't be that person any more. But there's a small part of me that's still afraid, that still worries that I could go back to being that silent, terrified child, mortified over who I was. It's still in here, still a part of me."

"You won't," Brian said abruptly. "And none of that was your fault, Emmett. Surely you know that."

Emmett looked up then, not even trying to hide the tears in his eyes. "I do. But do you?"

"Me? Who said anything about me?"

"Maybe that's the problem," Emmett said softly. "It's been far too long since anybody said anything about you."

"Listen to me, Emmett," Brian said sharply. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening." Gently spoken, accompanied by a tender smile.

"I know . . . I can see it was hard for you to talk about this. But you didn't have to put yourself through all that. I figured it out a long time ago. Most of it anyway. It doesn't exactly take a rocket scientist. Southern boy, born and bred, and raised in the heart of the Bible Belt, in Baptist Capitol, USA. Who couldn't figure it out? And if you still blame yourself - for any of it - then you're a stupid fucker who needs to get his head out of his ass. So why would you . . ."

"Because I know pain when I see it, Brian. And for too long, I didn't let myself see it. Didn't want to see it, because if I did, if I allowed myself to understand what was standing right in front of me, then I'd have had to admit that you've been walking beside us through all these years - right here, right beside us - and none of us ever bothered to find out who you really are. We say we know you; we think we always know what you'll do next and why you'll do it, when the simple truth is, we don't have a fucking clue. And while it's certainly true that this is the way you've wanted it to be, it says more about us than about you. It says we were too complacent, too self-satisfied, to even make a tiny effort to find you amid all the camouflage. And it says something else, too. It says we're stupid and callous and lazy. And I, for one, am sick and tired of not knowing you. I want to know you. I want to understand you. I want . . . to help you."

"I don't need your fucking help." Clipped - bitter - almost a snarl.

"Yes, you do. Maybe not me, specifically . . . but somebody, Brian. Somebody needs to be here. To listen. To let you do whatever it is you need to do, so that you can move forward. Take the next step to wherever it is you need to go. So just let it out. Just say it."

"Say what?"

But something in Emmett's face made it clear that there was not going to be a way to avoid his questions, that there would be no room for dodging the issue, unless Brian was prepared to call in his security people and have them throw Emmett out into the streets, and it was obvious that Emmett knew it would never come to that.

"You love Justin," Emmett said softly. "You can laugh about it, scoff at the idea, claim you don't believe in love - only in fucking - pontificate about the futility and silliness of commitment, deny it until hell freezes over. But that changes nothing. You love him, and you just stood there and let him walk away. More than that, you practically tossed him out on his ass. On top of that, you have to know that he loves you too. Jesus, how many times does he have to come back to you before you admit it? Before you understand that he chose you, above all things. So why . . ."

"Because he didn't." Cold, flat, unyielding words, emphasized by eyes gone dark with anger or despair, and only Brian knew which.

"Didn't what?"

Brian rose then, and moved over to the blank bank of security monitors which allowed him to survey his domain when he chose to do so. But he didn't touch anything, electing instead to watch the vague, almost formless outline of his own reflection in the darkened glass. "Didn't choose me." His tone was flat, completely without emotion, except for a tiny, barely noticeable break in the first word.

"What do you mean?" stammered Emmett. "Of course, he did. He . . ."

"Think it through, Emmett. Think it through."

But Emmett found himself unable to wrap his mind around whatever it was that Brian was getting at. "You're wrong. He always . . ."

"Came back to me?" Brian turned and looked directly into Emmett's eyes, and, for perhaps the first time in his life, didn't bother to erect the barriers that always kept people from seeing him as he really was, and Emmett felt as if he were standing at the edge of a precipice, staring out into a cold, dark chasm of forever. "Justin was meant to fly, Emmett. To spread his wings and reach for the sky. And he does. Always has. And he only comes back to me when somebody or something clips his wings. He never came back because he wanted to; he came back because he had no place else to go."

"Brian, he loves you." Emmett couldn't understand why Brian could not see how his young lover felt.

"I know he loves me," Brian said softly, returning to the desk and resuming his seat. "But loving me isn't going to give him what he wants. Think about it - clearly, without all the rose-colored romantic trimmings. The first time he left - when he found his twink fiddler - he only came back because the twinkie was an idiot. If Ian - or whatever the fuck his name was - had just been smart enough not to lie to him, Justin would never have left him. They would have flown - together. Then, when he went to Hollywood, and started living every gay man's dream, he only came back when the project was shot down. If the movie had taken off and he'd found his own little niche in sunny California, he'd still be there. Still flying. Then, after the bombing . . . that time it was my fault. Because I was so scared by what almost happened that I let him see how much I cared about him, and he felt obligated, because he has this ridiculous idea that he owes me something. But I can't be what he needs me to be. Can't give him what he wants, what he's always wanted. I just don't have it in me. He can't fly with me. In the end, the only thing I've ever managed to do was to keep him dirtbound - to weigh him down. So, while it's undeniably true that I've done plenty of things in my life that I'm not proud of, I will not do that. Not any more."

When he fell silent, Emmett felt as if the air in the room had suddenly thickened, that it was harder to draw breath. "You don't really believe that. You can't. You're Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake."

Brian's smile was brittle. "Yeah. I'm Brian Kinney. I look in the mirror every day to make sure that I'm still young, still beautiful. But that's all I am, Emmett. All I've ever been, and it's all on the surface. Inside . . . inside I'm just empty. All the things that Justin wants and needs, I just don't have them to give."

And Emmett, abruptly, found that he couldn't stand to be in this place, hearing these words, and understanding this man - not for another minute. He had demanded to be allowed to know Brian Kinney, and he almost laughed as he realized how bitterly true certain old adages could be. One really should be careful what one wished for.

When he stood and hurried from the room, he was acutely conscious of the heavy silence behind him, broken only by the haunting strains of Ev'ry Time We Say Good-bye.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It didn't take long to pack his things. When he'd come to New York, he hadn't brought a lot with him, assuming that he'd soon be back in Pittsburgh. That, of course, had proved to be a misconception, but he'd had very little use for the kind of clothing he'd once worn every day, when he'd been intent on enticing and holding the attention of a man with a sense of style that would have put a GQ editor to shame.

Thus his closet - such as it was - contained very little in the way of haute couture. No Armani or Ralph Lauren or Prada, but plenty of Levis, Nikes, and Tommy Hilfiger casuals - his one concession to fashion. But even the things he thought of as his 'good' clothes were frequently smeared or speckled with paint, as he rarely stopped to think about protecting his garments when artistic inspiration struck.

But there were two items in his closet - tucked carefully into a heavy-duty garment bag - that were as pristine and perfect as on the day they were first lifted out of layers of tissue, from boxes wrapped in bright gold and scarlet paper, while the person who had chosen them and purchased them and wrapped them and tucked them under a fabulously decorated Douglas fir sat back and watched.

Justin closed his eyes and let the memories of that day engulf him. He remembered waking that morning to find Brian leaning over him, to feel the gaze of passion-dark eyes and the silken caress of warm lips nuzzling at his skin. Remembered the amazing sensations as he was stroked and pleasured and finally taken, possessed completely by the man who owned his heart. Remembered the way the two of them had spent the morning playing with the toys they'd bought for Gus, along with the exceedingly private toys they'd bought for each other. Remembered Brian's face, eyes soft with love and joy, and the rich ring of his laughter as his son went wide-eyed, stunned and filled with wonder over the battery-powered bright red Jeep that he would subsequently ride all around the loft, plowing through drifts of bright paper and tissue and tinsel, and ending up crashing into the tree and generating chaos, to his father's delight. Remembered the happy faces of friends and family as they'd dropped in throughout the day, all of them basking - one way or another - in the reflected glow of the happiness he and Brian had created together. For a while.

And remembered, finally, the tenderness in Brian's eyes as Justin had lifted the gorgeous Hugo Boss leather jacket from its nest of tissue, and the cashmere sweater from the second box - the wheat-colored sweater that Brian would later assure him was a perfect match for the color of his hair. Romantic moments had never really been Brian's thing, but he had surpassed himself that day, even though he would forever deny it. They had been alone in the loft by then, Brian having waited until their guests departed to present the last of his gifts for his young lover.

Justin would never forget that moment, for it had marked a very special first in their relationship. After he had voiced his protest, claiming that it was too much and too expensive, and received a patented Brian Kinney shut-the-fuck-up look for his trouble, he had laughed and confessed that he loved both gifts. Then he'd hurried to put them on and proceeded to model them for the gift-giver, who had stood watching him, saying nothing for a while, as he'd strutted around the loft, doing his best impression of a runway model. Then Brian had stepped forward, to adjust the way the jacket sat on his shoulders, before dropping a kiss at his temple.

"How do I look?" Justin had asked, thousand-watt smile firmly in place.

Brian had been slow to answer, taking his time before leaning forward to offer his response in a broken whisper. "You're beautiful."

It had been the first time he'd ever said it, although Justin had sometimes glimpsed it in his eyes at certain unguarded moments. Nevertheless, he had never said it before, and Justin was immediately wrapped in a euphoric happiness unlike any he had ever known.

Brian Kinney thought he was beautiful. Thus, he was.

He stood at the door of his makeshift closet and reached for the dark-colored bag. He had worn them last on the night before he'd left for the city, when they'd gone to the Diner to make his farewell appearance, to say his good-byes. Then they'd come home, and he'd packed them away in silence, promising himself he would wear them again - soon, when Brian came to New York so they could renew their commitment to each other.

Then they had spent the hours of darkness making love, each drinking in the other, each dining on their bottomless passion as if they'd never dine again.

Brian would come; he had flown up into the morning believing that.

But it had not happened. Brian had not come, and now, Justin was struggling to accept an uncomfortable truth: he never would.

He unzipped the bag and wrapped his fingers in the downy softness of the beautiful, hand-woven sweater, before lifting it and rubbing it against his face.

He had only worn it for the man he loved - had promised himself that he would never wear it for anyone else.

But perhaps he'd been wrong.

Perhaps the time had come.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"It's possible it wasn't just a random attack." Lance Mathis didn't allow himself to flinch away from the anger he saw flaring in Brian Kinney's eyes, but it was a near thing, and he was forced to swallow a smile at the realization that this out-and-proud queer boy could step up and intimidate with the best of the macho men. He rather thought he wouldn't enjoy being the target of Kinney's rage.

For his part, Brian sat slouched behind his desk, careful to maintain his façade of rigid control. The flash of anger was quickly suppressed. "Yeah. I figured that out from the way Detective Horvath kept dancing around the issue and coming back to the same point over and over again, asking Emmett what he remembered and what his attackers might have said, and if he recognized anybody. Then he asked me pretty much the same thing. I didn't want to upset Emmett more than necessary, so I just let it pass."

Then he sat forward and clasped his hands under his chin. "But you work for me, so no more dancing. What are you getting at?"

Mathis smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "The simple truth is that there were plenty of potential targets on the streets at that hour. So it's possible that it wasn't just a coincidence - that Emmett was singled out deliberately."

Brian's smile was cold. "And why would anybody want to hurt Emmett?"

"Aside from the fact that he's a flamer of the first order," answered Mathis, "that's the question, isn't it?"

Brian said nothing for a while, simply studying his security chief's face. Then his eyes shifted to take in the expression of the brawny individual seated beside Mathis, and he spent another few minutes analyzing the expression he saw on the face of Drew Boyd.

"Sooooo," he said finally, "if you really believe that, why are you both in here, instead of down at the bar watching Emmett's back?"

Drew Boyd flashed a smile that had set hearts aflutter all over the world - both gay and straight worlds - when he'd become the model for Brown Athletics' new line of underwear. "Come on, Brian. You're not that dumb."

With a sigh he couldn't quite swallow, Brian stood and walked to the bank of security monitors and switched the system on, immediately banishing the shadows that had consumed the room and painting everything in a rainbow kaleidoscope of radiance. It took only a moment to pick out Emmett as strobe lights struck glints of ruby and topaz from his brilliantly striped shirt.

"He was wearing my coat," he said softly.

"Yes. And a hat that obscured his hair and face. And given that the two of you are about the same height, and that he exited the building through a doorway usually reserved for employees or management . . ."

Brian's eyes swept the crowd, scanning for familiar faces, for friends old and new (although the former were in shockingly short supply on this evening), for hot bodies and faces, potential problems, potential tricks. "Why would anybody . . ."

"At the risk of being repetitive," said Mathis, "you're not that dumb. You've made more than your share of enemies along the way - some of them very powerful - and your determination to be upfront about who you are - what you are - would be more than enough to piss off every homophobe in the country. You repeatedly, consistently, flaunt your lifestyle, and get in the face of anybody who crosses you. Jesus, Brian! The true miracle is probably that nobody ever went after you before."

Brian was silent for a while, watching the crowd and considering what Mathis had said. "But you don't know for sure."

"No," Mathis admitted, "but chalking everything up to coincidence is just asking for trouble, don't you think?"

Brian's smile was brittle. "You're wrong, by the way."

"Wrong how? You can't just stick your head in the sand and hope this will go away."

But Brian was shaking his head and lifting one hand to forestall the impending lecture. "Not that. You're wrong to assume that nobody ever tried before."

Mathis and Boyd exchanged glances, neither quite sure how to respond.

And Brian's smile became a soft huff of laughter. "I'm a fag, Boys. In Pittsburgh. And I never did see much point in hiding it. I just learned my lessons early. Such as the one that taught me that the only way to survive was to be tougher, faster, angrier, and smarter than any motherfucker who tried to intimidate me or 'put me in my place', as they termed it. Conventional wisdom claims that fags don't use their fists." He flexed his hands as old memories assailed him, and he smiled again. "I trained myself to be the exception to that rule."

"So," said Mathis, drawing the word out as he considered what Brian had said, "you're thinking that you can take care of yourself? That you don't need anyone to look after you?"

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the first twinges of a headache. "It's worked for thirty years."

"Yeah," said Mathis, "but the number - and power - of your enemies may have increased dramatically. Look, I understand that this offends you. That you're insulted by the idea that you might need a little protection, but it would be stupid to disregard the threat. And, before you get your tits in a real twist, let me assure you that I know how to be discreet. I've had plenty of experience dealing with . . . "

Brian didn't even try to suppress a grin. "Drama queens?"

A pale flush tinted the security chief's cheeks; he wasn't accustomed to being read so easily. "I was going to say prima donnas," he admitted.

Brian was suddenly distracted by a figure on the security screen, featuring a buff physique bulging out of a black wifebeater, topped by a classic face and a mop of dirty blonde hair. "Yeah, okay," he replied absently, abruptly bored with the entire conversation and turning to make good his escape. "But I don't want to see you, hear you, or notice you. You'll give a whole new meaning to the expression, on the down-low. Got it?"

"Understood," Mathis answered, exchanging quick smiles with his cousin. "And just so you know, Drew has agreed to keep an eye on Emmett, just in case we're wrong about their intentions."

Brian paused as he went toward the door, and allowed his eyes to drift down to examine the complete package of Drew Boyd. His smile was suddenly sensual. "Now there's a real hardship," he quipped.

Boyd blushed charmingly.

Brian laughed. "Is this a freebie, or do I have to pay the queer jock to ogle his favorite Nelly-bottom?"

The big quarterback got to his feet and moved forward so he could look down to study Brian's expression, eyes dwelling on the symmetry of that perfect face and the enticing shape of those sensual lips. "If necessary," he said softly, lifting one hand to trace the strong jawline, "I'd pay you."

Brian's lips compressed suddenly, as he suppressed another bark of laughter. "You can't afford me."

It was Drew's turn to laugh. "You really are an obnoxious little prick."

"Nothing little about it," Brian retorted.

"Yeah, right. I'm an NFL quarterback, you know, and a rich man. But that's beside the point. Charming as your perfect bubble butt may be . . ."

"Let me guess," Brian replied, in his best lesbianic lilt. "It can't compare to your one true love."

Drew simply smiled.

"Now if you boys will excuse me," said Brian, with a glance toward the monitors to make sure his target was still in his sites, "I have bigger fish to fry."

"Just . . . keep your eyes open, OK?" said Lance Mathis.

"Hard to do," Brian called over his shoulder, "when you're getting sucked off, but I'll think about it."

And he was gone, leaving the security chief and the quarterback to exchange rueful smiles. "Come on," said Mathis. "I think I'll send out a couple of guards to patrol outside, and to keep an eye on his car. If last night is any indication, that's a likely spot for trouble."

"Yeah," said Drew. "That's probably a good idea, since it's perfectly obvious he's not going to waste his time worrying about anything beyond his next blow job."

Mathis nodded. "No doubt he's an arrogant fucker. So why is it that I'm really beginning to like the little shit?"

Drew Boyd smiled. "Maybe because he's one of a kind?"

Mathis laughed. "Well, there's no arguing with that."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


When the buzzer went off, he almost ignored it. Who in the world would be at his door at this hour of the night?

Then he sighed. Who indeed?

When he hit the intercom, the mystery was solved. "Justin? I know it's late, Honey, but let me in. Please."

He didn't offer a verbal response, but he did hit the switch to unlock the door at the first floor entrance.

When Jennifer reached the landing outside his little hole-in-the-wall, Justin was waiting at the door. "Mom, what are you doing here?" he demanded, albeit softly. "It's two in the morning."

"I know," she replied as he backed up to let her in. "But I wanted to make sure everything was . . . " She paused and took a moment to study his face. "You were upset when you went tearing out of the tavern. And I didn't know if you . . ."

"If I what?"

She looked around the room, and spotted the suitcase lying open on his bed, and the clothing laid out around it.

"Guess that answers my question," she said with a gentle smile. "You're really going with Steven?"

"You have some objection?" His voice was very soft, but there was no way of disguising the bright spark of anger swelling within it.

"No, Honey," she said quickly. "No objection. Just a concern."

"About?"

She took off her coat and settled herself on the side of his bed - the only place available for sitting. "Justin, I'm not here to register my objections or voice my doubts. I just want to be sure that you're not rushing into something you might not be ready for."

He turned away and walked to the window where he stood gazing out into the darkness. "I think," he said finally, "that I've waited long enough. Don't you?"

"What I think doesn't really matter, does it?" she replied. "It's what you think that counts. Are you really ready to . . ."

She fell silent, unable to actually speak the words - but he heard them anyway.

"He's never coming, you know," he whispered. "And I'm tired of watching the door, watching the clock, watching time slipping away from me."

Jennifer took a deep breath, as she noted the rigid lines of his back and the set of his shoulders and recognized the emotion gripping him so firmly. He could tell himself it was over - that he was through with waiting and dreaming - but she knew better. Brian Kinney might be relegated to his past, but he was not yet ready to let go of everything they had been to each other. She sometimes wondered if he ever would be.

"You have to do what feels right to you, Honey," she said finally. "But I hope you're not just running away. Because that doesn't work, and I ought to know. I tried running away from the truth about your father, and look where that got us."

"Mom, please . . ."

"Okay," she said briskly, accepting the inevitable. He would talk when he was ready to talk, and not a moment sooner. "If I'm lucky, my cab is still waiting for me, so I should go. Do you need help with your packing? What about this?"

And she lifted the exquisitely soft cashmere sweater from its plastic cover, and started to fold it.

"No," he said quickly, hurrying forward to take the garment from her and place it carefully back in its protective bag. He offered her a smile, but it was only a pale reflection of his characteristic grin. "That's not exactly suitable for a tropical paradise, is it?"

"But . . ."

"No," he said firmly, picking up the garment bag and putting it back in the closet. "This stays here."

Jennifer did not bother to argue, as it was obvious there was a great deal he was not saying, and his expression warned her to back off.

She sighed then, realizing he had actually said very little, and she wondered when her lovely, big-hearted, overly impulsive, achingly candid son had become such a reclusive, closed-off stranger. She left him then, heavy-hearted and wondering if she had missed something, if there was anything she could do to fix what was so obviously broken, whether he admitted it or not.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It had been a night like most others.

When Brian had descended to the main floor of the club, he had been inundated with warm greetings and innuendos and propositions, gifted with smiles and come-hither looks and caresses that were not nearly as incidental as they seemed, subjected to bold invitations and explicit offers whispered in his ear, and he had taken advantage of a couple of them, allowing the target he'd spotted from his office to give him a most satisfactory blow job, and selecting a second companion - young and brunette with beautiful green eyes - to fuck within an inch of his young life. Then he'd stood at the bar for a while, drinking shot after shot of Jim Beam, watching the crowd, and talking a bit with Emmett and Drew and Alonzo.

Sexually, it had been satisfactory, as most of his nights were.

Beyond that, he didn't allow himself to think about it.

It was almost three when he decided that the night was no longer young, and it was time to seek solace in the oblivion of sleep. Alone. He deliberately ignored the significance of the hour as he retrieved his leather jacket - brand new, of course, and purchased just that day to replace the one damaged in the attack - from his office and headed toward the private exit.

From his vantage point near the stairs, Lance Mathis noted his employer's intention and spoke into his hand-held radio. Then he headed down, still speaking into his hand set and gesturing to get Drew Boyd's attention. Thus, by the time Brian got to the entrance to the exit tunnel, the security guards on patrol outside the building were already alerted to his approach and positioned to watch as he made his way to his car, and Lance, Drew, and Emmett had exited through a different door where they could observe the entrance to the back alley. Lance's car was parked nearby, in a spot he had chosen deliberately on his arrival at the club, to give him this particular vantage point at this juncture in time. In this way, Brian would only be out of sight for a few seconds; it was the perfect plan.

Of course, even the most perfect plan might be flawed if the fundamental information on which it's based is incorrect.

Lance took a deep breath, enjoying the briskness of a chill wind that was swirling odd bits of detritus through the air. After hours spent in the smoky/boozy/God-only-knows-what miasma of Babylon's atmosphere (or, as Brian referred to it, the 'faggot fragrance of freedom') the smell of the night air was invigorating. Drew, meanwhile, was busy adjusting the bright chartreuse scarf that Emmett had chosen to accent his gold and scarlet ensemble, tucking it tight into the neck of his pale quilted jacket to make sure Emmett didn't catch a chill.

They had been standing there for a few seconds, talking quietly, when they heard the roar of a motor, coming from the alley behind the club, a deep, pulsing, throaty growl that conjured up visions of leather-clad bodies astride powerful machines.

"What is that?" asked Emmett idly, just as Mathis jerked his radio from his belt and began to speak into it.

At that moment, three things happened simultaneously.

From the shadowed aperture of the alley, a dark figure emerged in a burst of speed, leather jacket, gloves, and helmet all a lightless black, contrasting beautifully against the crimson gleam of the classic 2002 Screamin' Eagle Harley Davidson customized Road King, and accelerated off into the night heading away from the individuals who could only stand and watch it go.

At almost the same moment, a huge, black Cadillac Escalade careened around an adjacent corner and raced off in the same direction, a lurid logo affixed to its rear window catching a ray from a passing street light to illuminate its features: a small gay-rights flag, obscured by a scrawled X that was not - quite - shaped like a swastika.

The third thing that happened was triggered by the second. Emmett staggered, and would have fallen if Drew had not grabbed him, as memory came roaring back, cued by the image of the logo. He closed his eyes as he saw it again, heard it again.

He had rolled himself into a ball as the vile, bellowing voice promised him he would know pain like he couldn't even imagine, and never again be young and beautiful, that he would be deformed and ugly like the filthy faggot he was, and the whole world would realize that he was no hero; then he'd felt the brutal blows from heavy boots striking him, heard the crunch of ribs cracking. And then - a beat of silence - and another voice, low-pitched and guttural. "Fuck! It's not him. We gotta get out of here."

"Oh, my God!" Emmett gasped, clinging to Drew's strong arms. "They weren't after me. It was Brian they wanted. All along, it was Brian."

Lance was already running toward his car, shouting instructions into his handset, and cursing himself for his failure to pay attention. He had taken every contingency into account in his efforts to protect his boss; every contingency - except one. He had made sure Brian's car was well-guarded and secure. Only Brian hadn't come to the club in his Corvette on this night, because he had not gone home in it the night before. The 'Vette had remained in its niche near the club all day. Instead, he had come on the bike - the bike that was now carrying him out into the darkness, away from those who would protect him, away from safety and into . . .

Lance forced himself to stop thinking that way. He didn't have time to speculate; he only had time to run . . . and hope.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 10


Brian Kinney was a free spirit. In fact, he was almost the poster child for the entire concept - an individual who lived his life according to his own unique principles (even if there were many who chose to believe that he had none). He never pretended to be anything other than what he was - gay (first and foremost), bright, unapologetic, brutally honest, intellectually gifted, ambitious, demanding, adventurous, promiscuous, and impatient with posturing of any kind. Unique, in all things, and unbound by the conventional morality others might try to apply to him, which was not to say that he didn't have a very explicit moral code of his own, but it was one he kept to himself, rarely allowing anyone to perceive it.

But the truth was that he never felt freer, or less restricted, or more unconfined, than when he was cruising down the road on his Harley, enjoying the throb of the power between his legs (and no, the deeper meaning of that particular metaphor was not lost on him).

This was especially true in the wee, small hours of the morning, when the streets were virtually deserted and he could safely ignore the limits applied by regulatory laws and traffic congestion. Thus, when he emerged from the alley behind Babylon, he was already close to maximum acceleration, and when he came to the next corner, where the narrow side street intersected a major thoroughfare, he didn't bother to slow down; he simply took the corner at speed by leaning into the left turn at a sharp angle, before roaring down the 4-lane boulevard, ignoring traffic lights and speed limits and even, to some degree, the laws of physics. If there had been a police patrol car around, he'd have been busted - and saved. But there wasn't, so he continued on his way, reveling in the freedom of the ride and the speed of his passage, and ignoring anything that might be lurking behind him, safely submerged beneath the growl of his engine.

He had never bothered to analyze how he felt when he was in this particular zone; it pretty much defied analysis anyway. But he occasionally imagined that the sensation was similar to what an eagle must feel when it soared into the sky, freeing itself from the chains of gravity.

Scraps of poetry always sang within him at such moments, and he understood the poet's musings on a visceral level - knew what it was to "slip the surly bonds of earth, and dance the sky on laughter-silvered wings."*

Flying.

The thought struck him before his rational mind had a chance to rein it in.

Flying. Like Justin.

He was suddenly not quite so enamored of the sensation, or so caught up in the revelry of the moment. So eager to reach for infinity. So free.

Up ahead, at a major intersection, he saw a traffic light shift from green to amber, and spotted the headlights of a bright red 18-wheeler sporting a familiar logo, as the driver began to ease the big rig forward. For a moment - a moment, he knew, of complete madness - he debated making a dash for it, pinning his hopes on being fast enough to roar through the intersection safely (somewhat) with a couple of inches to spare, before the truck could completely block the way.

Even though the rational part of his mind was insisting there was no way he could make it, he almost gave in to the impulse, almost listened to the tiny little whisper in the back of his mind which occasionally reminded him of how spectacular it would be to risk it all, to take the chance that might result in leaving this dark, dreary world in a blaze of glory. Like Cobain, or Morrison, or Hendrix. Forever young. Forever beautiful.

For the space of a heartbeat, he wavered and wondered. The same thing he always wondered: what would it be like? What came next, if, indeed, anything came next? How hard would it be to find out? And how easy would it be to just let everything go. Feel nothing. Know nothing.

As it happened, he was teetering on the verge of a pivotal moment, the confluence of a set of circumstances that would prove to be a major turning point in his life. Of course, he had no way of knowing that, as such moments occur in every life and are almost never recognized. Nevertheless, if he had given in to his impulse, and continued to accelerate, pouring on the speed, he would have cleared the intersection safely, if only by a couple of inches, while the truck would have blocked the way for the vehicle coming up behind him.

And he almost did, but survival instincts (flawed but imminently rational) kicked in and prompted him to slow down instead of speeding up; it would prove to be one of the costliest mistakes of his life.

He eased off the accelerator and coasted, biding his time and hoping the light would turn before he was forced to come to a complete stop, thoughts still spinning around his own personal intimations of mortality.

Thus, he did not see the huge, black SUV until it was upon him, until he felt a loop of rope settle over his shoulders and jerk itself tight as a ham-handed fist wrapped itself in the collar of his jacket and yanked him sideways off the bike. He was momentarily suspended in mid-air, then pulled toward the side of the big car, where he was slammed into the door, knocking the wind out of him and banging his head against the frame, before being dragged into the dark interior.

He was still struggling to regain his breath when he was thrown onto the floor, and felt himself grasped by rough hands as a heavy weight settled onto his back, while someone pulled his helmet from his head before shoving his face against the rough carpet.

Then he heard the hoarse laughter.

"Well, look what we got here, Fellas. I think we caught ourselves a real live faggot - and a pretty one too."

Brian had spent his whole life fighting his way out of tight corners while simultaneously making sure that anyone who dared to attack him lived to regret choosing him as a target. It was all he knew, and he saw no reason to change now, but when he tried to buck up and twist away from the weight on his back, he realized he was heavily outnumbered. There were at least four wide bodies around him, focused, for the moment, on keeping him face down and immobilized.

Nevertheless, it wasn't in his nature to simply settle back and accept whatever fate might have in store for him, so he spent a few seconds gathering himself and mastering his breathing. After a short time, he realized his assailants had assumed that he was too overwhelmed to fight back, perhaps even only semi-conscious; then he used the strength of his legs and body to thrust himself upwards, while twisting violently, using fists, arms, and elbows as weapons. Regardless of the gravity of his situation, he felt a surge of adrenaline-fueled glee as his elbow connected solidly with someone's face and he felt the sudden gush of warm blood from a broken nose. At the same time, he sank his fingers into the soft tissue beneath another's jawline and squeezed with all his strength, reducing his target to gasping for breath.

"Son of a bitch!" snarled a guttural voice in his ear, as he was grabbed from behind and immobilized by massive arms. "He sure don't hit like a fuckin' fairy."

For a few seconds, there was pandemonium, as Brian continued to struggle, managing to kick out and catch one of his attackers squarely in the balls and another in his kneecap. Both screamed as they went down.

But in the end, there were simply too many of them, and they were too big and too angry and too determined. Once more Brian was forced down, and this time his assailants had learned a valuable lesson. This time, they would take no chances. Moving quickly and roughly, they retrieved the rope they'd used to capture him, and bound him tightly so he could not fight back. Then two of them sat astride his prone body, to make sure he couldn't wriggle free as another jammed a gag in his mouth.

Immobilized by their combined weight, Brian was once more having to fight to breathe, but he was marginally surprised to note that he had yet to succumb to panic or desperation. Then he sensed that someone else had joined the circle around him - someone who had been content thus far to sit back and watch and enjoy the spectacle of his capture.

For a few moments, there was only silence and a slight shift among his attackers as they moved aside to grant the newcomer access.

Up to this point, Brian had been filled with rage, intent only on inflicting as much damage as he could. Then he felt a pressure against his shoulder as the man who had just knelt beside him leaned forward, bracing his weight against Brian's body, and spoke slowly, as if savoring the words, and there was no doubt that everyone inside the vehicle was listening intently.

"Get us out of here," said the voice, a deep, raspy baritone with just a hint of a brogue threading through the rough accent. "Before his fuckin' private army comes along. Take us to the rendezvous, where it's nice and private and dark, where we can take our time and enjoy every second of this special occasion." The man shifted forward suddenly, and Brian almost gagged from the stench of an unwashed body, as the voice dropped to a rough whisper. "I promise you this, Pretty Boy. We're gonna make it a night you'll never forget."

Brian felt the SUV accelerate hard, and turn sharply to the right, and he fought to draw a deep breath, remembering what lay in that direction. The warehouse district, where there were blocks and blocks of decrepit old storage buildings, most of them long-abandoned. A derelict place which was virtually unoccupied even during daylight hours, and ghostly at night, a place where few dared to walk.

A place where people went to lose themselves, or to dispose of things they did not want, things that were used up and broken.

Strangely, it was not until that moment that he actually began to understand the danger he was in. Understand and, with barely a second thought, accept it. He remembered the actions and the demeanors of the men who had attacked Emmett just the night before, and knew immediately that these were the same people, with the same intentions.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift, for just a moment, realizing he might very well not survive this encounter, and it struck him suddenly that it was one thing to contemplate relinquishing his hold on life and going out in the proverbial blaze of glory, but was very much another to accept that his life might be taken from him.

But he would face whatever came, as he always had, with few regrets.

He would have liked to have had a chance to say good-bye to the only three people who had ever really mattered to him - his son, his best friend, and the only man he would ever love.

He thought about Gus, and felt a deep abiding sadness that his child would have to grow up without a father, but he was pretty sure Gus would not really remember him any way, and the little boy would be well taken care of by his lesbian mothers.

He thought about Michael, who had always been there for him - almost; who had always loved him, even when he tried not to. But Michael had Ben now, and J.R. and Hunter. Michael no longer needed Brian to run interference, to stand up for him and protect him. He would survive the loss, no matter how much he might mourn.

But Justin . . . Justin would always remember, would never allow himself to forget. Brian could not deny that, knowing that regardless of all the things that kept them apart and kept them from living out their lives together, no one would ever love him as Justin loved him, just as no one would ever love Justin as Brian did. So it was inevitable that Justin would grieve for him and go on grieving - for a while. But eventually, he would recover and go on with his life so, in the end, the world would continue without Brian Kinney, as if he'd never lived at all. And maybe, said an ugly little voice inside him, it would have been better that way. Still, Brian hated to think about the pain his young lover - the only soul mate he would ever know - would endure.

So he would fight to survive, to prevail, to make it through, although he knew the odds were against him. Still, he would not die docile and indifferent, nor for lack of fighting to live. But in truth, he had to admit he had always known this day might come. Invincibility had always been a cloak he chose to wear, but it had been no more than a convenient illusion, worn for appearances only, to comfort those who depended on him and needed him. No one, after all, was immune to the viciousness of hatred and intolerance and the cruelest cut of all - random chance.

He took another deep breath, and tried to focus, to think, to find a glimmer of light in the darkness.

But as he thought, as he plotted, struggling for breath and desperate to find a way or make a way, he was aware of a small voice buried deep in his consciousness - a voice that whispered only one thing.

"Good-bye, Sunshine."

His respite, and the opportunity to contemplate his fate, was brief.

When he felt himself lifted roughly and slammed into a new position, as brutal hands ripped away his jacket and shirt and tore at his skin, he tried to brace himself, to summon the toughness he knew he would need as he once more became the center of attention for the thugs gathered around him. At that point, he couldn't concentrate on anything except the initial stages of pain which he knew was only going to get worse before it got better - if it ever got better - and his resolve to endure whatever he must in order to survive.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Mother-fucker!" snarled Lance Mathis, careening around the corner in pursuit of the motorcycle that had vanished into the night. "I should have known. It was right in front of my eyes, and I never saw . . ."

"What?" demanded Drew. "What was right in front of your eyes?"

"Boots!" snapped the security chief.

Drew and Emmett exchanged glances, each convinced that their companion had momentarily lost his mind in the urgency of the moment, as Lance floored the accelerator of the Land Rover. "Boots?" they both echoed, obviously confused.

"He was wearing boots," Lance explained impatiently. "A label queen like Kinney doesn't wear biker boots unless there's a reason for it. Versace, maybe, or Prada. But not biker's engineer boots. I saw them. I just didn't put two and two together. So I should have known."

"Ummm, Sweetie," said Emmett gently, "I hate to burst your bubble, but I've seen Brian wear boots lots of times, so there was no way . . ."

Mathis didn't bother to suppress the eye-roll. "Not like this. These were real boots - the kind Harley riders wear. And the jeans were a clue too. Not 7's or True Religion. Real, honest-to-God 501's. Not even close to what you'd expect from a man who probably wears Gucci underwear."

Emmett closed his eyes and visualized Brian as he'd looked when he'd come down from his office, playing his slinky, predatory walk for all it was worth, and realized that the security chief was right. On this night, Brian had forsaken sartorial elegance for street creds, and none of them had picked up on the clues.

"Still," he reasoned, "you shouldn't blame yourself. You've only just met Brian, so how could you know . . ."

Mathis smiled, but there was no warmth or joy in it. "I make it my business to know everything about my clients, and I learn fast. I picked Drew's brain for everything he knew, and I checked him out on line. And then I talked with his employees, who tend to see a man more clearly than his friends do. So trust me when I tell you that I know more than you think I do. As for knowing the man behind the mask . . ." He paused and glanced toward his cousin, and there was a nameless shadow in his eyes neither of his companions could quite identify. "I doubt that anybody - anywhere - really knows that man. Because he surrounds himself with walls - for protection - and never lets anyone inside to see who he really is."

Emmett's mouth gaped. "How did you know that?"

Mathis paused before answering, locked up for a moment in dark memories of another beautiful young man who had been forced to lock his heart away from the world. "I've seen it before," he said finally, his tone making it clear that he would say no more on the subject.

"Did you reach Horvath?" he asked, as Drew shoved his cell phone back into his pocket.

"Yeah. He's bringing the cavalry, but . . . "

"But?"

It was Emmett who dared to ask the question. "Where should he bring them? How do we find him?"

"Well," Lance replied, his voice subdued, "we can start right there."

Emmett turned to follow the direction of the security chief's gaze and gasped as he took in the sight of the big, powerful motorcycle lying half-way on its side, against the curb, with its front wheel jammed against the base of a street light.

Lance slowed and drove past the Harley, glancing at the bike only long enough to determine if it would reveal anything about the condition or location of its rider (it didn't), then coming to a stop as he reached the next intersection, his gaze sweeping left, then right. The only vehicle in sight was a big red 18-wheeler two blocks down on the left, signaling to make a right turn. In the opposite direction, there was nothing but an empty stretch of road disappearing into the darkness, beyond the spectral shape of a rusted-out railroad crossing signal just visible within the meager glow of the last functional streetlight.

"Now what?" asked Emmett, not quite able to suppress the fear that sent his voice into a higher octave.

Lance Mathis watched the truck make its swing onto the thoroughfare that would lead to the entrance ramp of Interstate 279 a few miles to the north and knew that, if the Escalade had managed to make that turn ahead of the big rig, it was probably long gone, and their chances of intercepting it almost non-existent.

Then he turned and looked off to his right, noting the shabby condition of the street and the buildings stretching off into the darkness.

He had almost nothing to go on, except for the vaguest suspicion of a hunch. From what he'd seen of Kinney, he would not go down easily or without a fight, and his abductors might not have any desire to prolong their time in the vehicle. If Mathis was right about their intentions - and he'd have bet big money that he was - then they wouldn't want to risk drawing attention to themselves or keeping their victim in the car for too long just in case he managed to find a way to upset their plans. Kinney was nothing if not resourceful, and it was a sure thing his attackers knew that as well as Mathis did.

"What's down there?" he asked abruptly, gesturing to the dark area to his right, wishing he'd had more time to study the city and familiarize himself with potential trouble spots.

Drew and Emmett exchanged uneasy glances. "It's the old warehouse district," Drew said finally, then hesitated before adding, "They call it the Dead Zone."

Lance nodded. "Yeah. I'm sure they do. So I think that's where we're going."

"What?" Emmett squawked. "Why?"

Lance sighed. "Because it's my best guess. Because it's all we've got. Because - if I'm wrong - then there's nowhere else to go."

"But what if . . ."

Lance spun the wheel to the right, and accelerated sharply. "Look. I don't really know anything. But my instinct tells me these bastards are too anxious to get on with their fun to waste time driving to some remote place out in the country. Especially when there's a pretty remote place close at hand. And if you're thinking that they could be anywhere by now, blazing up 279 at 100 mph and already out of reach, you're right. They could be, and if they are, the bottom line is that we're not going to find him. Not in time, and, maybe, not ever. So do we just give up and stop looking, or do we take the only chance we've got and go looking, and hope we've guessed right?"

For a moment, it looked like Emmett wanted to argue, but, in the end, he didn't, opting instead to settle into the back seat and chew on a ragged cuticle, as Drew once more pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the button to activate a pre-programmed number.

"The warehouse district," he said without preamble, when his call was answered. "And no sirens. If they hear us coming, there's no way he's coming out of there alive."

Then he paused and listened for a moment. "No, we don't know where exactly. We might even be completely wrong, but it's all we've got." Then he frowned. "Although you might want to send a patrol car to intercept a Coca-Cola truck that's barreling up toward 279. No way of being sure, but the driver might have seen something."

Lance darted a quick look at his cousin, before favoring him with a grin and a sharp thumbs up. Sometimes, out of sheer luck, amateurs spotted things that pros might miss.

He desperately hoped this was one of those times.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


He had promised himself he wouldn't pass out, and he'd succeeded - mostly. But he had drifted a bit, floating on the surface of nothingness after a particularly nasty kick to the groin coinciding with a blow to the diaphragm. But drifting had done nothing to dissuade his attackers; they had simply gone on with the bludgeoning, figuring - correctly - that he would feel it sharply enough once he surfaced from his near-fugue state.

Thus it was that he had no idea how much time had passed when the SUV stopped, and he was dragged from the back of the vehicle and trundled into a dark building, where the only light came from a group of lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls and overhead rails, a couple of handheld torches, and the flicker of a fire burning in a barrel. The concrete floor underfoot was stained and cracked, and the cavernous chamber into which he was dragged echoed in the darkness and was frigidly cold, with a layer of frost on the massive piles of debris that had accumulated in corners and against rusted metal walls.

Despite the fact that he'd been barely conscious only moments before, he did not go easily, struggling and fighting against his bonds as he was wrestled forward. He managed to drive a knee into the groin of one of his assailants and twist free for just a moment, just long enough to notice a small platform on the other side of the building, with another door, directly across from the one through which he'd been dragged, and the group of figures standing there in the shadows, looking down on his struggle.

He could discern nothing about them, except that there appeared to be four of them and  they were careful to stay away from any flicker of light and removed from the activity taking place below them, though close enough to see it all.

The big boys, he thought. The powers that be. He could not identify a single feature on a single face. And yet, he thought, he knew them. Not perhaps by name. But he knew nonetheless.

They wanted to revel in his pain and his terror - to bathe in his humiliation. They wanted a show.

He actually managed to dredge up a smile. They wanted a show, and he would give them one, but it would not, perhaps, be the one they were anticipating.

Then he was driven to his knees under the blow of fists joined together and swung from behind to connect with the base of his skull, forcing him to fight to remain conscious as he was jerked backward and slammed against an iron railing. Two sets of arms wrapped around him from behind to keep him still as three men scurried to chain him, spread-eagled, to the upright metal supports, securing him at wrists, shoulders, neck, torso and knees. When they were done, he was immobilized completely, with no room for error. A twist too far in one direction or a lunge in another would serve to cut off his air and render him more helpless than he already was.

Yet, he still struggled, unwilling - unable to simply give up and give in, managing, somehow, to head-butt the first of his attackers to step up and come close.

"Son of a bitch!" snarled the luckless assailant, as blood gushed from his nose. "I've had enough of his shit. Somebody give me a knife, and . . ."

"Not yet!" said a voice from the shadows - low-pitched, cultured, almost emotionless. Yet, somehow, everyone in the building sensed the tone of triumph threaded through each word.

"There is yet much to be done," the voice continued. "Much that our guest has to atone for."

Brian lifted his head and stared toward the speaker, and summoned up a rough, bloody smile. "What's the matter, Sport?" he asked. "You jealous because I wouldn't suck your dick?"

No one offered a verbal answer, although there was the faint whoosh of indrawn breath from one of the watchers as the massive individual with the horrendous body odor stepped forward to grasp Brian's left hand and proceeded to break two of his fingers, as nonchalantly as if he were snapping a stick.

Brian drew a hoarse breath, and bit down hard on his bottom lip, but he did not scream.

The finger breaker leaned forward and nuzzled his big nose against Brian's ear and spoke very softly. "You think you're gonna be able to resist all this, and hold your tongue? Think again, Baby Boy. Hold it all you want. Fuck, bite it off. But you're still gonna scream before we're done with you. And we'll see how much you like it when you get to choke on a real man's dick."

Despite the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, Brian looked up to meet the cretin's eyes, lips twisting into a smirk. "A real man?" he asked, ignoring the blood in his eyes and the agony in his hand. "Like you? Why don't you untie me, motherfucker, and we'll see who the real man is. Cause it looks to me like you boys are afraid to go one-on-one against this poor, helpless little faggot. And by the way, anything you stick in my mouth, you fucking better be prepared to lose."

"Yeah?" barked one of the others, a big redhead with a beer belly and a fleshy, pock-marked face. "You think you're a real tough guy, don't ya? But how about this, Pretty Boy? How you gonna feel when a real man reams your ass?"

"I'll let you know," Brian snapped, "if I happen to come across one."

"That's enough," said the cultured voice, slightly irritated now, and growing impatient. "Kindly keep your juvenile smack talking to yourselves. Mr. Kinney has more important things to learn tonight."

Brian managed a smile. "So," he said softly, "this is personal."

"Did you ever doubt it?" A new voice this time, higher-pitched. Less refined. "Did you really think you could just go on flaunting yourself, throwing your depraved lifestyle into the faces of decent people, and never have to answer for it?"

"Decent people," Brian repeated, eyes sweeping the circle of thugs around him. "Like this fine crew you've hired to do your dirty work?"

A third voice, muffled slightly, but amused and . . . something more. Hungry? Brian, for the first time, felt his blood run cold. He knew bald, unbridled hatred when he heard it, and he was hearing it now. "Do you really think we would soil our hands with the likes of you? No, Mr. Kinney." The syllables of his name were spoken like a curse, dripping venom. "It's time you learned your place. For too long, you've crossed the wrong people, and believed you could just walk away from the chaos you've created. You've wrecked homes, torn apart families, and defeated efforts to take back our streets and our country from abominations like you. So now, you've made yourself a target for people who don't appreciate being thwarted by a swaggering, child-molesting pervert. So let me tell you what's going to happen. You're going to pay the price for not staying in the shadows where your kind belong. When we get through with you, nobody's ever going to mistake you for a pretty boy again. You'll be lucky if anybody can even stand to look at you. Just imagine: the stud of Liberty Avenue, transformed into a freak - a broken, mangled lump of flesh that people will laugh at, and cringe away from. After tonight, no one's ever going to think you're beautiful again."

The voice dropped to a near whisper. "No one's ever going to fuck you again, or let you fuck them. Even if you were able to get it up, which - trust me - you won't be."

Brian stifled a sigh. So that was the plan. He was meant to survive this night, and wish he hadn't.

The hulking thug, the one he'd silently christened Stinky, stepped forward again, and grinned at him, exposing crooked, stained teeth. "Ain't that poetic justice, Sweetheart? And when we're done with all that, when we've reduced that sweet little face to raw hamburger, we've got a little parting gift for you." He paused and pulled an item from his pocket and held it up for Brian to see. The captive managed not to flinch away from the sight, but only just.

A syringe, obviously used, dirty, with a huge, bent needle. It didn't require much in the way of intuition to figure out what it meant.

"So how about it, Pretty Boy? Just imagine - the Stud of Liberty Avenue, broken and ugly and unfuckable, and wasting away from AIDS. Exactly what you and all of your kind deserve."

And there was suddenly no more time to respond, no more opportunity to defy or resist - no more nothing as the blows began to fall. As the bruisers hefted chains and cables and straps and set to work, using fists and boots and whatever else came to hand. He felt the sickening crunch as a steel-toe connected with his knee and smashed it like kindling; he felt ribs shatter, felt his left femur snap, felt his skin split and shred under the massive assault. And still he did not cry out.

Then there came a pause, as the thugs took a moment to catch their breath, and Brian managed to lift his head and peer through a curtain of blood to stare at them. Waiting. Just waiting.

At that moment, Stinky came close and wrapped his fist in Brian's hair, jerking his head back so they were virtually nose-to-nose. "Tell you what, Little Faggot," said the big man, with an ugly smile. "I'm feeling merciful tonight. So here's the thing. You're still gonna leave this place, when all's said and done, as a dickless fag. No gettin' away from that. Still gonna be broken and busted up and ugly as a fuckin' troll and infested with disease. But if you just put on your best manners and beg oh so sweetly, maybe we'll end it all early. Maybe you don't have to take another beating, and another, and another after that, before we turn you loose. So what do you say, Sweetheart? Want to kiss my ass and ask nicely."

Brian said nothing for a moment, simply staring back at the man who literally held the life of his captive in filthy, massive hands.

Then he slowly gathered himself, pursed his lips, and spat into the troll's face. "Fuck . . . you!" he said softly, not even bothering to raise his voice, knowing it was not necessary. Knowing the words would burn like acid and drive the man to new heights of rage, but finding the satisfaction earned in having said them was worth it all.

Stinky recoiled, and hastened to wipe away the spittle which had landed on his lips and nose. He would not, could not, admit to being embarrassed by his victim's defiance. Instead, he let himself ride the crest of the fury rising within him. Then inspiration struck, and he pulled an item from his coat pocket and knew instant gratification as he saw Brian close his eyes for just a second as he recognized it.

The snick of the switchblade was loud in the silence surrouding the two of them.

"Let's see how long you can stay quiet now," he laughed.

He wasted no time in going to work, slowly and deliberately carving shapes and symbols into his victim's body and face, his face alight with glee as he gloated in the power he had over the mutilated flesh under his hands.

Brian did not scream, but, after a while, he began to moan, only partially conscious by this time. Blood had pooled beneath him, and his attackers were driven to greater frenzy as they realized they were running out of time. Unless they wanted him dead - and the powers-that-be, watching from their elevated position, had been clear in their insistence that this was not what they wanted - it would be necessary for them to hurry and finish up. Especially since the best was yet to come, from their perspective. Although some among the spectators were beginning to have doubts.

One in particular. The softest of the voices, the one most filled with vitriol, finally spoke up. "If you go ahead with that blade," he called out, "you're going to kill him. And that's not what you're getting paid for. He needs to live - to suffer - to pay for his sins."

Stinky paused then, and looked down at the blade in his hand, still caught up in the vision of what he had intended to do with it. But he knew the man was right. If he went through with what they'd planned - if he castrated the pervert - there would be no extended justice. The little bastard, who had proved far tougher than anyone could have predicted, would simply bleed out and die, without ever knowing how much damage had been done, without ever feeling all of the pain he had earned.

And they still hadn't reaped the reward of hearing the motherfucker scream and beg for mercy.

"Shit!" he muttered, growing angrier by the moment. No way was he going to let this little fucker get the best of him. No way . . .

He took a step back then, and looked around, waiting for inspiration to strike. And when it did, the thugs around him, the ones who had been enthusiastic participants in the destruction of their victim up to this second, were suddenly not so sure they wanted to be a part of what came next as they read the cold, monstrous look in his eyes.

Stinky moved to a corner where a rough container of old, rusted tools and pieces of iron spilled its contents across the dirty floor. He dug through the assortment and finally found exactly what he was looking for.

But he didn't immediately come back to resume his assault against his victim's body. Instead, he walked to the barrel where they had built a fire from old broken shards of lumber, and thrust the item he'd found, a yard-long length of angle iron, in to the heart of the flames.

"Strip him," he instructed his gang of thugs after staring into the flames for a few minutes. "Maybe we can't afford to let him bleed out, but there's more than one way to fuck him up ". . . his smile was an ugly, twisted thing . . . "so he can't ever fuck up anybody else again."

Brian, only half conscious by this time, tried to muster enough strength to fight off the hands that reached for him, but, in the end, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. They didn't bother to try to unbutton and remove his jeans the conventional way. They simply grabbed the switchblade and cut them off, not caring how many cuts they inflicted on skin in the process.

He struggled to breathe, to hold on to his determination, his sanity, but he didn't know if he could face this.

Nevertheless, he struggled to brace himself as straight as possible, trying to ignore the icy touch of the frigid metal against his bare skin and the nasty, hungry gleams of the eyes watching him, reveling in his helplessness and the damage they had managed to inflict on his body. For his part, he didn't bother to look too closely, knowing what he'd see. He figured he'd see it soon enough, unless these motherfuckers miscalculated and killed him.

A development, he thought, which would not be without certain advantages.

But there was no time now to think about that, for Stinky was coming toward him, and there was no doubt that this would prove to be the critical moment of the entire fucking night.

The smile on the thug's face was lurid, his eyes glittering with an unholy glee and a compulsion to inflict pain, to dispense his ugly brand of justice, reflecting the orange glow of the object he held in his hand - the length of angle iron fresh from the fire.

"Time's up, Pretty Boy," said Stinky, hefting the piece of metal like a baseball bat. "If you were thinking you'd get through this night without screaming, think again." Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Oh, and when we're done with you, we're gonna take care of your pretty little boytoy. You didn't really think we'd forget about him, did you?"

Brian glanced over toward the observation platform and saw one of the watchers step forward and lean into the railing in front of him, limned for a moment in a pale gleam of light, with eagerness and impatience written in every line of his body. The man spoke then, so softly that his words were barely audible, but there was no mistaking the malice in them.

"Now you learn the most important lesson of your life, Kinney - the wages of sin."

Brian closed his eyes and reached desperately for some kind of control, some kind of strength, but all he could hear was the snide snicker of shared laughter rising from hell's version of a peanut gallery.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"New York never sleeps," said Daphne, hoisting her glass toward her companion. "And it's a fucking miracle."

Michael just smiled, not bothering to offer a verbal response, appreciating the coldness of his vodka-rocks glass as he drew it across his forehead in an effort (probably futile) to ease the headache pounding behind his eyes.

The hotel bar was dark and almost deserted, except for a few diehards scattered among the shadows. The two from Pittsburgh were the only ones who were not alone. Even so, neither of them seemed eager to make much effort to communicate.

"I couldn't sleep," Daphne volunteered after a few silent minutes. "Couldn't even bring myself to go to bed. Don't know why."

Michael offered up a small smile. "Me neither. And it's funny because I'm really tired. And I never have trouble sleeping." He thought about that for a moment, before shaking his head. "Well - almost never."

Daphne nodded, contemplating the dark liquid in her glass. "Something bothering you?" she asked finally.

He shrugged, aware only of a vague sense of unease, of something being not quite right. "I don't think so, but . . ."

"But there must be something," said the voice of a new arrival, leaning in over his shoulder.

Lindsey slid onto the bar stool next to him, and signaled the bartender to bring another round for her friends and one of Daphne's chosen poison for herself.

"You too?" asked Michael. "Where's your other half?"

Lindsey smiled. "Sleeping the sleep of the innocent," she replied. "Mel doesn't do insomnia."

Michael nodded. "Yeah. Ben too. And my mother is probably sawing wood loud enough to keep an entire floor awake."

"I resent that." Debbie took the stool next to Daphne after greeting Michael with her customary head-slap, which did absolutely nothing to assuage his headache.

"Ma," he whined. "What the fuck are you doing up?"

"How do I know?" she complained. "The bed's too soft? The traffic's too loud? The room smells like disinfectant? Something."

"Yeah," said Michael after a while. "Something."

Debbie ordered her drink, and no one was even slightly surprised when Ben showed up a few seconds later, rumpled and sleepy, but obviously concerned. He stood behind Michael, draping his arms around his young mate's shoulders. "I woke up," he explained, "and you were gone. I was concerned."

"Sorry," Michael answered, dropping a kiss on his husband's hand. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"So," Ben went on after a pause, "what's this? You guys plotting something or . . ."

It was Lindsey who interrupted. "Actually, we're all pretty much wondering the same thing. We're here, and we have no idea why."

"You don't think there's something wrong, do you?" That was Debbie, ordinarily the most pragmatic of individuals, though occasionally given to leaping blindly to unwarranted conclusions. It seemed, however, that even she was not immune to the macabre fancies arising from the wee small hours of the morning.

"What could be wrong?" asked Ben.

No one answered for a while. Then Daphne voiced her concern. "Well, I don't know about anything else, but Justin could be making the biggest mistake of his life."

"What?" That was Debbie, shrill, almost resentful. "What the fuck does that mean? He just had the night of his life, and he's off to fucking Tahiti, for Christ's sake. With the man of his dreams, by the way, so how . . ."

Daphne just stared at her, waiting for reality to kick in. When it didn't, she sighed and offered up a succinct explanation. "The 'man of his dreams' is in Pittsburgh, Debbie. And always will be."

Debbie made a 'pfft" sound in her throat. "So what? He's supposed to spend his whole life grieving over the Mighty Kinney?" She drained her drink in one gulp. "Brian had his chance, and blew it. And Sunshine's moving on, just like he should."

Daphne looked up then and saw that Michael had turned to look at her, understanding exactly what she was saying. "You know, Ma," he said slowly, "just because Steven is rich and famous and a member of New York's high society doesn't make him right for Justin. Doesn't guarantee that he can make Justin happy."

"And you think Brian can?" she laughed. "Dream on, Michael. Brian is never going to change, never going to . . ."

"I'll drink to that," said Lindsey suddenly, "and pray to the powers that be that you're right."

She turned then, and met Ben's eyes, and saw something flicker there, a flash of understanding, of approval, but she was still surprised when the professor lifted the drink the bartender had just handed him, and said firmly. "To Brian!"

"To Brian!" echoed the others around him, hoisting their glasses, except for Debbie who looked as if she thought they all needed their heads examined.

Lindsey and Michael exchanged smiles, both suddenly grateful that Melanie was not present to add her typical ascerbic comment.

"You can all think what you want," Debbie observed finally, "but Sunshine's gonna be just fine without the Stud of Liberty Avenue."

Even though several of them wanted to voice their disagreement, it was Daphne who had the last word, and she spoke it while staring into her glass, her eyes dark with certainty. "You're wrong, Debbie. He may survive; he may endure, he may have success beyond his wildest dreams, but he's never going to be 'just fine' as long as Brian is not by his side. And one more thing." She paused, and her smile grew wistful. "This was not the 'night of his life'. That happened years ago, on the night he first 'saw the face of God'."

She rose then and made her way to the door, moving carefully to avoid weaving.

"Now what," said Debbie into the silence that enveloped the group, "is that supposed to mean?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


None of the three men in the car dared to voice it, but they were all keenly aware of the passage of time.

Emmett, particularly, was having trouble controlling his breathing and the tendrils of panic rising in his mind. It had been too long, and every second that elapsed might very well be Brian's last.

They had been cruising the warehouse district for half an hour, chasing shadows, seeking some sign, some indication, that the SUV had been here before them, the difficulty of their task compounded by the need for discretion. They dared not let their prey know they were nearby, for the thugs would surely make quick work of their victim if they realized they had been discovered.

Emmett's eyes smarted from peering into shadows, trying to see what was hidden, trying to pierce the darkness.

"This is hopeless," muttered Drew as they pulled around a corner, and his voice was loud in the stillness, broken only by the moaning of the wind and the whoosh of the tires on the slushy surface of the streets. Though there was no more ice on the pavement, there was still a wintery residue, and dirty snow was still packed along the edges.

Emmett opened his mouth to voice his own growing concern, when he spotted something as they rolled past the entrance to a tiny alley off to his left.

"Stop!" he said sharply. "Back up."

Lance looked up and met Emmett's eyes in the mirror. "What?"

"In the alley, there was . . . something."

Lance sighed. He doubted that Emmett had managed to note something both he and Drew had missed, but he was desperate enough by this time to grab for any nuance of a clue.

He backed up slowly, and peered into the yawing blackness at the mouth of the tiny passageway that was barely wide enough to be termed an alley.

"What do you . . ."

"Tire tracks," said Drew suddenly. "Look past the entrance. There are tracks in the snow back there."

Lance paused and tried to see what the others had noticed. Was there something there, or was it merely wishful thinking? He drew a deep breath, realizing that, at this point, it didn't make much difference. They were out of time; Brian was almost certainly out of time, and this was as good a direction as any.

"Make the call," he said tersely, as he eased into the alley before parking the car to block the entrance. Then he got out of the car.

Drew spent a few seconds looking around to get his bearings; then he spoke into his cell phone briefly before making his exit into the frigid night.

When Emmett moved to follow, Drew was standing in his way. "Emmett," he said softly, almost whispering, "you need to wait here, Honey. This is no place for . . ."

"For what?" Emmett demanded. "For a silly little faggot who couldn't possible help to rescue a friend? Get out of my way, Drew."

"But . . ."

"He's my friend, and I'm going."

From the other side of the car, Lance met his cousin's eyes. "I think you better listen to him," he said gently.

Without another word, the three started down the alley.

There were three buildings in the vicinity, all dark and foreboding and on the verge of collapse, and Lance knew they dared not pass any of them up in the assumption that they couldn't possibly be what they were looking for. There was simply no way to be sure.

So they spent a few minutes checking out the first one which opened onto another alley intersecting the one they were on, at right angles. They were just finishing up, hoping they hadn't missed anything, when Drew suddenly stiffened.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, head turning frantically to locate the source of the sound.

"Hear what?" Lance demanded.

"I'm not sure. A rattling, like chains or something. Or . . ."

And then there was no more need for speculation or uncertainty as a scream split the night, a scream, thought Emmett, he would never be able to forget, no matter how long he lived. The scream of a damned soul, in torment beyond imagining.

"Jesus!" he breathed, but there was no time to gather himself, as Lance and Drew had already taken off at a dead run toward the dark hulk of the next building down.

As they approached, the scream seemed to waver and fall away; and then there was another sound, possibly even more horrible than the scream had been.

There was no mistaking the sound of laughter.

The three rounded the corner and saw the SUV blocking their passage, with another car beyond it, dark and big but only the rear fender was visible as it was parked just around the corner of an intersecting alley. Still, there was no way they could take the time to investigate, all three of them intent on only one thing - to get to Brian, to prevent a repeat of whatever had driven him to that inhuman scream.

Brian Kinney did not scream. It simply did not compute.

Nevertheless, they were only half-way to the doorway on the other side of the SUV when they heard it again.

"Wait," Lance shouted desperately as Emmett threw himself forward, knowing nothing except that he could not endure that sound for another second. "There are guards."

But Emmett was beyond caring, beyond caution. He had to get to Brian, had to . . .

The warning shout came from a thug who had been at the opposite end of the alley when they'd made their approach, and occurred just as Emmett burst through the doorway, with Drew and Lance on his heels.

Then he slammed to a stop, suddenly unable to move a single muscle as he took in the terrible, bloody tableau in front of him.

Brian, chained up like a cut of meat, hanging against a metal railing, naked and bleeding and bludgeoned to the point where he was unrecognizable, with four hulking bruisers gathered around him, and the frigid air thick with the stench of scorched flesh. Three of the thugs were frozen in shock, the weapons they had used on him still in their hands. But the fourth - the biggest of them all - was still moving.

"Son of a bitch!" he snarled, still intent on his victim, as he lifted the heavy piece of red-hot angle iron away from its contact with Brian's torso, and swung it upwards,attempting to put all his weight behind it. Fortunately, he was slightly off-balance and staggered a bit, but when it impacted against the side of Brian's head, there was a terrible crunching sound, and the scream was silenced.

Emmett started forward then, frantic to reach his friend, frantic to stop this horror, but he knew he wouldn't get there in time. The ogre seemed to be so caught up in bloodlust that he didn't care that he'd been caught or what might happen next.

He lifted the piece of metal again and aimed it toward Brian's groin, determined to complete his task.

Emmett screamed then and . . .

Three shots rang out.

The thug went down like a broken doll, and the only sound was Emmett's sobbing, and the rising howl of sirens in the distance.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


* High Flight -- John Magee Jr.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 11:


"Call 911," shouted Lance, as he raced forward with his 9mm Beretta still clasped in his hand, obviously intent on the only thing that mattered now - getting to Brian and changing the focus of the awful scenario laid out before them. It was no longer about seeking and finding; it was now about saving. "And Horvath. Get them here now."

Drew Boyd was already dialing, looking around as he did so, and watching as the group of thugs ran for the exit, stumbling over each other in their desperation, perfectly content to leave their fallen comrade behind. He noted too that there was another door on the far side of the decrepit old building, and he thought he'd noticed a flurry of motion there as he and his companions had raced into the room, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't waste time worrying about it; there were more important things to do. He had to help Brian; that had to be the primary focus, but he also had to . . . he wasn't even sure how to phrase it. He had to protect Emmett, to rescue him from the hellhole into which he'd fallen, but he wasn't certain that such a rescue was possible, for Emmett was moving through his own version of perdition, so bound up in the perception of horror, he seemed unaware of anything else. He had recoiled away from the staccato sound of the gunshots as Lance fired, and since that time, his face had been white and vacant and terrified - the classic expression of an individual in the first stages of shock - and he had avoided looking at the body crumpled on the dirty concrete beside the metal posts where Brian was chained.

Lance was the first to reach Brian and forced himself to pause and take a deep breath before attempting to release Brian's bonds. Every primal instinct within him was screaming that he must hurry, that any hesitation might be fatal, but another voice - more reasoned, less panicked - told him that his employer's life was literally in his hands, and haste might be more lethal than delay. He dared not risk doing more harm than good.

"Emmett," he shouted as he stepped close to wrap his arms around Brian and shift him into a less awkward position, easing the weight off strained arms and shoulders. "Get over here. I need help to get him down without hurting him."

Until that moment, Emmett had remained frozen, almost petrified, but he came to himself quickly, in the necessity of the moment. Then he leapt forward, trying to figure out how best to aid his friend, and, in the extremity of his desperation, he stepped over the body of the dead thug without a second glance.

"See if you can take some of his weight while I loosen these chains," Lance instructed. "We can't let him fall."

Emmett did not hesitate, stepping close and easing his arms under Brian's to hold him close, noticing the slickness of blood and its coppery stench, and managing to avoid the band of charred flesh that stretched across the left side of Brian's chest, from just below the nipple to the lower edge of the rib cage. He was careful to keep his touch as light and gentle as possible, and noticed Lance was doing the same. Nevertheless, there was no avoiding a certain amount of jostling, and they had barely begun the process of freeing him when Brian groaned, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to rise from the bottom of his belly.

Emmett at first did not understand why the sound, ugly and painful as it was, generated a tiny burst of joy within him. Then he realized; it was the first clear indication that Brian was alive. Until that moment, he had not been sure.

When the chains were loosened, he shifted Brian as easily as if he'd been a baby, and laid him across his own lap, cradling him and wrapping him close. When Lance shucked his own jacket and draped it over Brian's shoulders, Emmett tucked it around him, noticing that Brian was beginning to shiver. Then he looked up at Drew, who was tucking his phone back into his pocket. Without a moment of hesitation, the quarterback slipped out of his suede Hugo Boss and spread it over Brian's lower limbs, completing a small cocoon of warmth around the bruised and battered body.

Brian made no sound, but Emmett thought he felt a tiny movement, not quite a tremor, as if the chilled body were shifting closer, seeking any nuance of comfort it could find.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It was an ocean, but not like any ocean he'd ever known before. It had currents and undercurrents, surges and tides, ripples and eddies. But there was no real sensation of vastness, no bouyancy, no wetness, just . . . pain, in every conceivable variety, in every possible lurid color, endless and bottomless, ranging from a deep crimson purple throb to fiery, jagged blades of molten gold.

He'd never imagined such pain, and knew he could not tolerate it for long. Knew that if he just let go, just let himself sink into the darkness reaching up from below with greedy fingers, the pain would end.

Only . . . he couldn't. Not yet.

There was one thing he had to do - one task yet to complete, a task that mattered more than the agony piercing every inch of his body and flowing like liquid glass through his veins. He wasn't even completely certain what the words meant, but he could still hear them just the same, repeating like a broken record, in a voice as intensely freezing cold as the currents through which he was drifting were boiling hot.

". . . when we're done with you, we're gonna take care of your pretty little boytoy. You didn't really think we'd forget about him, did you?"

The pain was coming in waves, each stronger and more fierce than the last, but above it, or below it, or beyond it, there was something else - something seeking to offer solace, even though there was no real solace to be found. Still, there was a glimmer of soft radiance in all the lurid layers of color around him, a beacon amid the technicolor fury of the storm.

A voice murmuring nonsense words - meaningless but rhythmic and compelling.

"Brian, don't you dare die on me, Brian. Are you listening to me? Brian, you better not die on me."

The litany went on and on, and then repeated itself, never pausing, never faltering.

A ray of pure light breaking through bands of lurid color.

He could not - quite - reach it. But he had to reach it. There was no other choice. The price of failure was simply too high to contemplate.

Emmett. The name came to him suddenly. That was the name of his ray of light. Strange. Something inside him insisted that it should have been Michael, although he really couldn't attach faces or memories to either name.

But it wouldn't really matter. The only thing that did matter was the message - if he could just summon up the strength - and the will - to speak it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The ambulance arrived in a garish, brilliant rotation of scarlet lights reflecting on drifts of dirty snow, and the paramedics rushed forward, pushing a gurney ahead of them, focused only on taking whatever steps were necessary to save the life of their patient. Emmett greeted their arrival with a sense of relief, eager to let them take over. His efforts at revival had proven useless, and he was feeling more and more helpless, and less and less confidant.

Brian was deathly white, and his breathing had grown progressively more shallow as they'd waited for the arrival of the emergency team. After doing all that he could think of to protect his employer, Lance had gone to meet Horvath and the police and to aid in the search of the area and efforts to learn the identity of the attackers, who had managed to make their escape prior to the arrival of the police.

Meanwhile, Drew hovered nearby, after dragging the fire barrel closer to try to provide a little warmth for Emmett and the figure draped across in his lap.

The body of the man Lance had shot lay ignored, checked by Lance only briefly to determine that the thug was, indeed, dead, although the three holes in his head was a pretty fair indicator.

Emmett shifted his position to give the ambulance attendants better access to Brian's torso, but he was surprised. when they attempted to move Brian to the stretcher they had placed nearby, to find it was not such a simple task as they'd expected. Brian's fist was clinched tight around Emmett's lapel, so tight it could not be dislodged. Emmett and Drew both attempted to pry it loose, but with no luck. Then, to the astonishment of the entire group, the fist clinched tighter and, against all odds, Brian stirred and opened his eyes to stare directly into Emmett's face.

"Brian?" Emmett whispered, suddenly unable to breathe as he was impaled by hazel eyes, as sharp and keen as a blade. "Jesus, you're awake. What is it you . . ."

Brian's lips moved, but he hadn't enough breath to create sound.

Emmett gestured to the ambulance personnel, to keep them from lifting their patient away from him; then he leaned close, putting his ear against Brian's lips.

At first, there was only the faint susurration of broken breath. Then he heard it - gasping, barely audible, but definite.

"Justin's . . . next. Don't . . . call him."

The last word barely spoken, riding on a long, slow sigh into oblivion, a languid drift down into a layer of ocean where there was, at long last, no more pain.

The second time the emergency team attempted to move him to the gurney, he was as limp and unresisting as a rag doll.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I'm riding with him," Emmett declared to Drew, as the paramedics prepared the patient for transport, "but you have to give Detective Horvath a message for me. It's really important."

"Okay." By this time, Drew would have agreed to anything in order to ease the incipient panic he easily read in Emmett's demeanor. "What do I tell him?"

Emmett drew a deep breath. "He said Justin is in danger. You have to tell Horvath to make sure he stays away. If he comes back here . . ."

Drew sighed. "That's why he regained consciousness, isn't it? To make sure Justin would be protected."

Emmett nodded, tears welling in his eyes. "And I'll be damned if I'm going to take a chance on him surviving this horror, only to wake up and find out the person he loves more than life itself was taken from him."

Drew stared down at Brian's face and watched as the paramedics wrapped him in insulated blankets. He managed not to cringe away from the sight of the mangled body, but only barely. "You really think," he whispered, "that he's going to survive this?"

'He's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake," Emmett snapped, barely able to contemplate the possibility of a world where such a man could be reduced to a broken memory. "He'll survive. You'll see."

Drew did not argue, choosing instead to wrap his arms around Emmett and offer the only comfort he had to give - the warmth of a lover's touch.

"Sir," said one of the paramedics urgently as he adjusted the last strap on the stretcher, "we have to go. We need to get him to a trauma center, right now."

Emmett hastened to follow. "How bad is it?" he asked, as he climbed into the back of the ambulance.

One of the paramedics began to hook the patient up to the medical equipment in the vehicle while another spoke into a radio handset. No one volunteered an answer to Emmett's question, but he didn't really need one.

He had never seen so much blood, he thought. And he would never have imagined that a human body could take so much punishment and . . . He tucked himself safely into a corner as the ambulance began to move, siren already screaming.

Brian was so still, so limp, so . . .

But he wouldn't think about that. He would put on his best Scarlet O'Hara persona, and trust that tomorrow would be a better day. A tomorrow, confirmed by a quick glance out the ambulance's rear window, which was already upon them.

As the emergency vehicle went streaking through the dawn-kissed streets of the city, he managed to stay out of the way of the attendants as they worked over Brian with growing urgency, but he got close enough to reach out and enfold Brian's cold fingers in his own hand. It wasn't much, but it was all he could do. his only means of speaking to his old friend, to say, "I'm here, and I'm not going to leave you."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Carl Horvath stood in the middle of the old warehouse, staring down at the body crumpled at his feet, and was suddenly aware of every one of his years. How, he wondered, had he come to this point? When had he made the transformation from Carl Horvath, good, diligent, competent, run-of-the-mill detective, just a few years shy of retirement, to . . . he had to stifle a small, weary smile, despite the grimness of the moment . . . Carl Horvath, defender of Gayopolis? It seemed appropriate, somehow, to think in terms that would be perfectly clear to his not-quite-legitimate stepson.

How had it come to this, he wondered again. And how in God's name had Brian Kinney been transformed from primo badboy/pain in the collective ass of every hypocritical politician and every pulpit-pounding homophobe, to a helpless victim?

One of his not-quite-wife's favorite expressions came to mind. "Don't tell me the world's not going to shit," he muttered, not quite under his breath.

Apparently, he'd spoken more loudly than he'd intended, as Lance Mathis paused in the act of lighting a cigarette, and gave the cop a small, grim smile. "The world is going to shit," he confirmed.

Horvath nodded and took a deep breath. Time to put personal concerns aside, and deal with the business at hand, ugly and tragic as it might be.

"I assume you've got a license for the gun," he said, not quite making it a question.

"I do," replied the security chief, "but if I didn't, I still would have shot him." He paused, taking a deep drag of his Marlboro before continuing. "Though I'd have preferred to have had a chance to dispense a little justice of my own before granting him the peace of the grave."

Horvath glanced over toward the iron bars where the thug's victim had been chained and barely managed not to cringe away from the pools of blood lying black against the broken cement. "That bad, huh?"

Lance shuddered. "Count your blessings that you didn't see what they did to him. It's funny, you know. You always think you'll get used to it as time goes by, but you never do."

Drew Boyd arrived as his cousin was speaking and reached out to lay a comforting hand on Mathis' shoulder. "If you could get used to that, you wouldn't be human."

Mathis just nodded, before turning to allow his eyes to sweep his surroundings. "Crime scene techs on their way?"

Horvath nodded. "And the coroner," he added. Then he knelt by the body at his feet and studied the thug's face, noting the expression of surprised disbelief with some small measure of satisfaction. He wasn't supposed to allow himself any emotional involvement with his cases, but he thought Boyd's observation would extend to cover this situation. He would have had to be less than human not to feel some relief that this cretin had died before he could complete his unholy task.

The man was lying on his side with the piece of angle iron he had used as a weapon still clutched in his hand, his arm extended over his head. The sleeve of his jacket had ridden up, revealing the edge of a dark mark on his forearm. Moving carefully, more to avoid the wrath of the coroner for tampering with the body than out of any nuance of respect for the dead, Horvath pushed the sleeve higher and stared at the inked figure he'd exposed.

"Shit!" said Mathis, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with thumb and forefinger.

"What?" asked Drew. "What is that?"

Horvath gazed at the crude symbol - the swastika with three six's adorning its arms, accented by garish droplets of bright red. "Prison tattoo," he explained. "Aryan Brotherhood."

He then proceeded to search the dead man's clothing, removing the wallet he found in the rear pocket of dirty jeans.

The driver's license showed an address in northeastern Ohio, and provided the name of the bearer: Andrew O'Malley.

"Off hand," the detective said slowly, "I'd guess we've got ourselves a member of the Order of the Blood."

"Jesus!" whispered Drew. "You think Brian pissed off some white supremacy nut job?"

"No," Horvath said quietly. "This is just a thug-for-hire, with delusions of grandeur. No doubt Brian pissed off a lot of people through the years, but this . . . " He paused to glance once more toward the carnage on the floor around him. "This had to be personal. It wasn't enough that they kill him. They wanted to destroy him - break him - before he died."

Mathis nodded his agreement. Then, unexpectedly, he dredged up a tiny smile. "Proving," he drawled, "that they didn't know him very well."

"What do you mean?" asked Drew, who didn't know Brian nearly as well as Emmett did. Not even as well as Mathis did, because the security chief always made it his first priority to get to know his clients intimately.

Mathis sighed. "He'd die first."

"Still might," Horvath pointed out reluctantly.

Mathis nodded. "I know. But still unbroken."

Horvath smiled. "I can't even begin to tell you how many times I had to bite my tongue to keep from biting his head off, or literally sit on my hands to avoid taking a swing at him. God! He could be the most infuriating, demanding, cocksure, in-your-face bastard you can even imagine. But . . ."

"But?" Drew prompted.

"At the end of the day, you had to admit he had balls the size of melons, and more nerve than sense. He . . . re-educated me, I guess. Until I came face-to-face with him, I never realized that a queer could also be a real man." He smiled again. "Even if he was more concerned with how his ass looked in skin-tight leather than how to defend himself. He was almost fearless - something the rest of the world doesn't expect . . . from a fag."

He flushed as he caught Drew Boyd's eye. "Sorry, Drew. It was just heterosexual ignorance. Until Debbie came into my life, I didn't have a clue."

A bustle at the doorway announced the arrival of the crime scene specialists, and Horvath rose to his feet with a sigh. "Now for the hard part," he said wearily.

"Reports?" asked Mathis. "Paperwork? Facing the press who are probably already on their way as we speak?"

"All of the above," answered the detective. "But first things first. Facing the press - and my bosses - will be child's play, compared to facing Debbie."

"Wait," said Drew quickly. "You can't. Not until you know the rest."

He then proceeded to relay Emmett's message - and Brian's request - and both Horvath and Mathis understood immediately that Kinney had managed, in the face of insurmountable odds, to confirm their opinions of him.

Balls the size of melons indeed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The group of Pittsburgh tourists found it difficult to agree on much of anything as they prepared for a day of sightseeing in the city, but there was absolutely no argument about where to have breakfast. One could not, after all, spend a day in New York without dropping in, at least once, at the Brooklyn Diner.

Thus it was that the group, minus only Jennifer who had caught an early flight to Boston to visit family, found itself wandering down W. 57th Street just after nine AM, debating the merits of Tony Bennett's Cinnamon-Raisin-Pecan French Toast (Calvin's choice) as opposed to the iconic delights of Smoked Salmon on a Bagel (Melanie's preference).

The morning was cold but dry, and they were looking forward to a busy, enjoyable day. Melanie and Lindsey seemed particularly glad to be present, and happy with the chance to catch up and renew connections. Living in Toronto had proven to be a blessing for them in many ways, but it had not come without certain costs.

They had missed their friends - some more than others - and one of them had missed one particular old friend so intensely she sometimes wondered if the move had been worth it. But she had never dared to voice that idea, knowing how much emotional turmoil it would generate.

Still, this would be a lovely day, and even if she could not speak face-to-face with the one she missed so much, she could pump their other friends for information and learn all there was to learn about how Brian was faring - without Justin.

Lindsey frowned a bit over that thought. She wondered if she would ever quite be able to cast off the tiny shards of guilt that lingered in her heart, knowing she had been the primary source of the impulse which had brought Justin to the city, to the center of the art world in search of his professional fulfillment, at the cost of his personal commitment to Brian.

It had been the right thing to do. She still believed that, in her certainty that Warhol would never have become Warhol had he been content to remain in Pittsburgh.

But . . .

Sometimes - usually late at night when she couldn't sleep - she still remembered the look on Brian's face as she and her partner had driven away from the house which had been their home for so long; as they'd taken his son away to a new life while he pretended it didn't matter and that losing Justin and losing Gus were just new examples of the general shittiness of daily life. His expression had revealed nothing, unless a person knew what to look for.

But Lindsey had always known how to see nuances of the things he kept so well hidden.

He would survive; Brian Kinney would always survive. But she wondered if she even wanted to know how much he hurt inside. She wondered if she would have the strength to endure it if she should ever find out.

Better, she realized, not to know.

"You're awfully quiet," said Melanie, falling back from the group in order to take her partner's arm. "Missing Gus?"

Lindsey smiled, and swallowed a tiny surge of annoyance. Lately, Mel had begun making not-so-subtle little comments, suggesting that Lindsey favored Gus - her son with Brian - over Jenny Rebecca, Melanie's daughter with Michael. The accusation was preposterous; Lindsey could not imagine how she could love their beautiful little girl any more than she did, but she recognized the motivation behind it. Just as she'd always understood Melanie's deep, abiding resentment of anything even remotely related to Brian. And she knew it would never end. Melanie would always know that Lindsey loved Brian - had always loved him, would always love him, and had loved him long before she even met Melanie; fundamental truths that Melanie would never be able to accept graciously.

"Missing both of our beautiful babies," she replied, ignoring the intended barb and putting on her brightest smile.

Melanie was right, of course; she was just missing the kids. That was the reason for the tiny hub of uneasiness she felt in her belly. What else, after all, could it be?

When they reached the diner, they were lucky to find a couple of adjacent booths where they proceeded to study the menus presented by a personable (and gay, according to Ted's supposedly impeccable gay-dar) young waiter, while they accepted lovely, steaming mugs of coffee and chatted about where they should go first.

Of them all, only Michael and Lindsey were somewhat subdued, neither showing much enthusiasm for the items on the menu. Ben finally ordered for Michael, opting for chocolate chip buttermilk pancakes, when Michael seemed unable to make up his mind. Still, Ben put it down to excitement over the prospects of the day, and didn't dwell on it. Especially since Michael simply nodded his agreement to the selection.

The waiter, whose name was Greg, took their orders efficiently, then spent a few minutes making recommendations about places they might like to see. Thus, by the time their food arrived, they had tentatively agreed on their first destination.

Debbie and Ted had agreed to split an order of the Tony Bennett specialty, and were rolling their eyes over the exquisite taste when Debbie's cell phone rang, in the distinctive opening bars of Can't Help Lovin' that Man of Mine, and Debbie laughed as she flipped it open. "Hello, Pittsburgh," she crowed. "Wish you were here. You'll never guess what we're . . ."

She paused then, listening intently. "What? Carl, I can't hear . . . what did you . . ."

The group had been chattering among themselves, raving about the quality of the food with Melanie emitting exaggerated moans of pleasure as she bit into her bagel, and still arguing the merits of Radio City as opposed to the appeal of MOMA, except for Michael and Lindsey who had gone silent and wide-eyed with the ringing of the phone.

But the chatter ceased abruptly when they saw Debbie's face blanch pure white as she appeared to gasp for air.

When she closed her eyes and swayed, mouth gaping, it was Ben who grabbed the phone away from her. "What is it, Carl?" he asked.

He listened for a few seconds, before taking a deep shaky breath. "Is he . . ."

At that moment, Michael grabbed his husband's arm and jerked until Ben turned to face him. "It's Brian," said Michael, knowing he was right, even if he didn't know how he knew. "Isn't it?"

Ben could only nod.

"How bad?"

"Bad," Ben answered, putting his arm around Michael's shoulders, understanding how difficult this was going to be for the man who had been Brian's best friend since childhood. "We have to go home. Now."

The group scrambled then to make their departure, gathering their things quickly, as Ben concluded his conversation with the detective before quickly explaining what had happened, deliberately leaving out all the grisly details, most of which existed only in his imagination as Horvath had told him only what he needed to know.

"Wait!" said Daphne, eyes huge and welling with tears, as they left the restaurant. "We have to find Justin. He has to know."

Ben sighed. "He can't know," he said firmly.

"What . . . what do you mean?" Michael demanded, his face chalk white around eyes filled with shadow. "He has to know."

"He can't," Ben repeated, choosing his next words with great precision.  Horvath had told him about Brian's determination to protect Justin, and he knew he must tread carefully, but he was reluctant to offer more than a bare bones explanation. "He's on a plane on his way to Tahiti, remember? And there's no way he can just turn around in mid-air, so think about how he'd react to getting that call now.  He'd go into a meltdown, and the crew would have a riot on their hands. It's better to wait until he's landed. And . . ."

"And?" Michael again.

"And there's no time to lose," Ben replied, deliberately looking away so Michael would not note any shadow of deception in his eyes. The group had enough to deal with for the moment. The rest could wait until later.

Lindsey stumbled as she turned away from Ben, looking around for a taxi, or a subway entrance - anything to focus on, to beat back the terrible yawning blackness looming in her mind, threatening to consume her. In desperation, she leaned against a handy lamp post, trying to fight off the terrible nausea in the pit of her stomach, trying not to visualize what her mind insisted on showing her.

"Jesus, Linz!" snapped Melanie as she came up beside her. "Will you please take it easy? Where do you think you're going? There's nothing we can do. Our flight home doesn't leave until . . ."

Lindsey turned then to stare into the face of her partner, eyes wide with disbelief. "You think I'm going home?"

"Well, of course we're . . ."

But Lindsey was not listening, not really even interested. "You do whatever you like," she said quickly, ignoring the typical suspicious sneer forming on her partner's face, "but I'm going to Pittsburgh."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Matthew Keller did not suffer fools gladly, and he regarded the student nurse who stood in the doorway of his cubicle with undisguised contempt. "What do you mean when you say 'they need me'. Who the fuck needs me - and why?"

"The ambulance just rolled in," she explained, voice all atremble but determined to deliver the message as dispatched, despite the bite of panic rising in her throat.

Everyone knew that Keller could be a monster when he chose, but everybody also knew, when one got right down to it, he was the absolute best at what he did. There was no more gifted trauma specialist anywhere in Pittsburgh - maybe even anywhere in the world - and Nurse Beck had not minced words.

"Get Keller down here - now."

"Nurse Beck sent me to bring you down." She straightened under his glare. "You didn't answer your phone."

He gave her his patented sneer. "That's because I was sleeping," he said coldly. "I've been up all night."

"And you might be up all day," she snapped, surprising herself with her own degree of determination. "You've got a new patient."

Keller wanted to argue, to protest, to deny, but this slip of a girl had zeroed in on his one vulnerability. He had never in his life found a way to resist the drawing power of a "new patient". Especially since no one ever risked igniting his legendary fiery temper unless the patient in question was in dire need of his extraordinary skills.

He had spent his life resisting more conventional temptations. He had almost no personal life, confined his sexual experiences to occasional fucks as they came available, had stopped communicating with his dysfunctional family years before, and spent his spare time engaging in the only hobby he'd ever allowed himself - tennis - although these days he was hard-pressed to find suitable opponents. He almost never lost, and he was a terrible winner, so most people avoided him like the plague.

As a consequence, he spent much of his time alone, when he wasn't working. But he was almost always working. He grumbled about it incessantly, but rarely took time off.

He didn't admit it, but it was the love of the challenge that kept him at his post in the hospital, along with a deep-seated need to justify his own existence.

"What's your name?" he demanded abruptly, rising from the poor-excuse-for-a-cot he'd smuggled into his so-called office.

"Melinda Cowell," she answered sharply, "and you'd better hurry. He's in bad shape."

"Aren't they all?" he muttered, but he was moving more quickly, snagging his lap coat from its peg by the door as he followed her into the hall. "What happened?"

"Sombody beat the bejesus out of him?" she answered. "They're saying it's a hate crime. Apparently, he's gay."

"Shit!" said the doctor. "The world sucks sometimes, Nurse Cowell."

"I'm not a nurse," she explained. "Just a student."

"Yeah? Well, get ready to get a look at the ugly face of reality, Student Cowell. Do we know who our victim is?"

The student glanced down at the chart in her hands, before she handed it to him. "The chart says 'Kinney. Brian Kinney'."

The young doctor managed, just barely, not to stumble or recoil from the sudden realization.

Brian Kinney. Holy shit!

He did pause then to take a look at the chart, to scan the information provided there. But it was woefully inadequate. Blunt trauma. Multiple wounds. Broken bones. Excessive blood loss. And that was just for starters.

Brian Kinney.

Matthew had to struggle not to allow himself to descend into broad sweeps of memory, of the days of his youth, when he had been a pre-med student and Brian Kinney had already been well on his way to becoming the legend of Liberty Avenue, even though he was only a lowly undergraduate. Of course, it had also been undeniably true that Kinney was already stunningly beautiful and filled with the incredible self-assurance which would quickly establish his place in the world.

Brian Kinney - his first love, and the man who had taught him what it was to be out and proud.

Shit!

According to the standards of medical ethics, he should recuse himself from the case, knowing he would be hardput to maintain any degree of professional detachment. However, Keller was no fool, and not given to false modesty. For the kind of treatment Kinney would need, if he were to have any hope of surviving his injuries, only the best trauma specialist would do.

And Matthew Keller was the best in his chosen field; no one would even try to dispute that fact.

He barreled into the elevator with the student nurse at his heels, knowing there was no other choice.

No one would know about his connection to Kinney; they had parted long years before, each knowing they would not survive staying together. They would destroy each other if they tried to maintain close contact - two super egos competing for dominance.

But now the time had come for Keller to do what he did best - to cheat death and restore life.

In a way, Brian Kinney had saved him, at a time in his life when he had been most vulnerable. Now, he would return the favor.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emmett had been pacing the floor for two hours, growing more and more distressed, when Drew Boyd joined him and convinced him to sit down and drink a cup of coffee. The coffee was nasty and bitter, but Emmett gulped it gratefully, eager to find something - anything - to distract him from the terrible dark thoughts pouring through his mind.

"They haven't told you anything?" asked Drew after he managed to settle Emmett into the corner of the waiting room.

Emmett shook his head. "They brought some forms for me to fill out. They wanted to know his next of kin, but I . . .  I couldn't . . ."

"Does he have family?"

Emmett drew a deep breath. "Not that he'd claim. I had to give them his mother's name, but . . . God! I hope she'll have sense enough to stay away. If he thought she was here, I can't even imagine how he'd react."

Drew draped his arm around his companion's shoulders. "It's okay, Honey. I doubt he's going to know anything, for a while."

If Emmett noticed Drew's hesitation before adding that last phrase, he chose to ignore it. "How about you?" he asked. "Did the police find anything?" Then he remembered the message he'd delivered. "Did you tell them? Is Justin . . ."

"Perfectly safe," Drew assured him. "Detective Horvath got in touch with his agent, and found out that Justin took off on a flight to the South Pacific early this morning. Nobody's going to be able to get to him for now, and, by the time he comes back to the country, hopefully this will all be over and done."

Emmett looked down then, his eyes brimming with tears.

"What is it, Honey?" asked Drew gently.

Emmett tried to put on a little smile, but failed miserably. "It's just . . . I know this is what Brian wanted. For Justin to be safe. I still can't believe he was able to . . . to hold on long enough to tell me. But when Justin does find out, when he learns what's happened, he's going to be so hurt, so devastated that he wasn't here - that Brian had to go through this alone. And if . . . God! . . . if Brian . . ."

"Hush, now!" Boyd whispered. "You know, everybody keeps talking about what a tough little shit he is. He's going to be . . .

"You don't know that," said Emmett sharply. "Nobody knows that."

"You're right," said a new voice.

Emmett and Drew jumped to their feet, and turned to face the new arrival.

"I'm Dr. Keller." The surgeon was young and well-built, with sandy blonde locks and brilliant green eyes. Emmett thought that, under other circumstances, he'd have labeled the man a hottie. But not now.

"Nobody can know what's going to happen to your friend. However, I can make some educated guesses."

Emmett was staring at the man's lab coat, which was smeared with dark stains.

"How is he?" he finally managed to ask.

"Not good," replied Keller. "But you already knew that, didn't you? We've managed to stabilize him - for the moment - but we've got a lot of work to do. He's got more broken bones than I care to list, including a skull fracture. Severe blood loss. A punctured lung. Some organ damage - liver and spleen, primarily - but we're not going to know the full extent until we go in and take a look."

"Jesus!" whispered Emmett.

"Is his next of kin here?" asked Keller, his eyes sweeping the waiting room.

Emmett sighed. "I guess that would be his mother, but I . . . I don't even know how to . . ."

"That's all right," said the doctor abruptly, suddenly awash with memories of Brian's comments about his mother. "In an emergency - like this - the hospital won't require permission to treat him. We're prepping him for surgery now, but we have to wait to get in a new blood supply. We've already infused him with all of our RH-negative stock, so . . ."

"Hey," said Drew. "I'm O negative."

The doctor offered up a gentle smile. "But you're gay, Mr. Boyd. The whole world knows that by now. And gays . . ."

Drew nodded, swallowing his anger. "Yeah, okay. I get it."

"Dr. Keller?" Emmett's voice was very soft, very small. "Is he going to . . ."

"Not," replied the trauma surgeon, "if I can help it." Then he smiled. "And if I can't help it, no one can."

Emmett closed his eyes, visualizing Brian as he'd seen him the previous night - Brian Kinney, perfect, radiant, beautiful. "God!" he whispered. "They wanted to mutilate him, to destroy him, to . . ."

"Yes," confirmed the doctor. "I'm sure you're right. There's nothing as certain to piss off homophobic pricks as a beautiful gay man, is there?"

"Did you know him?" asked Drew, noticing a faint spark of anger in the physician's tone.

Keller evaded the question. "Everybody in Pittsburgh has heard of Brian Kinney - the Study of Liberty Avenue."

Emmett nodded. "Sometimes he'd make me so mad I'd want to spit, and I've begun to think he did it deliberately. But he was al . . . always beautiful."

Drew could only nod, as the doctor tried to find words of reassurance, something he was not very good at, even at the best of times.

"Will he be . . . be beautiful again?" Emmett's question was barely audible.

Matthew Keller took a deep breath, and closed his eyes recalling the horrible damage done to his patient's once perfect body. "I don't know," he admitted finally, unable to offer up a lie.

But a tiny little voice inside him would not be silenced, the one that insisted there must be a way, and he was damned well going to find it.

But first things first. First he had to save a life; then he'd worry about finding the means to restore it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Nurse Beck made another check of the surgical instruments laid out before her, knowing it wouldn't do at all for Keller to call for something only to find it wasn't ready for him.

Then she turned to study the displays on the monitors, noting the patient's vital signs which were far from optimal. Under ordinary circumstances, the young man would not be here, awaiting the first stroke of the surgeon's blade, but the circumstances were far from ordinary. If they waited for the patient to be completely stabilized, it was likely they would never get the chance to save his life.

Brian Kinney would not awaken to face a new day unless Keller was able to repair some of the damage done to his body by the cretins who had attacked him.

Lastly, the nurse took a moment to study the patient's face, as Keller scrubbed up. The doctor had been right in what he'd said to Drew Boyd. Everybody in Pittsburgh had heard of Brian Kinney. His face was almost as well known as Iron Man football heroes, and, from a strictly impersonal perspective, much more beautiful.

Only it wasn't beautiful now. Gloria Beck closed her eyes, suddenly almost overwhelmed with sorrow. How could anybody have done this, she wondered. And why did it matter where this young man stuck his dick, to the beasts who had taken it upon themselves to destroy this living work of art? She just couldn't understand how the world had become such a dark and violent place.

Then she opened her eyes, and was almost overwhelmed for a second time, but this time it was with shock at the surreal quality of the scene laid out before her.

Matthew Keller was standing beside the patient, his gloved hands carefully lifted to avoid contamination. But he was not studying the patient's condition or trying to diagnose a problem or looking at the monitors. Instead, the most gifted young trauma surgeon in the northeastern United States - known to medical staffs throughout the region as the Notoriously Egotistical Bastard - was leaning forward, his lips just caressing the patient's temple, whispering words only barely audible. "I've got you, Baby," he was saying, "and I'm not going to let you go. You hear me, Brian? It's Matt, and I'm not going to let you go. Just rest now. You're safe - with me."

Then he straightened up, and realized Nurse Beck had heard and understood every word.

"You got a problem with that?" he demanded, suddenly all business again.

Gloria Beck smiled beneath her mask, and knew he had seen it and decided to ignore it.

"Not a one," she answered, her voice deliberately without emotion.

"Then don't just stand there," he snapped. "Hand me a fucking scalpel."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It was almost four when Calvin Culpepper pulled his Audi into the parking lot of Allegheny Memorial Hospital, having shaved almost an hour off the customary five-and-a-half-hour drive. Though some of the occupants of the vehicle had made a valiant attempt to keep the conversation going and pass the time early in the ride, most had finally given up the effort. No one had spoken at all in the final two hours.

They had been more crowded on the trip into New York, with Ted and Blake taking up the third seat, and their luggage piled on the roof rack. But on the return, the two had elected to join Lindsey and Melanie in the car they'd rented for the journey. Melanie had grumbled, but finally relented when she'd realized that Lindsey was going ahead with her determination to come to Pittsburgh, whether or not Melanie decided to accompany her.

Calvin, correctly gauging the mood of his passengers, did not bother to try to find a parking place for the Audi. Instead, he simply pulled up before the front entrance of the hospital, and allowed all his riders to disembark. He was just pulling away when he spotted the rental Toyota pull in behind him, allowing Lindsey, Ted, Melanie, and Daphne to exit, while Blake went to park the car.

Michael had been first out of the car, and was first through the doors, breaking into a sprint once he was inside. Ben and the rest of the group followed more circumspectly. Nobody bothered to stop at the desk to ask directions. They had all been here before, so they knew exactly where to go.

When Michael tore into the ER waiting room, Emmett leapt to his feet and sprang forward. He had not realized how alone he felt, even with Drew at his side, until he saw Michael burst into the room, even though Lance Mathis and Cynthia Whitney, Brian's assistant, had joined them earlier in the day.

Emmett reached for his old friend, and they were immediately in each other's arms, giving and receiving comfort and sharing tears.

"How is he?" Michael demanded, as the rest of the group arrived. "Have you heard . . ."

"Nothing," said Emmett. "He's been in surgery for hours. And nobody's told us anything. Oh, Michael, I'm so scared. He was so . . .  so broken and . . ."

"Thank God you were there," Michael interrupted. "Thank God you got there in time."

Emmett was shaking his head. "Not in time to save him before . . . I'm so sorry, Michael."

"What the hell happened?" demanded Debbie, speaking more to Drew and Lance and Cynthia than to Emmett who was obviously incapable of providing cogent answers.

But Ben knew that Michael, as well as some of the others, were not ready to face the blunt reality of what Brian had endured. "Not now," he said firmly, his eyes warning Debbie - always hungry for the details - to back off. "I'm sure we'll hear the whole gory story, all in good time."

Lindsey, who had entered the room without speaking to anyone, circled around the group and made her way to the nurse's station where she spoke to the woman on duty. "Excuse me," she said softly, "but can you please check on the condition of Brian Kinney?"

The young nurse looked up from the chart she was working on. "Are you family?"

Lindsey mustered up a smile. "I'm the mother of his child. Does that count?"

The young woman - her badge said "Barbara" - wavered for a moment; then she smiled. "I'll make a call."

"Thanks," said Lindsey, turning back to the crowd, knowing what she would see, and she was right. Melanie was staring at her, eyes gleaming with anger. The reaction, of course, to the 'I'm-the-mother-of-his-child' remark.

On the other hand, Michael and Emmett were looking at her as if she had just qualified for sainthood.

The nurse had just lifted the phone to make her call, when the doors to the surgery suite opened, and Matthew Keller strode into the waiting room.

Although Emmett and Drew were the only ones who were supposed to know who he was, that turned out not to be the case.

Lindsey's eyes were suddenly huge. "Matt?" she said softly. "You're taking care of him?"

"Hey, Lindsey," replied the physician, suddenly not sure where to look. He had not counted on this, on running into one of the few people who knew everything about his relationship with Brian. "And yes. I am taking care of him."

"Oh, thank God," she said, throwing her arms around him. "I know you won't let anything bad happen to him. Will you?"

He smiled, and whispered into her ear. "Not as long as I've got breath in my body."

"How is he?" asked Emmett, unable to bear another moment of uncertainty.

Keller released Lindsey and turned to face the group. "He's . . . holding his own. For now, that's pretty much all we can expect."

"How bad was it?" asked Ben.

Dr. Keller sighed. "He had quite a bit of internal damage, but I think we've managed to repair it all. The most dangerous thing was the pressure on the brain. He was bleeding into his skull, under the fracture. But we were able to relieve that. Had to remove his spleen and repair a tear in his lung and deal with some relatively minor liver damage. Then there were bones to set, lacerations to stitch up." He offered up a tired smile. "It was a long, complex surgery. And I don't want to give you any false assurance. He's still got a long way to go. But . . ."

"But?" That was Lindsey, staring into his eyes and employing her familiarity with him to gauge his honesty.

"But I think . . . I believe he's going to make it. We've put him into an induced coma, to give him a chance to heal. Now don't misunderstand me. It won't be fast, and it won't be easy, but he'll make it. I intend to make sure of that."

Then Michael and Emmett and Ted were throwing their arms around each other, too relieved to even voice their relief, and Debbie was laughing with Daphne and Ben,as Cynthia collapsed into her seat, covering her eyes with her hands and counting on the confusion of the moment to conceal the tears streaming through her fingers.

Only Lindsey was still standing there, still waiting, as Melanie stood by to observe, her face stony and emotionless as Lindsey stepped forward to speak softly into the doctor's ear.

"If you let him die," said the woman who had known the physician since his days as a callow undergraduate, "I will have your balls. Understand me?"

He offered up his first brilliant smile of the day. "I promise."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 12


The ICU waiting room was smaller than the one in the ER, but no less forbidding. Institutional gray walls, molded plastic seating units, attached to metal frames, all a nondescript gray that might once have been blue, arranged around Parsons-style coffee tables, scratched and chipped, and covered with months-old editions of Newsweek and People and Better Homes & Gardens. In the corner, ready to dispense its battery-acid grade sludge, an industrial-sized coffee machine was nested among stacks of Styrofoam cups, a remnant of the days when service guild members hovered nearby to offer succor and comfort to anxious family members. The volunteers were long gone (mostly), but the machine remained, old and cranky and barely functional, but vital in its purpose.

When the group of Liberty Avenue denizens (an accurate sobriquet, even if many of its members no longer resided there) made it to the cluttered chamber, Emmett made an effort to show some signs of rekindling his characteristic flame by throwing up his hands in mock horror. "Omigod!" he exclaimed. "Who decorated this place? The Brothers Grimm?"

"It's okay, Honey," said Ted, offering up a weary smile. "Not everybody can have your fabulous sense of style."

"I know, but why must hospitals choose an ambiance that's more suitable for a mausoleum? Don't they understand that a few splashes of magenta against a chartreuse background would do wonders for patients' spirits?"

The words were cheerful enough - vintage Emmett - but the delivery was pallid.

"Or give them a heart attack," laughed Debbie, managing to sound almost normal.

Emmett dredged up a smile, but it was a half-hearted effort.

Though they had not spent much time talking about it, the general demeanor of the entire group was proof enough of their relief in learning that Brian would recover; they were all reaching for normalcy, for the insouciance that acquaintances would have expected of them, and those self-same acquaintances might even have been convinced by their cheerful display. Those who knew them well, however, would have noted the strained quality of their efforts.

Even so, only Ben, Drew, and Calvin recognized the fundamental irony underlying their attitude, realizing - as most of the group did not - that Brian - despite their shared tendency (or perpetual need) to blame him for all the wrongs in their lives, to question his motives and doubt his morals, to resent his successes and revel in his failures and savor his troubles like the taste of fine wine - was the cement which held them all together, the sun around which they all orbited.

Thus there were vague shadows lingering around them all, even as they expressed their relief. They would never acknowledge it, probably never be willing to even consider it, but something inside them knew it, nonetheless. They had come close today to losing the tie which bound them to each other.

And the day was not done yet.

Of them all, only Michael and Lindsey were still wrapped in total silence, feeling no desire to generate a false sense of well-being - content enough with the doctor's assurances, but not yet able to let go of their anxieties. They sat together, somehow taking comfort from the non-verbal sharing of old memories. Melanie loitered nearby, occasionally trying to make casual conversation, but her efforts were mostly futile, which only added to her growing sense of frustration.

The group had dwindled somewhat in number by this time. Blake had gone out to scout for take-out, as it had become obvious that most of them had no inclination to go home. The decision to stay wasn't rational or sensible, as they'd been informed that chances of being allowed to see the patient any time soon were slim to non-existent, since visiting hours in the ICU were stringently enforced, and only two visitors at a time were allowed to enter the unit. In addition, Brian would certainly not be awake any time soon to be aware of their presence. Yet they lingered, needing to share insights and comments and complaints, needing to be together in their determination to proclaim their independence, to demonstrate to the world that they could sit here in this place and calmly contemplate the nature of his mortality and prove they did not need Brian around to function as the nucleus of the group. Even if they did.

Lance Mathis had stayed for a while, answering the group's questions as succinctly as possible, saying no more than necessary, but he had departed after a brief conversation with Dr. Keller, informing Drew that he was going to check in with the police to offer his help with the investigation.

Cynthia had also disappeared, after following the trauma surgeon back to the nurse's station when he'd finished addressing the group. They had talked together for a while, very quietly, and Emmett had noticed, at one point, that the surgeon had taken her hand and moved close enough to whisper something in her ear. Then he had escorted her down a nearby corridor, and they had disappeared through a double doorway into another section of the hospital.

Emmett wondered for a moment where she'd gone, uncertain of what she might be doing, but almost certain she had not left the hospital. She wouldn't. After giving it some thought, he realized she was probably handling the paperwork for Brian, just as she always did.

No one among the group of old friends had ever been able to define the exact relationship between Brian and his chief assistant - not even Ted, who worked closely with both. But Emmett sometimes speculated that Cynthia might know Brian better than any of them, better even than Michael and Debbie and Lindsey, who had known him longest of all. Still, she was a very private person, and she kept her personal thoughts to herself, including how she felt about her boss. Nevertheless, Emmett had seen the look in her eyes when Keller had made his proclamation, and he had seen the tears she tried to conceal.

It didn't explain everything, but it explained enough. He as pretty sure Cynthia loved Brian; he just wasn't sure in what way.

He curled himself into a bedraggled old rocking chair by the window, and stared out into the growing gloom of twilight, caught up in a brand new, previously untested realization: they all loved Brian, even though there were plenty of times when they didn't like him at all. It was a strange, odd kind of love, unlike any other - but real enough for all that.

He looked down toward the front of the hospital, and watched as a car pulled up to the emergency entrance and a woman jumped out of the front seat and hurried toward the doors with a child in her arms - a little boy with dark hair, a little boy who would one day grow up to be a young man. Would he ever face the kind of horror Brian had faced on this day? Would people hate him because he was different, because he was not made in an image identical to those around him, because he believed differently or talked differently or worshipped differently - or loved differently? Emmett closed his eyes and was swept into hellish memory, suddenly unable to hold it back for another moment.

Then he felt strong arms close around him, and he was weeping and could not restrain himself, could not remain silent, as both Drew and Calvin knelt beside him, each determined to offer comfort, with not a single thought of competition.

"Oh, God," he cried, "you can't imagine what . . . what they did to him. How could anybody be so vicious, so cruel? And why? Why would they . . . They didn't just want to kill him.  They wanted to destroy him, to take this beautiful man and make him into something hideous, something horrible and grotesque. Oh, God!"

And he was suddenly surrounded by the people who loved him, each trying to offer comfort, to ease his pain.

But strangely, it was one pair of arms he longed for particularly - the one who loved Brian, who knew Brian as almost no one else did. For a moment, he realized it would have been perfect if only he could have reached out and touched Justin, but that could not be, so he leaned into Michael's arms, and allowed himself to be held.

"But he didn't give up, Micheal," he sobbed. "Even after the . . . what they put him through, he held on. God, he was so broken, so damaged. I don't know how anybody could endure that kind of pain and still hold on, but he did. He did because he . . . he knew he had to. He had to hold on, so he could tell us - for Justin."

"Tell us what, Em?" asked Michael, his hands stroking his friend's back.

"That . . . that Justin was in danger. That Justin was next."

They all felt it then - a pale cold veil of dread, settling over them like a shroud, although only some recognized its meaning. Most were too caught up in the desperation of the moment and the need to offer comfort to their distraught companion to explore the deeper meaning of his words. But a few saw it immediately.

Daphne stood abruptly, eyes huge in a face gone porcelain white, and stumbled as she turned and hurried toward the ladie's room. Ben watched her go, wishing he had some comfort to offer, but knowing any effort would be useless.

Then he looked up and watched as Melanie experienced her moment of epiphany, as she got her first glimpse at the full picture of the horror that had stalked the young man who had been her nemesis for so many years. Behind her, standing silent and gazing out into the growing darkness, Ted was trying to deal with the same kind of rising awareness.

In the shock of the moment, Melanie opened her mouth to give voice to her realization, to express her consternation, only to be silenced by the look in Ben's eyes. Bad enough, he reasoned, for the group of old friends to have to cope with the ordeal of Brian's trauma; the full realization that he had been a chosen victim rather than a random target could wait until later, until they were better prepared to face it.

He lifted his hands to rub his temples as he tried to figure out how he was going to tell Michael without sending him into a full-fledged panic.

Closing his eyes against the onset of a massive headache, he took a seat near the window and slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. He thought longingly of his lovely, comfortable bed in their lovely comfortable home - of their son, Hunter, who had spent the week-end with a friend, who had once had a huge crush on Brian, during the period before he'd discovered that he was actually straight, and Ben wondered how the teen-ager - who had been through so much - would react to the realization that the hot-and-mighty Kinney was not truly invincible after all.

Jesus! Was there no end to the complications which might arise from this endless, incomprehensible day?

The headache was getting worse.

He sat back in the chair, turning his head so he could look up through the window to watch the light draining out of the evening sky. It was, he thought, akin to the manner in which joy could drain from the human heart. He knew plenty about the loss of joy, and realized there was no way to avoid the gloom rising in his mind. It was a familiar mood, although he experienced it only rarely. Most of the time he was able to concentrate on the things in his life that were beautiful and right, but today was not comprised of such things. Today he had tasted potential tragedy and sorrow, and it mattered very little that it would be anguish once removed, so to speak. He looked into his own heart and understood that he had come to care about Brian during the years since Michael had come into his life - care quite a lot, in spite of his initial misgivings. It had surprised him when he had come to understand that there were hidden levels in his husband's best friend, levels only a few individuals had ever been allowed to see, levels which explained why Michael loved Brian so much, even though Ben had never actually been able to define the truth of those levels. But it didn't really matter. It only mattered that Michael loved Brian, truly, deeply, without reservation, and would never be able to recover fully should Brian be taken from him.

As for the rest of it - the never-discussed, deep-seated truths about Michael's feelings for Brian - they would remain undiscussed. Ben had come to full acceptance a long time before, understanding there was no way of changing the reality. He would live out his life knowing that, had Brian been able and willing to do so, Michael would have been claimed many years before he and Ben ever met, forever off-limits to anyone except the man who would always be first in his heart.

It had not been an easy pill to swallow, but doing so had been the only way for Ben and Michael to build a life together.

Thus, he thought, some tiny, ugly part of him should have been tantalized by the notion of an existence free from Brian's influence. He hoped it was a measure of his maturity and his selfless love for his husband that he had resisted such an impulse.

He smiled, reflecting on how extremely fucked up life could become.

Ben felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. He could not bear to think about how Michael would have fared if Brian had died at the hands of his attackers.

He recalled the bad times of his own life - both the ones he had already shared with Michael, and the ones he had not yet chosen to reveal. He didn't think it was because he was deliberately avoiding full disclosure; it was just that he knew how hard it was for Michael, a natural optimist, to face the uglier truths of life. It wasn't, he realized, an ideal time for reflections like this, but ultimately, he had no choice but to let the memories come, let the sensations of loss wash through him. He remembered losing his father to heart failure, and his younger brother to a rare blood disease; he remembered watching his mother's slow, miserable, relentless slide into the mindless landscape of Alzheimer's, culminating in the unavoidable decision to confine her to a sanitarium when she could no longer care for herself; he remembered Paul, the gentle, soft-spoken young man who had taught him so much about the art and power of love, who had changed his life forever, who had ultimately infected him with HIV, and who had died just a couple of years earlier. And he remembered the day he always thought of as the last day of his youth: the day he'd learned he was HIV positive.

He sometimes wondered how he'd managed to survive.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Because," drawled a sardonic voice that called up an image of a droll smile, "you're a tough motherfucker. Like me."

He opened his eyes and was, somehow, not surprised to see who was sitting beside him.

"I thought you were at death's door," he observed.

The familiar face - unblemished, unbroken, and yes, Goddammit! beautiful - was giving him that patented Brian-Kinney smirk. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Ben wanted to frown, but couldn't. "You like using that line, don't you?"

The image shrugged. "When the shoe fits . . ."

Ben sighed, reflecting that he really must be tired, if his psychotic delusions were choosing to speak in clichés.

Still, it would be rude to proclaim that he knew a dream sequence when he saw one - just in case he was wrong, and it was this horrible day which had been the nightmare and this surrealistic moment was the reality. "Not so exaggerated," he observed. "You nearly died, you know."

"Yeah. I know. And if I had . . ."

"If you had," Ben interrupted, loathe to say it but realizing it needed to be said, "I don't know how Michael . . . how he could have . . ."

"That," snapped the image of Brian, "is your responsibility. If I can't be there for him, you have to. Understand?"

"Of course, I understand." Ben knew instinctively that one of Brian's primary purposes in life was to annoy the people around him, to get under their skin enough to force them to re-examine their lives and their philosophies and see things in a new light, but that didn't prevent him from feeling the irritation. "I just don't know if I can . . . not like you do."

The image of Brian chuckled. "You remember when your Stepford fag neighbor opened up his little couturier shop? What was his name again?"

Ben struggled not to grin. "Eli Gruber."

"Right. Gruber - seems appropriate somehow," replied Brian's image, his tongue tucked firmly in his cheek. "And remember how excited Michael was, so eager to believe that his good friend was going to let him buy Armani and Prada - disguised under different labels, of course - at knock-off prices, and how he didn't want to hear that you can only pay knock-off prices for designer items if the items are knock-offs to begin with?"

"Oh, I remember," Ben admitted. "And I also recall how upset he was with you when you referred to the shop as 'Fags Are Us'."

Brian shrugged. "I believe in telling the truth."

Ben couldn't really argue with that. "But it's not always necessary to use a broadsword when a paring knife would do the job just as well, with a lot less pain."

"Whose pain?" demanded the image of Brian. "Michael's? I'm thinking it would have been a lot more painful if I'd stood by and said nothing while he paid $100.00 for that pseudo-Gucci shirt only to find out later that it was a polyester fraud."

"Yeah, well, Eli certainly wasn't overjoyed with your comments."

"Are you kidding me? Are you saying it would have been okay for Eli to run his little crap emporium, ripping off friends and neighbors, but it wasn't okay for me to call him on his bullshit?"

Ben paused, remembering how angry Eli and Monty had been with Brian - how they had denied his assertions and been cold and distant to both Ben and Michael for weeks thereafter. Until the day when Ben had decided to make an attempt to mend fences, by stopping by the store to speak to Eli, only to find it closed and shuttered.

Apparently, Brian had not been the only one to recognize the shoddy nature of the merchandise. A few days later, Eli and Monty had apparently managed to swallow their resentment and resume their easy friendship with their neighbors - almost.

Ben frowned at the realization that there were, occasionally, still some awkward exchanges between the two couples, but that was not germane to this moment. "What does all of this have to do with what Michael would need from me, if you . . ."

"Bought the farm?" Brian's image appeared to be enjoying the conversation. "You can say it, you know. Dying has never scared me all that much."

"Okay. If you died. I still don't see . . ."

"I know, Zen Ben." The smart little smirk had become a tender smile. "But listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yes. I'm listening."

"Do you want to know why I love Michael so much - always have and always will? It's not because he follows me around like a faithful little pup, or because he accepts me when no one else will, or believes in me when everybody else doubts. It's because he has the purest heart of anybody I've ever known. Michael wants to believe the best of everybody. Wants to trust people - wants to show everyone who he really is, and be accepted, just as he's willing to accept everyone else."

"So you're saying he's gullible?" Ben didn't much like the sound of that.

"Fuck, no!" Obviously, Brian didn't like it either. "It's not that he's gullible. It's that he wants to believe the people he cares about are all as honest as he is. He's so eager to trust that he buys into the fantasies people use to disguise realities they can't deal with. The sweetness in Michael isn't just a show or a sham. It's real; it's who he is. It's the best part of him, but it's also the worst part of him - the part that leaves him open and vulnerable. So that's what you have to do for him, Ben, if I'm not around to take care of the problem. You have to prevent him from letting himself be used and manipulated by the people he loves."

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

The smirk was back. "Sometimes, by acting like a total shit."

"But I'm . . ."

"What? Too spiritual? Too well-adjusted? Too rational? All of the above?"

"Well . . ."

The look on that beautiful face was suddenly pensive, suddenly difficult to decipher. "If you love him enough, you'll find a way."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Hey, Ben! You awake?"

The professor managed, barely, not to jerk upright, resurfacing from his dream with a soft grunt.

Looking down at him with a guarded expression was just about the last person he would have expected to see here, under the circumstances, although a moment's consideration made him realize he really shouldn't be surprised.

Monty Peabody, after all, was employed here in this hospital, as a lab technician.

"Hey, Monty," he replied, rolling his head from side to side in an attempt to relieve the kink in his neck. "Must have dozed off."

Monty was pushing a cart loaded with blood sampling tubes and needles and similar supplies, but he pushed it aside and took a seat beside Ben, saying nothing for a moment as he watched the interaction between Michael and his friends.

"You guys must have had a rough day," he said finally. "It's all over the news, but you know how the press exaggerates everything. I'm sure it's not as bad as they're saying."

"Actually," answered Ben wearily, "it's probably worse. Although I haven't seen the reports."

Monty shook his head. "What a shame! We live in evil times, Ben."

"Yeah. We do."

"Well, listen!" Monty said as he stood and reached for his cart. "I'm going to go in there and get the real scoop. Find out what's really going on."

"Thanks, Monty," Ben replied, not quite sure why he was feeling a vague sense of alarm, "but that's not necessary. We talked to the doctor, and . . ."

"Yeah. I heard that Keller is the attending. He's got quite a reputation around here."

"For what?" asked Michael, suddenly appearing at Ben's side.

Monty frowned. "For being a first class prima donna and a royal pain in the rear. But . . ."

"But?" Ben read the concern in Michael's eyes and wished he could figure out a way to warn Monty to gauge his words carefully.

The lab technician sighed. "But for this kind of trauma case, he's probably the best there is. It's just that nobody knows why he has to be so . . ."

"Kinney like?" That was Ted, having just wandered over to join the conversation.

"Exactly," said Monty, relieved that someone else had said what he was thinking, although he was pretty sure that he'd noted a faint trace of fondness in Schmidt's voice that he thought totally unwarranted. Everybody - everybody who counted anyway - knew Kinney was a loose cannon of the first order, as he and his partner had good cause to know, and it was certainly not surprising that the Stud of Liberty Avenue had wound up as a target for gay bashers. The only real surprise was that it hadn't happened sooner. The man had practically begged for it.

But one look at the faces of the people around him convinced him he would do well to keep that thought to himself.

Still, he couldn't wait to talk to Eli, who would understand exactly how he felt and share his ambivalence. It was, of course, a tragedy that such hatred and violence existed, and that the homophobic cretins would probably get away with it, but . . .

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said smoothly, "with all the inside information."

"Monty," Ben said uneasily, "you don't have to do that."

Monty merely grinned. "Hey. What are friends for?"

He hurried toward the ICU doors, pausing to punch in the code that would open them, as he perused the documents on his clipboard and straightened his tie.

"Apparently," said Melanie not quite below her breath, "they're for ignoring HIPAA restrictions."

"What's that?" asked Michael.

Ben and Ted exchanged glances. "That's what he'll be violating," Ben explained, "if he comes out here spouting confidential patient information to anyone who wants to listen."

"Hey!" said Debbie, eager to learn anything that could be learned, and not very concerned with how she learned it. "We're not just 'anyone' you know. We're all family here. Why shouldn't we be told whatever . . ."

"Because," said Melanie, who looked as if she couldn't believe she was about to speak up on Brian's behalf, "it's privileged information, and Brian is the only person who has the right to determine who should be allowed to hear it."

"Well, he's hardly in any condition to say anything, is he?" Debbie snapped, sure she had come up with a perfect response to end the debate.

But Melanie, despite the fact that she had resented him with every breath for longer than she could remember, knew Brian well enough to be certain he would not leave such questions unresolved. She knew, for example, that he had both a will and a living will, though she knew nothing about the details of either document. Her smile was slightly venal as she realized that what she had to say would not please those who heard it. "Granted. He can't speak now. But do you really think he would have left something like this to chance?"

"No," said Lindsey, eyes dark and haunted. "He wouldn't."

"So," said Debbie uncertainly, "do we have any idea who he might have . . ."

At that moment, with perfect timing no one would bother to notice, the elevator doors opened with a ding, and three people exited into the hallway, walking rapidly toward the nurse's station, as Lindsey and Michael spoke in perfect unison.

"Well, it sure as fuck isn't her."

"Why?" asked Ben. "Who is that?"

It was Lindsey who answered, sounding unutterably weary. "His mother, his sister, and - unless I'm mistaken - the fucking priest."

"The . . . fucking priest?" Ben echoed.

"Literally," said Melanie, good humor somewhat restored.

Ben tried to think of something appropriate to say, but quickly recognized the futility of the effort. How in the world could one respond to that?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was amazing, he thought, that a person could actually be bored cruising at 30,000 feet and sitting in the lap of luxury. First class seating - plush and contoured and reclinable though it was - was still no more than a cushioned cocoon inside a metal framework, and all the in-flight movies, video games, trays of canapés, delectably prepared entrees, and a constant flow of pricey wines and spirits couldn't compensate for the fact that one was locked up inside a steel cylinder, hurtling along at supersonic speeds and defying the laws of gravity.

He nestled into the plush blanket the attendant had provided for him and watched the television screen in front of him as Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, in cowboy persona, tried to devour each other in the reunion scene of Brokeback Mountain. This was the second time he'd watched it during the flight, and he was now lamenting the fact that he'd never taken the time to see it when it was still in theaters.

Who would have believed, he wondered, that a film about Wyoming cowboys could have provided a relevant and beautiful look at homosexuality in its purest form? He was pretty sure even Brian would have liked it.

And where the fuck did that thought come from anyway - and why did it matter?

When the scene ended, he closed his eyes for a while, and felt the full weight of the day settle upon him. His body was already feeling the effects of extreme jet lag, the kind resulting from following the sun across the surface of the globe, and he kept glancing out the window, expecting to find the leading edge of twilight, only to discover the perpetual presence of relentless extended afternoon. He was beginning to yearn for the soothing fall of evening, which did not bode well for the hours ahead, as the sun would continue to keep pace with them for a time while his body would insist that it was he who was out of sync with reality.

It would be early morning when they arrived in Wellington, and he would somehow have lost an entire day, which he would recover, of course, on the return journey, although his internal clock would contend that the day should be edging toward late afternoon. He knew the geography and the physics of it perfectly well, but intellectual certainty was ineffectual in adapting one's senses to the vagaries of time. He was more tired than he'd expected, perhaps because of the emotional roller coaster lingering from the previous night, but he was afraid that if he allowed himself to doze now he would find it impossible to sleep when the time was right.

Steven, of course, had no such dilemma. He was busily conducting business as usual via computer, monitoring a corporate merger between three pharmaceutical companies with a combined annual income of five billion dollars and participating in a conference call with associates from Barnes, Fletcher, and Corrigan. All in a day's work for Steven, who was completely submerged in corporate consciousness when he was in his professional zone, shutting out everything else. It was a world of which Justin knew nothing, and he occasionally wondered why he wasn't jealous of his boyfriend's fascination with it. But then he remembered how he had always been aroused by Brian's compulsion to be the best advertising exec in the business, and thought he might be beginning to understand his own motives. He had a thing for power - not for the phenomenon itself but for the men who wielded it. He knew he could intrude if he really wanted to, and distract his companion with a seductive offer of a bit of slap-and-tickle in the lavatory, but he found he really wasn't all that interested. He had joined the ranks of the mile-high club long ago, courtesy of one Brian Kinney on a flight to San Antonio for a white party in 2004, but he'd never been tempted to duplicate the performance with somebody else. Probably because he knew any such attempt would only serve to call up old memories.

Always old memories, as it was becoming more obvious with each passing day that there would be no more new ones.

He knew the time was fast approaching when he would have to open his fingers and let those memories slip through, like grains of sand, and turn away to build new memories, new castles in new sands.

But not quite yet.

He picked up the phone, provided for all first class travelers courtesy of Qantas, and dialed his mother's cell phone, suddenly anxious to share a family moment and hear a familiar voice, but the call went straight to voice mail. Next, he went down the line, attempting to reach various friends and acquaintances, starting with Daphne and ending with Lindsey, but without success.

What the fuck? Was everybody in Pittsburgh too busy to answer the phone?

The last number he dialed was the most familiar of all, the one that was still first in his contact list, but the only response was the same terse three words he'd heard every time he'd dialed it of late.

"Leave a message."

He was struck with the realization that these might be the last words he ever heard spoken by that voice - remote, detached, distant - and he was astonished by the depth of the pain generated by that thought.

Abruptly, he signaled to the flight attendant to bring him another drink - a double - which he tossed back in one big gulp. Then he started dialing again. On his second attempt, he got lucky.

"Daphne?" he said sharply. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Justin?" Her response was broken and garbled. "Is that you?"

"Who else?" he laughed. "Where've you been? I've been calling you guys all day?"

There was a noticeable pause, and the line was filled with sporadic static. "Daphne?"

" . . . breaking up . . . been a long day . . ."

"But where are you?" Justin repeated.

Another pause, and he had the strangest sensation that it had nothing to do with the quality of the connection.

"Picking . . . dinner," she said finally.

"Oh, yeah? Where? If you're going to the Stage Deli, be sure to try the Derek Jeter with a cappuccino shake. It's my favorite."

Again the pause.

"Sounds great. I'll make sure to . . . rybody. How's . . . trip going?"

"Oh, fine," he answered, "Still flying. I was wondering, has anybody talked to Brian? Did he go to . . ."

" . . . breaking up, Justin. Why don't you ca . . . later?"

"No, wait," he said sharply. "Is Michael there, or Lindsey or . . ."

"Gotta go." That part was clear at least. "Hope you have . . . ulous time. Bye now."

"Daphne . . ."

But the line went dead, with another burst of static. For a moment, he held on to the handset, debating whether he should try someone else in the group. But finally, reluctantly, he placed it back in its cradle, before reaching out to pull the shade down over the window and arranging his pillow to cushion his head.

It had been a silly question to ask anyway. Of course, Brian had gone to London. Why wouldn't he? Which meant that for every mile the Qantas jet traveled, the 767 that was carrying Brian toward Europe was covering the same distance, in the opposite direction. They were soon going to be almost as far away from each other as it was possible to be on planet Earth.

He closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the voice screaming in his mind - the one that kept insisting that he . . . that they were both making the biggest mistake of their lives. Only . . . he knew there was nothing he could do to make it right, to turn it around, to turn them around. Brian had taken that option away from him.

Fuck this! Fuck the endless afternoon, jet lag, the international dateline. Fuck it all. And, finally, fuck Brian, who had not asked, had not bothered to talk to Justin to find out what he really wanted; who had, as always, taken it upon himself to decide what was best!

Fuck it all! He burrowed into his pillow and decided he didn't really give a shit what the clock said or whether or not he would be able to sleep on schedule when they reached their destination. It was time for a nap.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"Congratulations, Boss," said Liz Ethridge, Steven Fletcher's executive secretary, her face only slightly distorted on his laptop screen. "Your father is going to be over the moon when he hears this."

Steven paused to check on his companion and was glad to see that Justin had nodded off. The young artist had been testy and moody all day, and obviously needed to get some rest. "Thank you, Girl Friday," he said finally, softly. "Although if you think he doesn't already know about it, you're delusional. He probably knew before I did."

Liz smiled, and he was struck, for probably the millionth time, by how much she resembled the ideal image of a society grandmother, with her elaborately coifed silver hair, her pale skin, and perfectly manicured nails; it was even more remarkable because she was actually a childless Lesbian who had no maternal instincts and no interest in developing any. Except, of course, for her feelings for Steven. She had been his assistant since the day he'd emerged triumphant and summa cum laude from his degree program at Harvard and made his debut in his father's company, and her loyalty was complete and without boundaries. She took care of Steven, no matter what.

"Can you speak freely?" she asked softly, as the last of her fellow conference participants made their exit from the dark-paneled boardroom.

Steven glanced once more toward Justin, confirming that he was sleeping soundly. "Within reason," he answered quietly, as he adjusted his headphones to make sure anything she might say would remain private between the two of them.

She frowned and pulled a notepad out from beneath the stack of documents in front of her. "You had a call earlier," she said. "I would have told you about it sooner but I was pretty sure you wouldn't want it to become public knowledge."

"What's wrong, Liz?" he said quickly, sensing this was something extraordinary enough to cause her some concern.

"It was Justin's agent. Olivia Ruiz."

"Calling me?" He couldn't quite conceal his surpise. "Why on earth would she call . . ."

"Because," she answered with a sigh, "she was apparently instructed not to call Justin."

"Instructed by whom?" He was growing impatient with her vagueness.

"By the Pittsburgh police department," she replied. "There's been an incident."

"What kind of incident?"

She took a deep breath. "I assume you know who Brian Kinney is?"

Steven closed his eyes, suddenly certain he was not going to like what he was about to hear. "What about him?"

She proceeded to answer his question, to provide the stark, unembellished details, concluding the account with two bald statements. No one was sure whether or not Kinney would live, and everybody was sure it was incredibly important that Justin stay away, until the culprits could be caught and put away. His safety depended upon it.

When she fell silent, Steven said nothing for a while, reflecting only that he'd been right on target. He didn't like it at all. And he liked his choices even less.

"So I'm supposed to . . . what? Pretend I don't know?"

Her eyes were soft with sympathy. "You're the one who knows him best, Dear. If you tell him, what will he do?"

He huffed a bitter chuckle. "Probably try to hi-jack the plane. Or go looking for a parachute. Anything he has to . . . to get there. To be with . . ."

She nodded. "And put himself in terrible danger in the process. So I guess you have to ask yourself how much you love him. Tell him the truth, and be prepared to see him at risk. Or keep quiet, and risk losing him when he finds out. I'm sorry, Honey. I know it's a question of damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

He nodded and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "I can't take a chance on anything happening to him," he said softly.

Her smile was gentle. "Well, if it's any consolation, apparently you're not the only one who feels that way. It seems that Kinney managed to hold on to consciousness just long enough to pass along the warning. Looks like this is one special young man to inspire that kind of devotion."

"Yes," he replied. "Very special."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, determined to appear unruffled and unaffected, and never mind the big lump in her throat.

He took a moment to consider, as he turned once more to gaze at Justin, to bask in his beauty and the indefinable quality of innocence he always wore, no matter that he had not been truly innocent for many years. "Yes," he said finally. "You can call his mother, and tell her I'll do what I must to protect him. No matter what it might cost me later."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Michael!" Debbie's voice was as sharp as a scalpel. "She's his mother. Don't you dare . . ."

"Stay out of this, Ma," said Michael, in a tone he had used only rarely in his life - hard and determined and unyielding.

"You can't interfere in this," she insisted.

"Oh, yeah? Watch me!"

Thus when Joan Kinney and her daughter arrived at the nurses' station, Michael was there to meet them, with Lindsey just a half-step behind him.

In truth, neither of Brian's old friends had any notion of how they might be able to run any kind of interference on Brian's behalf, but both were determined to try. Michael understood why his mother felt the way she did; Debbie had always believed that a mother knew best for her child. She had even believed that - for a while - about the skanky bitch who'd tried to take Hunter away from him and Ben, although she'd finally been forced to concede she was wrong in that instance.

But Debbie didn't know the whole truth about Brian's relationship with Joan. Hell! For that matter, neither did Michael or Lindsey. Because Brian had never been willing to tell them all the gory details. But they knew enough to be certain his mother would be the very last person Brian would want at his bedside while he lay helpless and comatose, and they were determined to do anything they could to assure his wishes were carried out.

Joan regarded Michael and Lindsey coldly as she approached the desk, and Clair, Brian's sister, looked at them with obvious dislike. "Michael," said Joan with a barely-there nod. "Miss Peterson." Lindsey, who had been an acknowledged Lesbian while still a teen-ager, had always been Joan's least favorite of her son's questionable acquaintances. "I can't understand why you didn't call me. Why I had to learn that my son is at death's door on the noon news. As you can imagine, I've been frantic to see for myself."

Lindsey and Michael exchanged glances and silently agreed not to point out that it had been several hours since the report had aired, and Joan, had she been truly frantic, would have arrived much earlier.

"He's not at death's door, Mrs. Kinney," said Lindsey. "The doctor assured us that . . ."

"If you don't mind," snapped Clair, "we'd rather hear it for ourselves. And we want to see him. Right now."

The nurse behind the desk was on the phone, speaking softly, when Joan leaned on the counter and cleared her throat. "My name is Joan Kinney, and I want to see my son, Brian, immediately."

Laura Van Deere had only been on duty for a couple of hours, but she already had a feeling this was not going to be one of her better days. An excellent judge of character and skilled in evaluating people's body language and attitudes, she knew at once that there was a lot going on under the surface between these new arrivals and the individuals who had been here all day, waiting for news about their friend.

The priest, silent until this time, stepped closer and appeared to be trying to calm the two women, but neither seemed in the right frame of mind to listen.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kinney," said the nurse. "But only Dr. Keller can authorize anyone to see your son, and he . . ."

Joan Kinney's eyes were suddenly huge. "Keller? Did you say Keller? You don't mean Matthew Keller, do you?"

The doors to the ICU sprang open suddenly, and it was no longer necessary for the nurse to provide an answer, for the doctor was suddenly there, in the flesh, and regarding Brian's mother and sister with a smile that spoke volumes - none of it repeatable.

"I'm so touched you remember me, dear St. Joan."

Brian's mother drew herself up and put on her best disdainful sneer. "You are not going to oversee my son's care, I can promise you that," she snapped. "I want to see the medical director. I want to see . . ."

Matthew Keller held up one hand. He was still smiling. "And I don't give a fuck what you want. Brian is under my care, as authorized by the individual he entrusted with his power of attorney, and - surprise, surprise - that person is not you." He glanced over at Clair, and the smile got uglier. "Now, take your troll offspring out of here, and don't bother coming back. You won't be allowed to see him, unless and until he invites you himself."

"You have no right," insisted Joan, "to come between a mother and her son. No right."

"I have every right," he retorted. Then he looked over and saw Debbie watching him with wide, unbelieving eyes. "It's just too bad nobody ever stepped up to do it when it might have done some good. When they might have saved him from you."

"Doctor . . . Keller, is it?" That was the priest, obviously hoping to play peacemaker. "Don't you think you're being a bit harsh? She just wants . . ."

The physician was quick to interrupt. "Forgive me, Father . . ." His smile became sardonic, "but I know exactly what she wants. And luckily, so did Brian - well enough, at least, to make sure she never gets a shot at getting it."

"Nevertheless," said Tom Butterfield, "she is his next of kin, and she's got a right to know . . ."

"A right?" Matt laughed. "You think she's got a right to know anything about Brian?"

He reached out and touched the cross the priest was wearing, and a strange, manic light flared in his eyes. "Tell you what, Rev. Why don't you get St. Joan here into the confessional, and ask her a few pointed questions; ask her about how she learned not to see what her son endured at her husband's hands. Ask her about how she expected him to stand up and step in, when his old man was looking for someone to take his drunken rages out on. Ask her how she saved her cunty daughter and herself, by providing an alternative target for the old bastard."

"Matt," said Lindsey uneasily, "I'm not sure . . ."

The doctor offered her a gentle smile, in deliberate contrast to the sneer he'd directed at the Kinney women. "Well, I am sure, Sweetheart. I promised you I'd save Brian, and I will. And that includes making sure he's safe from the people who should have protected him when he was too young to do it himself."

Joan and Clair looked at each other, and realized they had no choice but to accept the inevitable. They would seek alternatives; possibly even legal redress. There were always ways, if people were determined. And they were both determined and motivated - just in case. After all, if Brian did not survive this trauma - this punishment for his evil lifestyle - there was plenty of incentive to try to step in and be in the right place at the right time. He was a huge success, financially, and they were, after all, his only living relatives. So . . .

But today, they would not win this battle, and Joan was a bit concerned at a shadow she spotted in the eyes of the young priest who had been her solace for so long. She was furious at Matthew Keller for daring to speak of private family matters which did not concern him, but she was even more furious at her son, for revealing things best kept concealed, things he had seen from his own distorted perspective and interpreted in his typical, selfish manner. He knew she had had no choice but to allow things to happen as they had, because Brian had been strong enough to take what his father dished out, while she and Clair would have been destroyed by it. There had been no other way, and Brian had known it.

Then he had grown up and betrayed her, turning his back on her needs and his sister's vulnerability, like the selfish traitor he was.

But there was no point in going into those things here. Brian had obviously poisoned the minds of these people, these low-life sinners and fornicators who were staring at her as if they had a right to judge her. So she and her daughter would withdraw, conceding the battle, but biding their time before attempting to win the war.

Michael and Lindsey stood with Matt Keller and watched as the group walked away. None of them drew an easy breath until the two women and the priest stepped into the elevator.

At that point, Michael turned to look up at the doctor and offered a tiny, tentative smile. "Remind me," he said quietly, "never to piss you off."

Matt Keller laughed. "If you ask anybody around here, they'll be glad to tell you I'm a self-absorbed, cock-sucking bastard who doesn't give much of a shit about anybody. And mostly, they'd be right. But I do have one saving grace." He paused, and something dark and heavy moved in his eyes. "I take care of my friends. Always."

Then he turned and walked away, and Lindsey took Michael's arm in a proprietary gesture, before leaning in to whisper in his ear. "I think Brian is going to prove - once more - that he's the luckiest fag in the world. That self-absorbed, cock-sucking bastard is going to turn out to be the Kinney guardian angel, and he's not going to let his patient get away with defying him. So Brian will have no choice but to get well."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 13

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Dear God!" Debbie's voice was little more than a whisper, for possibly the first time in recorded history. "Do you think he's right? That she really . . ."

They all stared for a moment at the double doors through which Dr. Keller had disappeared after delivering his ultimatum.

"I think he's exactly right," said Lindsey finally, her eyes huge and filled with shadow.

"Then why didn't he ever tell us? Why would he keep quiet? To protect her?"

Michael turned to stare at his mother, startled by the note of resentment in her tone. "Why does that surprise you? That's what she expected him to do, trained him to do, wasn't it? Are you really all that shocked? How could you forget . . ." His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, suddenly swept into lurid memory.

"Michael?" Ben was there - of course - to take his hand and offer comfort. Only there was no real comfort to be had.

"I remember all of it," said Michael, barely audible. "Sometimes I wish I didn't remember so well. I can't even begin to count how many times he showed up at our house. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Bleeding and bruised and battered. With cracked ribs and black eyes and busted lips, and God knows what else. Jesus, you'd think I'd have gotten used to it after a while, but I never did. But he never would explain what happened. Other than to say that Jack was in one of his moods. Which meant the old bastard had been drinking again. That was all he'd ever say, but I knew what it meant. There never was a meaner drunk than Jack Kinney."

Ben felt a heaviness settle into his chest, and wondered if these people, this group that depended for its very existence on the young man lying comatose now in an ICU bed, had any idea how lucky they were that Brian had not grown up to use his natural charm and beauty and cunning to seek revenge on a callous, uncaring world. "Didn't anyone ever try to stop it?" he asked finally, deliberately not looking toward his lover's mother.

Michael sighed. "Uncle Vic did - once. Tried to convince Brian to go to the cops. Even offered to go with him. But Brian . . . he refused. He wouldn't say why, but I always figured it was because he knew it wouldn't do any good. Hell, half the guys on his dad's bowling team were cops. I think he'd already figured out that they wouldn't make much of an effort to protect him. Because his old man was one of the 'good old boys'. And because he already knew he was different, even way back then."

His smile was wistful - almost painful. "Brian blossomed early."

Debbie settled into the chair beside him and clasped her hands in her lap. "You have to realize," she said slowly, to no one in particular. "It was a different world back then. You just didn't go around interfering in family matters."

"Jesus!" said Ben softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "And it surprises you he has problems with trusting people? It's a fucking miracle he's not a raging psychopath."

Lindsey stepped close and favored Michael with a gentle smile. "I don't think it was his mother he was protecting."

And it was suddenly too much for Michael to bear - the uncertainty that surrounded him, the fear that filled him, the loneliness that no one could assuage - the beautiful, beloved face that might never again be as he remembered it, as he loved it, so he jumped up and tore off down the corridor, not knowing where he was going or why, only knowing he could no longer stand to be there, in that place, in that moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was always an aura of solemnity in the ICU; it seemed somehow more silent, more separated from reality and cushioned against the intrusion of ordinary sounds than other areas of the hospital, even though the constant hum of medical machinery and the beeps and blips of vital signs monitors made true silence impossible. Still, the large chamber felt different from its counterparts, more filled with solitude and an awareness of the frailty of life, which, was, of course, blatantly ridiculous since it was exactly the same as every other unit in the hospital, except it was more controlled and more carefully monitored.

There were sixteen cubicles in all, arranged in a broken oval around a central command post - the bailiwick of the specialized nurses and nurse practitioners who ruled the roost from their seat of power and watched lesser beings tiptoe through their domain. Monty Peabody had never been particularly fond of RNs in general, and these arrogant, overbearing, ICU-trained RNs in particular, believing they gave themselves airs they had not earned. The lab tech had long ago come to the conclusion that only the doctors - the demigods of surgical suites and trauma centers - were fully deserving of the homage of the masses - and even then, only some of them.

Present company definitely excepted, he thought, as he went about his business of drawing blood from the port embedded in the patient's left shoulder, while Matthew Keller sat on an exam stool, studying the displays on various computer screens and jotting entries into a bulging medical chart.

Since the physician appeared to be paying no attention to anything but the data he was perusing, Monty took advantage of the opportunity to study Kinney's injuries, although there wasn't much he could actually see. Bandages covered face, throat, and chest, arms and both hands, leaving only the left shoulder bare and mostly intact, except for a line of stitching across the bicep. Dark hair, freshly washed, spiked above snowy bandages on one side of the patient's head, but bare skin was visible on the other, just peeking out from beneath white gauze. Nothing at all could be seen of the face, and he could not tell anything about the lower body as it was covered with several layers of blankets, provided by caring nurses who knew full well that their patients were almost always hyper-sensitive to the chill of the unit. Of course, thought Monty, if the attending physician would simply finish up and take himself elsewhere, it might be possible to get a quick look - just to learn if any vital organs - or one very specific organ in this case - might have suffered some terrible retribution for the dissolute life Kinney had . . .

"Any reason you're loitering here?" said Matt Keller suddenly, rising and moving forward to stand beside the bed. "Unless you're planning to check his catheter or administer a blow job to try to revive him, you should . . ."

"That's ridiculous," Monty replied, stumbling over the syllables. "I was just . . ."

"Hoping to get a look at his cock?" Keller's gaze was hard as flint and flecked with ice. "Well, you certainly wouldn't be the first, would you?"

"Why should I care about his . . . cock?" Monty drew himself to his full (such as it was) height and tried to stare the doctor down, but Keller remained unruffled, barely able to stifle a smile as he realized that the lab tech had almost choked rather than utter such a nasty profanity, but had done so, with the realization that substituting a clinical, anatomical term would sound ridiculously prissy.

"You're queer, aren't you?" asked the doctor dismissively, as if that explained everything.

"So what?" the lab tech snapped.

Keller offered a little eye-roll. "So is there a fag in Pittsburgh that wouldn't sell his left nut for a chance to check out the legendary Kinney package?"

Monty sniffed. "There certainly is."

The doctor actually grinned. "Well, that's good then, because you'd be wasting your time standing around here, waiting for an opportunity that's never going to come. However, just for the sake of preventing mass panic, you and all of gay PA will be relieved to know that the Stud of Liberty Avenue remains as studly as ever."

Matt Keller was glad he was staring straight at the snoopy lab tech at that moment. Otherwise he might have missed the fleeting glimmer of disappointment that flared in the man's eyes as he considered his response. "Well, I'm sure all the thousands of tricks he's slept with will be delighted."

Keller nodded. "And all the ones who haven't had the privilege will go on wondering what they've missed."

The doctor smiled then, gratified to note a quickly-suppressed grimace of resentment on the lab tech's face.

For his part, Monty gathered his supplies and headed for the door, fuming but knowing it would not be wise to express what he was thinking. Best to just make his escape while he could, allowing the doctor to concentrate once more on his notations in the medical chart.

But it was immediately obvious that Keller was not quite done with the subject. "By the way," he called, not bothering to look up, "when I said that gay PA would be relieved to hear the news, that did not constitute permission for you to spread it."

Monty tried to look offended, but failed miserably, realizing that the doctor had sensed his intentions with alarming accuracy.

"Of course not. I would never . . ."

"Oh, I know you wouldn't." The interruption was immediate, and very cold. "Not if you value your job."

When the lab tech made his exit, moving, Keller noted with some satisfaction, with all the grace of a scalded cat, the doctor put aside the medical chart and hoisted himself to sit on the side of the bed in a spot where he could look down into his patient's face. Though he could not see any more than the cunty lab tech had seen, memory kicked in and supplied what was missing. The physician in him saw the wounds, but the man in him saw only the beauty.

When he spoke, his voice was very soft and achingly tender. "Flat on your back and out like a light, and you're still stirring the shit, Sonny Boy. Must be why I always loved you so much.

"You know, I have no idea if you can hear me or not. Even though I'm the great, incredibly gifted, all-knowing Dr. Keller, I don't know that - and neither does anybody else. So maybe I'm just sitting here talking to myself. But, just in case I'm not, I want you to listen to me. Are you listening? Actually, it's kind of nice to be able to say whatever I want without having to put up with your mouthing off and arguing with me. But there's no arguing with this. You just have to shut up and understand me. I will make you well again. And not only that."

He leaned forward then and touched his lips to the tiny little spot of bare skin just above Brian's left eat, just an inch below the site of the skull fracture which had almost proved fatal, while he reached up and stroked his fingers through a lock of dark hair. "I won't only make you well, Sonny Boy. I'll make you perfect again - one way or another. I promise you that. Those motherfuckers who did this to you are not going to win this war. You will be Brian Kinney again. I swear it."

He sat back then and spent a few seconds just listening to the rhythmic sound of his patient's breathing. Then he looked up, recalling, for just a moment, the catechism he had spent many years of his youth learning.

"And You," he said firmly, showing not the slightest nuance of reverence or humility, "better not make a liar out of me."

God, according to the stern old Daughter of St. Vincent de Paul who had presided over his elementary school, always listened, even if the person doing the praying was an arrogant prick.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Son of a bitch!" Police Chief Phillip Mitchum had very little in common with his predecessor. He was not handsome, did not have a buff body, exhibited very little personal charm, and was intensely apolitical. He was, however, a very good cop - honest and dedicated and forthright, and not given to mincing words. "Do you have any idea how much I don't need this right now!"

Carl Horvath took a deep breath, and offered up a little silent prayer before opening his mouth to respond. He was walking a very thin line here, and he knew it, but he also knew he had no other choice.

"Yes, Sir," he said slowly, "I think I do. But I also know this is something you can't afford to ignore. Whether we like it or not, we're sitting on a powder keg here. And it's not going to just go away. It's been building up for a long time, and this thing with Kinney . . . well, it just might be the last straw."

Mitchum rubbed his hands through thinning, dirty blonde hair. "You know, none of this would have happened if these people would just stop making such an issue of everything, and learn to keep their heads down."

"These . . . people?" Lance Mathis steepled his fingers in front of his face. "By that, I suppose you mean homosexuals. Gays and Lesbians and . . ."

"Well, of course that's what I mean," snapped the police chief. "Why can't they just . . ."

"Go away?" Horvath took a deep breath. "Sorry to tell you this, Chief, but I know from first hand experience; they're not going anywhere. And they're not going to back down." His tone was reasonable, even sympathetic, but very firm. "Those days - the days of 'don't ask, don't tell' - they're gone. It took decades for many of them to develop the courage to come out of the closet. And they're not going back in. Not for anybody."

Mitchum's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man who was on a short list to make chief detective in the homicide division. "You almost sound like you approve, Carl."

And there it was. The issue he'd spent the last couple of years avoiding - in public anyway - but there was no longer any way of evading the question; not if he wanted to be able to live with his conscience, not to mention the woman whose house he shared. "Actually, Chief - I do. It wasn't something that came easily to me. In fact, up until a few years ago, I was a lot like you, I suspect. I didn't hate homosexuals; I just didn't understand them. And in some ways, I still don't. But I've learned a lot recently, from the woman who is the most important person in my life. And from her son, who happens to be gay, and their friends. It's not necessary for me to understand why they are the way they are; it's only necessary for me to know that I don't have to right to judge them, or to deny them the same rights the rest of us enjoy.

"You may not approve of Brian Kinney and his lifestyle. And you might wish he'd just keep his face out of the papers and his name out of the news. But that's not going to happen. And your approval - or mine - isn't going to change the fact that his notoriety doesn't give anybody the right to do what they did to him. I know it might be hard for you to accept, but I can tell you, from firsthand experience, that it's true; he is, no doubt, what most heterosexual people would call a raging fag, but he's also as gutsy and honest as any man I've ever known. So maybe we all need to rethink how we define manhood.

"Ever since the whole ugly truth surfaced about your predecessor and Kinney's involvement in that, there's been trouble brewing. You've got extremists who are ready to start a war to try to enforce their version of 'What America Ought To Be', and you've got the minorities - of every persuasion - ready to stand up and fight to defend themselves. Plus, you have to remember that Kinney has a lot of friends - some of them very powerful - who don't seem to care one way or another where he sticks his dick. The bottom line here is, if we don't do something PDQ, we could be looking at war in the streets."

Carl leaned forward, hands clasped tight in a desperate attempt to open his superior's eyes. "It's not the way it used to be, Chief. Things you and I could never have imagined have opened doors that a lot of people would have preferred to leave closed. But there's no going back. People like Harvey Milk and Barbara Gittings, John Aravosis and Elaine Noble - they've changed the world. And people like Brian Kinney and his friends aren't going to just sit back and let the homophobes and bigots change it back. We have to deal with that."

Mitchum's eyes were cold, but, at least, thought Carl, he had listened. The detective found, to his annoyance, that he was barely breathing, waiting to learn what would come next, which would determine the direction they would all have to take for the future.

"So," said the chief slowly, reluctantly, "what do you propose?"

Carl barely managed not to sigh with relief. "We've been trying to sort this thing out since the bombing at Babylon. That's more than a year of busting our butts to follow up every clue, check out every lead. But we're still no closer to knowing who's responsible. We don't have the resources, the manpower, or the clout necessary to do a thorough investigation. And frankly, I think we have to consider that there are certain elements within the department who aren't exactly enthusiastic about seeing this thing solved. Seems like every step we take forward, something seems to slip through the cracks and send us back to the starting line. So . . . the logical thing to do is to get somebody who has the means to get the job done."

"Namely?"

Carl and Lance Mathis exchanged glances. "Chief Mitchum," said Mathis, "what happened at Babylon and what happened to Brian Kinney have one thing in common." He drew a deep breath. "They're both hate crimes."

Mitchum suddenly looked older than his 53 years. "That's what I thought you were going to say." He took a moment to light his pipe, blatantly ignoring the No Smoking sign on the wall just outside his glass door. Inhaling deeply and savoring the special blend of tobacco which was one of his very few personal perks, he stared at Mathis through a curtain of smoke. "I assume there's a specific reason for your presence here."

Mathis smiled. "I happen to be well acquainted with a member of an elite FBI team - someone who's very interested in the developments in this case. Her name is Alexandra Corey - Special Agent Alexandra Corey - and she can be here tomorrow."

Mitchum's eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. "You've already spoken to her?"

"I have," Mathis confirmed. "But only unofficially. Nothing happens until you give the word."

Horvath elected to remain silent, knowing he had done all he could.

The police chief rose and went to stand at his window, staring down into the heart of the city which looked to him to preserve civility and administer justice.

"All right," he said abruptly.

"All right what?" Horvath did not dare assume.

The police chief did not even try to appear pleased with his decision, but he didn't back away from it either. "The word," he said with a sigh, "is given."

Lance Mathis closed his eyes, allowing himself a sigh of relief and acknowledging a reluctant but heartfelt surge of admiration for the police chief, recognizing the difficulty of a man caught between two cultures and struggling to do the right thing. It was, he thought, long past time to get the big boys - even if the big boy in this case happened to be a big girl - involved and put an end to the horror hovering over this city.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Both Ben and Debbie were quick to leap to their feet to rush off in pursuit of Michael, but, as it happened, Lindsey was just a trifle faster as she stepped forward to intercept them both.

"Let me," she said firmly.

"Why you?" said mother and partner in unison, both slightly annoyed by her intervention.

"Because," she said firmly, "this isn't about you and Michael. This is about Brian and Michael, and neither one of you can really know what this is doing to him, much as you might want to."

"But you can," said Melanie, unable to control the strident note of bitter resentment in her voice.

"Yes," Lindsey replied, turning to regard her partner with steady eyes. "I can. I know that probably makes you angry; I guess I even understand why it would. But Michael and I have ties to Brian that trace back to when we were barely more than children, ties that words can't begin to describe. And now is not the time to be playing petty little games of jealousy and one-upmanship. Now, I'm going after Michael, and I'd appreciate it if the rest of you would just back off."

She turned then to walk away, but not before she caught a glimpse of the pleased smile on Emmett's face.

"And just how do you think you'll find him?" Debbie yelled after her.

Lindsey smiled. "I don't have to find him," she called without bothering to turn around. "I know exactly where he is."

As she pushed through the door into the stairwell she sent up a tiny, silent prayer of thanks for Brian's habit of regaling her with his more outrageous stunts and urges, like the one which had struck him on the night of Gus' birth - a temporary temptation to defy gravity and leap from the roof of the hospital. Another possible means, of course, of going out in a blaze of glory.

She smiled gently, knowing he wouldn't really have gone through with it. If Brian Kinney ever did decide to devise his own exit from existence, it would not be in a way that left him crushed and mangled and grotesque; it would be arranged, rather, so he would remain as beautiful in death as he had been in life, forever to linger in the memories of his friends as "Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake".

But not today, she thought grimly. And not ever, if she had anything to say about it.

Of course, she wasn't really fooling herself. She knew full well she had never had any real control over what Brian might choose to do, although she had, on occasion, applied the screws to try to force him to bend to her will. She sighed as she took her first steps up toward the roof, realizing she was a little bit ashamed of herself for sometimes using the guilt card to keep him from doing things he might really have wanted to do.

Struck by a sudden thought, she paused in mid-step and felt her breath catch in her throat. Did Brian ever have dreams - things he had wanted with his whole heart but never reached for because he was restrained by ties to those around him? Had she and Michael and Debbie and . . .

She resumed her climb more slowly, with a dull ache in her heart, trying to convince herself she was being silly; Brian Kinney did not deal in fantasies or dreams, as he was all about reality and living in the moment. She was still trying as she approached the final landing which would lead her to the roof exit, and she took a deep breath, offering up a whispered promise - just in case. "No more, Love. Never again."

She pushed through the door and saw exactly what she'd expected to see and forced herself to proceed slowly, to refrain from giving voice to a flash of panic.

Michael was sitting on the ledge at the edge of the roof, his feet dangling in space as he shivered and stared down into the shadows below, hands tucked under his arms and his face awash with tears.

She spent a few seconds trying to find the right words, before realizing there weren't any, and she didn't need them anyway. Ultimately, she simply stepped up and sank down beside him, before wrapping her arms around him; then they cried together.

For a time neither of them spoke at all, but it was Michael who finally found himself unable to remain silent. "I can't lose him, Lindsey," he whispered. "I thought after everything that went so wrong between us over the last couple of years, I thought I'd outgrown him, you know? I thought I'd proved that I didn't need him any more. But . . . oh, God! . . . how could I have done the things I did - said the things I said to him? How could I have let myself forget what he meant to me - what he did for me? How could I? He was always there for me - always, and I just . . . I let myself get so caught up in all the bullshit." He drew a deep shaky breath. "He was right. I did betray him."

"No, you didn't," she soothed. "You got a little distracted, maybe." She paused then and drew back so she could look up into his eyes. "From time to time, I think we all did. I mean, think about it, Michael. During that whole fiasco over Jenny Rebecca's custody, we all went a little psycho, and I think Brian served as a distraction for us through it all. It was always easier to blame him and yell at him about every little thing than to figure out what was really going on, and I think that's been the story for a lot of our lives. Hell, I sometimes think he let us do it on purpose, because it was easier for us that way. But in the end, you found your way back to him."

"But why? Why did I let myself turn into this pretentious prick, so eager to impress people I didn't really give a shit about, while I just . . . just walked away from him, from everything that mattered to me? When all that crap was going on, I once told Ben that I didn't even know who Brian was any more. But the truth was that he was the same person he'd always been. It was me who'd changed, and all I wanted to do was strike out at him. Why did I have to hurt him like that?"

"You weren't trying to . . ."

But Michael was not going to allow himself to avoid speaking truths he knew he should have spoken long ago. "Yes," he said sternly. "I was. Do you know what I said to him? When he tried to apologize to me, I said that just because we'd been friends all our lives didn't mean we had to stay friends. I wanted to hurt him. And I did. I saw it in his eyes, and I was glad, Lindsey. I was glad I could hurt him, because . . ."

"Because?"

He could not bring himself to meet her eyes. "Because he always knew the truth, even though he almost never said it. Just once in a while, it would slip out - when he'd let his guard down a little bit, or when he was high - or drunk."

His smile was rueful. "He called it 'my secret identity'."

Then he did meet her gaze and knew it wasn't necessary for him to say it; she obviously already knew. "I think you know," she said gently, "that he would have . . . if he could."

He nodded. "Yeah. I know you're right. And I guess that's why I did what I did. I'd managed to convince myself that . . ."

"That it wasn't you," she finished for him. "You convinced yourself he could never love anybody, until . . ."

"Justin," he breathed. "God! I didn't want it to be true. So what kind of friend does that make me - that I was so jealous I'd rather he'd spent his whole life alone, fucking everything in sight but never loving anybody, than to have him find love with someone else?"

Her smile was gentle. "I'd say it makes you human, and . . . " she forced herself not to look away, "one of the crowd. You're not the only one, you know."

Michael pulled back quickly and stared at her in disbelief. "You?" he gasped. "But you're . . ."

She managed a tiny laugh. "Which just goes to prove that none of us is immune to the Kinney charm." Then she laughed again. "Except Melanie, of course."

He dredged up a smile. "Yeah. If she starts drooling over him, it's the Apocalypse, for sure."

"Now," she said gently, with an exaggerated shiver, "don't you think it's time we climb down from this glacier and go find ourselves a nice hot cup of coffee?"

He nodded, but still made no move to depart. "I don't know how to explain it to Ben," he murmured. "I mean, how can I expect him to accept . . ."

"Ben loves you, Michael," she interrupted, "and I think he might surprise you. You know, it's not exactly easy for people to understand the relationship between you and Brian. Neither one of you has ever been willing to explain it or to help people figure it out, and God knows it's not a typical friendship, by any means. Still, I'm pretty sure Ben understands it. He knows how much Brian means to you, so I don't think you need to worry." Her smile was suddenly a little brittle. "He's not Melanie, you know."

Michael suddenly leaned forward and touched his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't need to.

But still he turned for a minute to look out across the city. "We came up here the night Gus was born," he said. "He wanted to fly. Like Superman." His voice broke a little before he continued. "I always wondered if . . ."

"If he meant it?" she asked.

He could only nod.

She tucked her hand through his arm and urged him up from the ledge, while considering her response. "In a way," she said finally, "I think he always means it."

They made their way then toward the stairwell, and Michael couldn't quite figure out why he found her words comforting. Then he stopped trying to understand it, and simply accepted the comfort for what it was - a gesture between friends.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was full dark by the time Lindsey and Michael made their way downstairs to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the huge hospital in search of the public cafeteria. But the growing lateness of the hour seemed to have no effect on the number of individuals packed into waiting rooms or standing around in hallways or coming and going through the big front entrance.

A quick conversation with a med tech near the ER revealed that there'd been a major pile-up on the turnpike involving a school bus transporting a college basketball team and a group of supporters, and it didn't look there would be any respite from the pandemonium for quite a while.

Michael nervously glanced down one particular corridor, stark and cold and featureless, and was caught up once more in a rush of devastating memory: Brian's face, as white as porcelain and as rigid as granite, absolutely still and chiseled and awash with silent tears, his hands and clothing dark with bloodstains he couldn't bring himself to wash off. Michael couldn't be positive, of course, but he was pretty sure nobody else had ever been allowed to see Brian Kinney in such a state. For three days, they had sat there together, while friends and acquaintances of Justin and his family had come and gone, moving around them as if they'd been rocks buried in a stream, and during that time, Brian had not spoken at all, except to answer direct questions from hospital staff members and police officers. He had not slept, had not eaten, had hardly moved from his place there against the wall, and had barely even spoken to Michael. And yet, even without words, Michael had known how important it was for him to be there, especially at those moments when Brian would look up to find Jennifer Taylor staring at him, obviously struggling to maintain her silence, biding her time until she felt freer to speak her mind.

Michael had never talked about it to anyone, but he knew nonetheless; he had saved Brian's life that night - had anchored him to the bedrock of reality and refused to let him slip away, consumed by guilt and remorse. Later, after his misadventure in Portland had ended and he'd come back to Pittsburgh, he'd heard the scoffers saying Brian had simply walked away from the trauma of that night, uncaring, and hurried to replace his broken boytoy with a newer, shinier model, but Michael knew better - knew what that event had cost his best friend. He had tried, once or twice, to make people understand the horror of what Brian had endured then, but he knew his efforts had been futile. People generally saw only what they wanted to see, he knew, and most of the people who lived in the periphery of Brian's life did not want to acknowledge that someone like him was not quite as invincible as he seemed. It was simply easier to classify him as a heartless shit.

Sometimes, Michael was amazed at how little people actually knew about the phenomenon who was Brian Kinney.

Some time later, it had been Brian's turn to step up and repay Michael's kindness. New memories swept in to dislodge the old, and now he dwelt on the dark days when it was he who had been lost in fear and despair, frightened of being alone, terrified of losing Ben - and it had been Brian who had been there for him, offering reassurance and strength and comfort, and asking nothing in return.

All the more reason, he thought, why he should be ashamed of what came later.

"Hush now," said Lindsey with a sad little smile, the softness in her eyes saying she'd watched the play of emotions on his face and knew where his thoughts had led him. "There've been good times here too. This is where Gus and J.R. came into our lives. And where Ted and Justin and Ben - and you - recovered and came back to us. And it's where Brian will come back to us too. Just you wait and see."

The cafeteria was crowded at this hour, mostly with evening shift members or day staffers just ending their rotation.

"You hungry?" asked Michael, looking askance toward a crowded buffet table, adjacent to a salad bar offering slightly wilted produce.

She shook her head. "There are only a few universal truths, Michael," she said with a lopsided smile, "but the fact that hospital food sucks - and not in a positive, life-affirming way - is one of them."

"Still at the head of the class, I see." Matt Keller appeared at her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, greeting her with a brilliant smile.

She laughed softly. "After you," she replied. "And Brian, of course."

"Of course," he agreed. "If you want my advice, stick to the coffee. And the cinnamon rolls won't kill you. They bring them in from a local bakery, so they're actually edible."

Lindsey looked up then and spotted a strange look on the physician's face as he stole surreptitious glances toward Michael while they placed their orders at the coffee bar. Her breath caught in her throat then, as she realized why.

"Oh, God!" she said suddenly. "What was I thinking? You two have never actually met, have you? Matt, this is . . ."

"It's okay, Linz," said Keller. "I know who he is"

Michael frowned. "How? How do you know me?"

The physician's voice was suddenly very soft. "The famous Michael Novotny? Even if I'd never seen a photo of you - which I have, ad nauseum - I'd have known you anywhere."

He then turned and led the way to a table by a narrow corner window and sank into a chair, every line of his body announcing a bone-deep weariness.

Michael followed more slowly, wondering if he was imagining the tiny note of resentment he'd heard in Keller's voice.

"Long day?" asked Lindsey as she studied the physician's face.

He dredged up a smile - barely. "You have no idea."

Michael took a sip of coffee, still lost in thought, while Lindsey considered how best to approach her old college acquaintance, to convince him to answer questions she had not dared pose when they'd spoken before.

"Matt, I . . ."

"He's going to be all right, Linz," he interrupted, staring down into his own cup. "You can stop . . . obsessing."

"I do not obsess," she said, with just a nuance of irritation.

"Of course, you don't." He didn't bother to try to hide his indulgent smile.

"What did you mean?" said Michael suddenly, having decided that the best approach, as usual, was to simply spit out the question without preamble.

"About?" Keller propped his elbows on the table and braced his chin against clasped fingers.

"The 'famous Michael Novotny'?" Michael raised his hands to make quotation marks with his fingers.

Keller's smile was a barely-there effort. "Brian used to talk about you all the time."

"He did?" Michael sounded as if he thought he might be the butt of some kind of joke.

"He did."

When Michael glanced at Lindsey, he was somewhat surprised to see her nodding her agreement.

The three fell silent for a time, content to sit and drink their coffee, which was surprisingly tasty and satisfying.

But Michael, as all his friends knew, was not one to leave well enough alone while questions went unanswered. His voice was very soft and his eyes somewhat unfocused when he spoke again. "All that stuff you said earlier - to his mother - how did you know all that?'

Keller did not look up. "How do you think? From Brian, of course. How else would I know it?"

"He told you." Michael tried not to sound as if he did not believe the physician, but he wasn't particularly successful in the attempt. "Why would he . . ."

The doctor's gaze softened as he lifted his eyes to study Michael's face. "Why would he tell me when he didn't tell you? Is that what you're wondering?"

Michael nodded. "I always thought he told me everything."

Keller took a moment to consider his choice of words before offering an answer. "Michael, you were - probably still are - the kid brother he never had."

"Only one thing wrong with that picture," replied Michael sharply. "I'm older than he is."

"In some ways, maybe," answered Keller softly. "But that doesn't mean he didn't want to protect you, when he could."

Michael was suddenly intent on gazing into his coffee cup. "So you were at Penn together," he said softly. "Roommates?"

"Christ, no!" laughed Keller. "We'd have probably beat each other to a bloody pulp if we'd tried to live together. In fact, that's how we met."

"What?"

"I made a pass at him, and he decked me."

Michael and Lindsey exchanged grins. "Brian?" Michael tried to picture it - and couldn't. Keller, after all, was the kind of guy that the gang had always classified as 'hot', so why would . . .

"His mother had just dropped him off after a week-end at home," Keller explained, "and he wasn't in the mood."

"Brian is always in the mood," Michael laughed.

But the laughter was forgotten when Keller regarded him with somber eyes and said, "Is he now?"

And Michael remembered then how his best friend always behaved after spending any length of time with either of his parents. "No," he admitted. "I guess he's not. But I still don't understand why he would tell you things that he never talked about - to us."

Keller did not answer immediately, turning instead to gaze out into the darkness beyond the window, while Michael and Lindsey looked at each other and wondered if he would answer at all.

"Probably," he said finally, "because he knew there was nothing he could tell me that I wouldn't understand."

He paused then, obviously debating whether or not to continue, and when he did, there was a cold detachment in his tone that was chilling to his listeners. "When I was eleven years old, my father almost killed me because I stepped in to try to keep him from beating my mother. The only reason he didn't succeed was that I grabbed a steak knife off the table and stabbed the fucker in the gut."

The silence around the table was thick with horror as Michael and Lindsey stared at him, having no idea how to respond to such a confession.

Keller continued, his voice completely emotionless. "One of the neighbors called the cops, and when they came . . ." He paused to take a deep breath and, perhaps, to compose himself before going on. "When they came, my father told them I'd attacked him, and that he'd only hit me to defend himself. They didn't believe him, at first."

Another pause, and a deeper sigh.

"Until my mother backed him up."

Michael's eyes were huge as he contemplated how it must feel to be betrayed by both parents. "What happened?" he asked, unwilling to hear it but unable to resist asking.

"I wound up in juvy hall, until they sorted it out. Then they shuffled me into foster care. I won't bore you with the details."

"Jesus!" breathed Lindsey. Then she looked at him with wounded eyes. "I never knew any of that. Why didn't you . . ."

"I never told anybody," he answered, " except . . ."

"Brian." It was not a question.

He nodded and paused for a moment to take a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "But that should explain why he felt he could tell me things that he couldn't say to you."

Michael frowned. "But he's my best friend. I still don't understand why . . ."

"Michael," said the doctor sternly, "he didn't want you to have to know what he endured."

Michael turned to study Lindsey's face. "That's what you meant, isn't it? When you said it wasn't his mother he was protecting."

She nodded. "He always protected us, Michael. Even when we didn't realize we needed protecting."

Keller's smile was gentle. "And, as far as I know, he still does."

Lindsey turned then to peer into his eyes, hearing something in the tone of his voice that said there was still more they didn't know, and she hesitated for a moment, not sure she wanted to hear whatever else there might be.

"You haven't seen him in a long time," she mused.

"No," he agreed. Then he smiled, but the weariness was still heavy upon him. "It's been a couple of years."

"Why is that?" asked Michael. "If you care about him like you said, why would you stay away?"

Keller sighed. "Because we're too much alike. We always wind up hurting each other. Fighting like pit bulls. With words, or worse. But we do keep in touch, when we need to." He paused for a while, once more lost in thought. "I don't think you ever met Daniel, Lindsey. You and Brian had already graduated when he and I met."

She shook her head, and flashed him a gentle smile. "No. I never did, but Brian told me about him. He said - let me see if I can remember his exact words - that Daniel was 'the pretty boy you settled for when you couldn't have him'. Does that sound about right?"

The doctor's smirk was indulgent. "Yeah, that sounds like Brian." He sighed then, and crossed his arms on the table, bracing his chin against his forearms. "And maybe he was even right, to some degree. Daniel was a geneticist, researching birth defects when we met, doing important work. He was brilliant and beautiful - well, you get the idea. I can't even begin to tell you what he was to me. Let's just say I thought he was God's way of making up for the shit I went through as a kid. Anyway, we went through a shitload of trouble before we finally managed to make a life together, and I thought - we both thought - it would be forever.

"Daniel had a twin sister - the only other person in his life who was important to him, who loved him as much as I did. Anyway, we'd been together about a year when she came to us with an incredible idea - a gift she wanted to give us. She had decided she wanted to become a nun, but, before she did, she wanted to offer herself as a surrogate for us. To carry my child - a baby for us to raise."

He closed his eyes. "It was so perfect. Our child would carry genes from both of us, would be as much our biological child as possible, for two men. Even Brian was impressed. After he got through laughing his head off at the idea of me as a father, not to mention verbally exploring the idea of 'incest, once removed', as he called it. Anyway, about a year later, Matthew Daniel Griggs-Keller came into the world. We called him M.D. And when I held him in my arms the first time, I realized something. I realized that Brian was right, at least a little bit, in claiming that I loved Daniel because he reminded me of Brian. Because my son not only resembled Daniel; he looked a little like Brian too. God, he was beautiful."

"So where is he now?" asked Lindsey, sure she was not going to like his answer - and she was right.

Keller was slow to respond, apparently looking for an easy way to say it but realizing finally that there wasn't any. "He's dead. He was just two when he contracted meningitis. We caught it early, of course, and rushed him to the hospital, but he was allergic to the antibiotics, and . . . there was nothing we could do. We put him to bed that night, happy and healthy and perfect. And fourteen hours later, he was gone. If it hadn't been so tragic, it would have been ludicrous. With all our knowledge and medical skill combined, we couldn't even save our own son."

He paused then, obviously struggling for words to express the rest. "It felt as if the profession we'd served for all our lives had betrayed us."

"Oh, God, Matt," whispered Lindsey, grasping his hand. "I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what you must have suffered."

He didn't bother to look at her, still lost in dark memory. "I called Brian, and he came, just like I knew he would. He didn't say very much, because he knew what most people never figure out. That there's nothing one can say that'll make a fucking bit of difference. But he came and he stood there with me and he cried with me, and that meant more to me than all the words and all the flowers and the speeches. Just because he was there, to hold my hand. Daniel and I - we couldn't . . . nothing was ever the same again, and he . . . he didn't have a Brian to save him. Every time he looked at me, all he could see was M.D.  A month later, he was gone. I don't know where he went - or where he is now. I only know that Brian saved me. Not because he knew how to make it better; nobody could have done that, but because he just refused to let me go. He held on and forced me to put one foot in front of the other - one step at a time. Even when all I wanted was to die too. He just kept holding on, refusing to listen when I yelled at him to fuck off."

He fell silent for a time, obviously still lost in thought. Then he smiled. "I'd have died then, if he hadn't forced me to keep going, and sometimes I hated him for it. Then, a couple of years later, it was my turn to force him to do the same, when he called me, after . . . after Justin got bashed. I was in the middle of my second residency then, at Johns Hopkins, on a neurosurgical rotation that was so Goddamned exhausting that I couldn't get away. But I called him every night, talked him through it, so he knew what to expect and how to cope. Did you know that he came here every night while Justin was here? Just to watch over him, to make sure he was safe."

Michael looked devastated. "No. I didn't know. Something else he never told me."

Keller sighed, his exhaustion growing deeper with every breath. "Because he didn't want you to feel compelled to help him cope with his guilt. He didn't want to cope with it at all." He raised his eyes then, looking first at Michael and then at Lindsey. "He didn't want to survive it. It nearly killed him, because he believed that it should have been him - not Justin. He still does. I think that's one reason he was ready to . . ."

He paused in mid-sentence, and Lindsey and Michael looked at each other, both sensing he had something else to say, something important, that they needed to know. But they also sensed it was something Keller was reluctant to reveal.

"What, Matt?" asked Lindsey gently. "He was ready to what?"

"I think," he replied slowly, "I've said enough."

"No," said Michael, his voice steady, filled with certainty. "You haven't. He called you when he found out he had cancer. Didn't he?"

Keller hesitated before nodding.

Michael closed his eyes and cast his thoughts back to a bitterly cold day, a dark day in his family history - the day they had buried his beloved Uncle Vic. He remembered the vivid scarlet of the roses against the mahogany gloss of the coffin and the numbness of his fingers as he'd shoved them into his pockets vainly seeking warmth, and the crunch of the frozen ground under their shoes as they'd walked away from the service.

And Brian's face. He'd never been quite sure just why it was the look on Brian's face that had lingered in his memory - the look on his face and the words he'd spoken as they'd all left the cemetery, even though what he'd said had gone almost unnoticed at the time, had been no more than barely audible words against background noise.

"He planned to just . . . to die, didn't he?"

Lindsey gasped as she turned to peer into Michael's eyes, not wanting to believe he could possibly be right.

But Keller, after a moment of hesitation, confirmed it. "Yes. He did. Initially, he planned to reject the treatment the doctors proposed. As he phrased it, he wanted to take a fast trip to Ibiza, party til he dropped, and then discreetly disappear. He contended that it was the . . . tasteful thing to do."

Michael nodded. "I remember when he talked about that. We all thought he was just being the Brian we all know and . . . " He turned to study Keller's face. "You were the one who changed his mind."

Keller smiled. "Ordinarily, I'm happy to take the credit for miracle cures, but, in this case, all I did was yell at him to tell him he was a stupid shit. I've never been entirely sure, but I think it was Gus who changed his mind." He then turned a speculative gaze toward Michael. "And maybe you, to some extent. At any rate, he experienced some kind of epiphany that made him decide to have the surgery. Until then, he'd pretty much decided that he was going to be the new James Dean - remaining forever young and beautiful."

He smiled again, and there was a glow of affection in his eyes. "I don't suppose it comes as a shock that he's obsessed with his own physical perfection."

It was Lindsey's turn to smile, but there was little joy in her expression. "Which brings us to a pertinent point," she said softly. "Namely, what happens now? Will he ever . . ."

Keller's eyes narrowed, and his face went rigid and harsh. "I've given my whole life to the practice of medicine," he said. "It's time now for it to give something back. I will not lose him." Then he remembered that these two people probably loved his old friend even more than he did. "And neither will you."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The other side of the world. Literally the other side.

Justin sipped at his Cosmo and wandered out through the French doors, to lean against the balcony railing and gaze out across the breathtaking panorama of Oriental Bay. The water, beautifully pure and crystalline, was a natural version of an abstract painting, comprised of hundreds of variations of colors, like the facets of carefully cut emeralds and sapphires and aquamarines stroked and polished by fingers of sunlight, framed by the broken crescent of the beach road that seemed to contain the city of Wellington in its narrow band of stylish structures reaching for the sky, gleaming white and coral against the verdant green of the hillsides beyond. On the bay itself, various types of sea-going vessels rode the combined forces of time and tide, sails billowing in graceful arcs before the wind.

The quality of the light was incredible, as pure and unfiltered as any he'd ever seen, painting everything in strokes of exquisite liquid brilliance, and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to grab a canvas and his brushes and capture it all.

It would be easy enough. His art supplies were carefully packed into a canvas carry-all, stowed in the closet of the luxury suite behind him.

He could already see it developing under his hands, growing and stretching across the canvas, transcending the physical dimensions of the scene, incorporating fragments of images that were rising in his mind. He closed his eyes and could still see it, but with enhancements uniquely his own. In actuality, the view was sharp and flawless, each element as crisp and perfect as the symmetry of a snowflake, but in his mind, he saw it filtered by a veil of rain, storm-washed and windblown and battened down. Surviving, with beauty intact, just waiting to reclaim its place in the sun.

His fingers twitched as he visualized the process of bringing his vision to life, building it layer upon layer, capturing the beauty, the infinity, the microcosmic clarity of the image, and wrapping it all around a distinctive silhouette.

But he just stood there, not acting on the impulse. His mind was engaged; even his fingers were eager to begin. But his heart wasn't in it.

It was, quite literally, a different world, in more ways than one. He sighed. But it still incorporated the part of him he could not quite manage to leave behind.

Would he forever see that one, unforgettable face every time he closed his eyes?

Steven had been wonderful all through the journey, had gone to extraordinary lengths to detach Justin from the melancholy which had gripped him since the night of his exhibition, which now seemed lost in some alternative timeline.

So what the fuck was he thinking - to be here in this fantastic, incredibly beautiful place, preparing for the greatest adventure of his life, exploring a culture rich beyond his wildest imaginings in the company of a gorgeous, loving companion - and all he could think about was what was missing.

Well - almost all.

There was the guy standing on the adjacent balcony, smoking a Gauloise, wearing nothing but a towel that left little to the imagination. And Steven was meeting with an important client, a multi-billionaire who had risen to the peak of his profession at age 50, before retiring to his private paradise in the hills above the city, leaving his investments in the capable hands of Steven's father.

So he did have several hours to kill and . . .

The beautiful brunette with the awesome six-pack and the glorious tan and eyes of a surprisingly vivid green turned toward him with a smile that could only be described as come-hither (and no, he shouldn't stop to consider that such a descriptive term was much more Brian Kinney than J.T. standard) and waited for his response.

And he opened his mouth to offer it, but . . . He realized, not quite too late, it would be in really questionable taste to spend his leisure hours fucking some gorgeous stranger while the man who was picking up the tab for this whole trip was - figuratively, at least - slaving away to pay for it. And the fact that the 'slaving' was probably occurring in a 5-star restaurant over a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a Kobe steak didn't mitigate the facts.

With an apologetic smile, Justin retreated from the balcony and looked around for something to fill his time until Steven's return. He could, of course, set off to explore the city, but he was still a bit jet-lagged, and he knew Steven would be disappointed if he chose to go off by himself, so he decided to hold off.

His laptop was lying atop the inlaid surface of the Queen Anne desk which occupied its own little alcove in the sitting room of the suite, and it occurred to him that he'd had virtually no contact with the outside world since he'd boarded the plane in New York. Time, perhaps, to do some catching up.

He switched it on and was not surprised when a discreet chime announced that he had mail. Did anyone in the world who had an email account ever boot up without getting that message? It was one of the new constants of modern living.

But when he glanced at his Outlook Express screen, he was mildly surprised to note that one of the 43 messages awaiting his attention was marked as "high priority" - an unusual enough circumstance to prompt him to click on the item without bothering to notice the identity of the sender.

There was a brief delay before the screen began to fill with a sharp, indelible image.

Justin stared for a moment, unwilling, unable to process what he was seeing. Then he went to his knees, suddenly fighting to draw breath, as his mind tumbled into blind panic.

There was no mistaking the subject of the photograph staring up at him, or the meaning of the six-word message scrawled in bright red all caps below it.

"Not so beautiful now, is he?"

Later, he would wonder how long he knelt there, staring at what he would have given his life to avoid seeing: Brian's face - there was no mistaking the features he knew so intimately - but no longer Brian's face. Bloodied and torn, distorted and mangled. Mutilated.

After a long time - minutes, hours . . . months, how the fuck could he be sure . . . he blinked, and managed to search for the name of the sender.

Virtuoso-Uno.

Of course. Who else? He had heard from Ethan Gold a few times since their ill-fated affair had ended - a few long, rambling letters trying to justify the violinist's behavior or attempting to impress Justin with the degree of his professional success. Mostly, he'd deleted them without bothering to read the rambling exhibitions of massive ego.

He wished he'd noticed who'd sent this one, and deleted it unseen.

Only, if he had, he wouldn't know . . .

Fuck! He still didn't know. But he was about to find out.

He used the hotel phone to place his call, realizing that a signal from his cell would register his identity on the phone he was trying to contact. And he didn't want that, because he was pretty sure the call would go unanswered if the recipient knew it was from him.

It took a while for him to get through as he imagined the signal bouncing from satellite to satellite to land lines to cell tower to . . . who knew what? He paced as he waited, barely able to contain an urge to scream. But finally, thankfully, the connection was made, and he heard what he'd hoped to hear.

"Hello."

Justin drew a deep breath, prepared to speak fast. "If you fucking hang up on me, Daphne, I'm never going to speak to you again. Now you tell me, is he all right, or . . ."

He heard her sigh, and even felt a twinge of pity, realizing he was probably putting her in an awkward position. But that couldn't be helped. "Justin, I can't . . ."

"Don't you fucking tell me that," he yelled. "I know he's hurt. I have to know he's not . . ."

"No," she said quickly, recognizing the futility of trying to keep up the pretense. "He's not . . . dead. He's . . . they put him in an induced coma, to help him heal, but he's . . ."

"What? He's what?"

"Oh, God, Justin," she said, not quite able to swallow the sobs rising within her. "They almost killed him. How could anybody . . ."

He closed his eyes, wondering if he could endure the truths she had to tell him, knowing he had no choice. "Tell me he's going to be all right," he begged.

It took a moment for her to compose herself. "The doctor says he'll live."

Justin took a deep breath, knowing there was more - so much more - but nothing that couldn't wait until he could find it out for himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Daphne tried not to flinch away from the fury she heard in his voice, realizing she couldn't really blame him. If he had kept something this important from her, she wondered if she would ever have been able to forgive him.

"He didn't want you to know," she said finally, knowing it was not good enough, but not knowing what else she could say.

"Fuck!" She winced away from the volume of the expletive, and the degree of rage it contained. "What kind of fucking lame excuse is that?"

"Justin, I'm . . ."

"Don't say it," he snapped. "There's nothing you can say that will . . . Fuck! It doesn't matter. I'm on my way, and if he wakes up before I get there, you tell him he's a fucking son of a bitch for trying to . . ."

"Justin," she shouted, as the people around her turned toward her, their faces twisted with alarm as they realized what was going on, "he doesn't want you here. He . . ."

"I don't give a flying fuck," he said in a voice filled with deadly calm, "what he wants."

"Justin, no . . ." But she knew her protest was futile. Justin was already gone.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 14

The concierge of the Copthorne Oriental Bay Hotel was normally a serene, virtually unflappable individual, polished and self-assured and confidant of his abilities to meet and exceed the expectations of the guests who called on him for extensive personal services - even when those guests turned out to be the most outrageous, demanding, unreasonable prima donnas imaginable. In almost twenty years of providing these services at the premium hotel, The Brisbane native had never once had cause to doubt his ability to function and fulfill his purpose with admirable aplomb. Until, that is, he was forced to go head-to-head with one fuming, nearly demented, barely-in-control Justin Taylor, who might look like a kid who belonged in a remake of The Brady Bunch, but behaved more like a Panzer-division storm trooper.

The blond youth was standing in Adam Cargill's office, having rejected the offer of a seat with nothing more than a disdainful sneer; he was almost vibrating with impatience.

"Mr. Taylor, please," said the concierge, not - quite - wringing his hands. "If I could help you, I would, but I . . ."

"Fine," snapped Justin, bending over to pick up a nondescript duffle bag and a canvas carry-all. "You can deal with explaining to Mr. Fletcher why I'm not here, when he returns to the land of the living." He paused long enough to flash the older man a snide smile. "And you should assume that he's not going to be pleased."

"But . . ."

"Don't bother! I have no time to discuss . . ."

"But Mr. Taylor, the airline was very specific. They can't accommodate your . . ."

"You let me worry about the airline," Justin retorted. "You just worry about explaining yourself to Steven."

"But if you'll just give me ten minutes, I'm sure . . ."

"I don't have ten minutes," Justin replied, with what he considered admirable restraint. Just what part of "I have to go now" did this pussy-whipped sycophant not understand?

In truth, Cargill was neither pussy-whipped nor sycophantic; he was just an employee trying to do his job, caught between corporate policy and the determination of a young man who had not the slightest interest in company rules.

The concierge, recognizing true desperation gleaming in blue-on-blue eyes, really wanted to help the kid. Only he dared not disobey the hotel's most stringent regulation: one did not, under penalty of dismissal, interrupt a closed-door, security-guarded, private meeting between VIP clients, for anything less than a terrorist attack or a raging fire. When such clients paid for absolute discretion and a guarantee of non-intervention, they weren't kidding.

Finally, Justin simply nodded and turned for the door.

"Wait!" Cargill drew a deep breath and wondered if he would forever be doomed to be putty in the hands of adorable little blonds with huge blue eyes and perfect bubble butts.

With an impatient grunt, he depressed a button on his telephone and waited for a response. "Send Jonathon in here," he snapped when the call was answered.

"What am I waiting for?" demanded Justin, in no mood for game playing.

Cargill grabbed a pad from his desk and tossed it on the counter. "Write a note," he said quickly, "and I'll see he gets it. And, for God's sake, don't tell anybody. I could lose my job for this, you know."

Justin didn't stop to consider; he simply wrote the first thing that came to mind. "I have to go. If you already know what happened, no explanation is needed. If you don't, none would be enough. I'm sorry."

He hesitated then for a fraction of a second, before scrawling Love, Justin at the bottom.

"The limo is waiting, Mr. Taylor," said Cargill, "but . . ."

Justin didn't wait to hear the rest. He was gone before the concierge could voice his certainty that there really was no need to rush because the airline had been very specific. Cargill sighed; he had no idea what might have happened to send the young man on a mad dash to the airport, where he was almost certainly destined to spend many frustrating hours fidgeting and worrying and pacing, on stand-by while waiting for a seat to become available on a flight - any flight - headed east. The kid would have a very long day.

Cargill made sure that Jonathon - the waiter currently attending to the needs of the very special guests in the very private dining room - knew which of them to approach with the note; then he returned to his regular tasks, relieved to be able to do so, believing the crisis averted. But in assuming that the worst was over, he was destined to be proven wrong. When Steven Fletcher stormed into his office less than five minutes later, he knew immediately that he had been ridiculously optimistic.

"Get me a car right now!"

"Of course, Mr. Fletcher," Cargill replied smoothly, in the mistaken belief that a serene response might serve to pour oil on troubled waters. "However, let me assure you that there's no cause for alarm - or need to hurry, for that matter. The young man is unlikely to be able to get a flight out any time soon. He's . . ."

Steven glanced at the man's ID tag with cold eyes. "It's obvious to me, Mr. Cargill," he almost snarled, "that you don't know the first thing about Justin Taylor. He may look like a sweet, unassuming little cherub, but - when the need arises - he can move mountains. Or airlines, as the case may be. So, if you have no desire to find yourself standing in the unemployment line, get-me-a-car . . . NOW!"

At that moment, it would have astonished Adam Cargill, as he struggled to control an almost irresistible urge to tell this obstreperous, overbearing, pompous ass what he could do with his threats and his demands, to discover that Fletcher was ordinarily the most laid-back, mild-mannered, and courteous of men, completely opposed to any notion of using the power of his name, his money, or his position to demand special favors. But this was different; this was Justin, for God's sake.

And it struck him in mid-stride, as he headed for the door at a near run, that there was still something he could do - something Justin would not expect. Something that might very well put the young man he loved beyond all reason directly in harm's way. But something that would - at the same time - give his young lover the thing he wanted most in the world.

Steven paused - more torn than he had ever been in his life.

Then he sighed and walked back toward the private dining room where he had just left one of his company's most important clients to watch, open-mouthed and outraged, as his broker deserted him without explanation.

This was going to be a tricky moment, and he knew he was going to have a hell of a lot to answer for. His father, in fact, might never forgive him. But he would do as he must. For Justin, even though he was almost certain what he was doing would be the last thing he ever had an opportunity to do for the young artist.

He should resist; he should pretend ignorance. He paused in the doorway to touch fingertips to his temple, hoping to ease the headache rising there. He should look after his own best interests, which did not, not, not, include providing a means for Justin to realize the compulsion driving him now. Steven knew he should take his seat at the table, offer up some excuse about a momentary lapse, and resume his meeting. He knew he should . . .

But . . .

Andrew Ellis was sitting exactly where Steven had left him, champagne glass still in hand, eyebrows still raised, mouth still open, undoubtedly wondering what the hell had just happened to send the representative of his brokerage house racing from the room as if pursued by an army of screaming demons. He didn't appear outraged - not yet - but he was obviously working on it. Steven took a deep breath, mentally girded his loins, and jumped in with both feet.

"Andrew," he said abruptly, allowing himself no more opportunity to dither, "you deserve an explanation and an apology, and I will gladly offer both, ad nauseum. On my knees, if necessary. But first, I must ask you, beg you, to trust me. Because I need a really, really big favor, and the explanation will have to wait until later."

Ellis lifted his head, arching one eyebrow even higher, and stared up into the face of the handsome young man who was so like his venerable father in so many ways and so unlike him in others. Steven Fletcher was the younger generation, the new wave who would one day soon remake the shape of Wall Street and global markets, always providing he learned to keep his eye fixed firmly on target, and avoid unnecessary distractions.

Still . . . Andrew was quiet for a moment, swept back suddenly into memories he had not examined for a very long time. Memories of a young life, a different life, lived before he had taken up residence in the heartland of respectability, leaving behind a youth that was a far cry from the world he occupied now. He was quiet for a moment, taking time to light a cigarette and enjoy a sip of champagne before looking up and regarding young Fletcher with a faint smile.

"What kind of favor?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Funny - he couldn't remember anything about where he'd been before or how he'd gotten here, although there was not the slightest doubt about where he was. Babylon was like no place else in the world; it had its own smell, its own ambiance, its own rhythm, its own pattern of sound and silence. Still, he should know where he'd been before - shouldn't he? Unless he was drunker than he thought. Or maybe that pig, Anita, had finally done it, had finally cooked up a batch of shit in her bathtub to pass off as "E" when it was really some kind of toxic soup that would send him on a horrible trip to rival the very worst LSD experience any child of the 60's had ever endured.

Still, even then, he should recall something . . . shouldn't he?

But nothing came to mind, beyond a few faded images - a glimpse of dancing in a ballroom, a few random drawings of a comic book hero, an infant looking up at him with beautiful solemn hazel eyes, and a few words that seemed to have dribbled into his consciousness - words that didn't make much sense.

Was there a voice - male, he thought - that denied any desire to get a look at the cock of the Stud of Liberty Avenue?

Was the fucker crazy?

And had someone mentioned that he would be Brian Kinney again? Well, of course, he would. Who the fuck else would he be? He was . . .

He lifted his eyes, somehow already knowing what he would see, although he knew it didn't make any sense. How could he know?

He managed not to flinch, not to frown. He managed not to allow anything to show on his face; it wasn't such an impressive trick, since he'd been doing the same thing his whole life - although not quite like this. It was not quite as simple this time, while he was intensely conscious of a blade of frozen steel slicing through his heart.

He wanted to be angry, wanted to feel betrayal as he watched Justin break the rule that he himself had imposed. Words swirled in his memory, underscored by the thumpa-thumpa rhythm around and through them. "You don't kiss anybody on the mouth . . . but me."

The rule, apparently, no longer applied.

He tried to be angry - tried to hate the two young men who turned to look at him as they made their exit. But he couldn't find it within him. He couldn't hate Justin, couldn't resent him for needing what Brian could not give him, could never give him.

He had known it was coming; known that Justin would walk away, pursuing a dream of romance and a fairy-tale ending; a dream Brian could never allow himself to provide.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to hurl himself forward and let rage take him as he refused to relinquish the only thing that mattered, the thing his heart insisted he must fight for, must win back.

But he couldn't, because he understood, on some sub-primal level, that Justin would be happier without him, happier with someone who could give him the things Brian couldn't and wouldn't, and that was all that really mattered.

So he did none of the things his heart told him to do. He just stood there and watched, carefully preserving the Brian Kinney image he'd spent his life building.

Untouched and untouchable.

Only . . . deep down, in a private place no one would ever see, some small part of him curled in upon itself, turning away from a pain too deep to endure, and died. Leaving behind a small, intense core of icy cold that would never thaw, never be warm again.

Then, it was on to the next trick, the next drink, the next hit, and he had an incredible urge to laugh as a bizarre thought erupted in his mind - a tag line from an old movie: "In space, no one can hear you scream."

The space around him expanded abruptly, reaching out toward infinity, and just like that, Babylon was gone; Justin and the fiddler were gone; the only thing that remained was the cold. Somehow he knew it would never leave him.

He drifted then, his mind in free fall, only occasionally touching down to brush against reality: footsteps coming and going, gentle hands touching him with a cool but not uncaring professional detachment, strange electronic sounds, not unlike a world constructed inside a video game, soft voices uttering words unconnected with the images in his mind. Once in a while, a voice he thought he should know . . .

"You scared us to death, you little shit . . ."

" . . . hang on, Brian. Gus needs you . . ."

" . . . Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake . . . "

But none of them grabbed him or inspired him to try to formulate an answer or touched the coldness inside him.

Until . . .

Babylon again. Was he only alive there now? Was everything else just an echo? Just gone?

His back braced against the wall and some anonymous trick with a beautiful face worshipping his cock with tongue and suckling as he listened to the beloved voice on the phone.

"You're not mad, are you?"

The automatic response fell from his lips without thought. "Why would I be mad?" Why indeed? Of course, he wasn't mad. How could he be mad when he knew Justin was doing exactly what he should be doing? When his young lover was living a life every young person dreamed of: making a movie, for God's sake, and fucking movie stars - flying in his element, while the rest of the world remained dirt-bound.

He hastened to reassure Justin, to let him know he should not concern himself with how Brian might feel about his decision to extend his visit to the fantastic world that was Hollywood. And he resisted the urge to reply in kind when his young lover ended their conversation with a tender confession. "I miss you."

Brian disconnected quickly and stroked his fingers through the hair of the young man kneeling before him, but he was careful not to look down, not to see the dark hair and the buffed-up body that was definitely not Justin.

Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes and saw a truth he'd been doing his best to ignore. Justin had come back to him once, after the debacle of the fiddling twink; he had been lucky that time. He wouldn't be that lucky again. What, after all, could he offer to compete with the incredible adventure the young man was living now?

Justin was gone, and it was time to face it. He would not be coming back. It was time to let him go.

He felt a quick compression in his chest, as if his heart had somehow skipped a beat, and then he felt the first rush of orgasm take him and pull him out of his thoughts, out of his awareness, and he had never been more grateful for the distraction.

And yet, as molten heat exploded in his groin and through his body, he was suddenly aware of something that rejected the distraction and the heat: deep inside, in a place where he almost never allowed himself to go, a core of ice flexed . . . and grew colder.

More footsteps. More drifting. More voices.

" . . . to wake up. Please . . ." Slightly whiny, even needy.

"They all . . . for you, you know. We can't . . ."

"Temperature slightly elevated . . . swelling in . . ."

" . . . give 'em all the big 'fuck you'. I know you can . . ."

But none of that really concerned him or grabbed his attention.

He was too busy drifting, until . . .

Babylon. Again. But different this time. Darker somehow, twisted into a moment he knew he didn't want to endure. But it was futile to resist, even when he knew . . .

Ted and Emmett, both wearing an expression he was all too familiar with - the one announcing that they were smug in the certainty they'd found a way to get through his defenses, to hurt the person who dwelt within the fortress, and he wondered how they could really believe he'd never figured it out, that he didn't know how gleeful they were when they managed to inflict pain on a person who never allowed himself to show it.

But this time . . . this time he wasn't sure he could hold it together, for this time, it was not just a betrayal from one of the people closest to his heart. This time, it was a conspiracy - a joint effort to mock everything he was. Justin . . . and Michael, joined together in their disdain for his life and his choices. He believed in liberty, in never holding on to someone who wanted to be free, in giving his heart without demanding a certificate of title in return.

Justin had rejected all that. Rejected him and embraced the philosophy Michael and Ben had adopted. And there was really nothing he could do but accept it. But perhaps, this time, he would not completely resist the urge to acknowledge the betrayal, to speak out.

So he would vent the anger, the sense of betrayal. But . . . only once. And then the mask would fall firmly back in place, and he would concentrate on constructing higher walls to guard his heart. It was a harsh lesson, but he would learn it.

What other choice did he have? His whole life had been spent learning to endure things which would have destroyed those without his strength and his determination. He would endure, and he would make sure no one would ever understand the degree of the hurt it cost him.

He was Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake! They all needed to believe there was nothing he could not withstand, nothing that could pierce the fortress built around his heart.

He would make sure they could go on believing that.

And if the dark core within him - the one filled with relentless ice - grew darker and colder, it was not necessary for anyone else to know it. The cold, by this time, was an old, familiar companion. Unlike other companions, it would never leave him.

He would endure. He would always . . .

Drifting again, everything dissolving into a strange, surrealistic landscape of pain and blackness, whispers and detached voices, and . . .

Quick images of dancers and writhing bodies, of familiar faces in unfamiliar settings, of fire and blood and death, and then . . .

Flickering light - pale, warm . . . beautiful . . . touching golden hair with sparks of bright embers and reflecting in huge, blue eyes smiling up at him. Justin - radiant, glowing, happy. Justin in his arms, returned to him. Snatched back from the grim maw of destruction, from the devastation of blood and carnage. Justin - safe and, finally, claimed. Justin - his.

He stretched like a cat, reveling in the feel of creamy bare skin beneath him, in the intimacy of two bodies irrevocably joined, connected physically, but more than that. Connected heart-to-heat, soul-to-soul.

Justin, finally and totally, a part of him. Their kisses were slow and tender and spoke of having all the time in the world to explore each other, to rediscover each other, to . . .

Shrill, electronic beeping, loud and insistent . . .

" . . . temperature spiking . . . "

" . . . blood pressure dropping. Heartbeat erratic . . ."

"Justin," he whispered, gazing down into eyes that were now growing wide, reflecting something more than firelight, reflecting the rising voltage of pure panic. "Justin . . . I'm . . . sorry I . . ."

"Sorry's bullshit . . . Brian, don't you lea . . ."

It was the cold, of course. The cold, just as he had always known it would be. In spite of the blessed warmth of the fire against his skin, and the precious warmth of the body pressed close against him, it was the cold that would finally triumph and take away all he'd managed to claim. It was the cold . . .

". . . call a code, STAT. And get Keller . . ."

It was early morning now, and only Michael and Ben were present in the waiting room, having dropped in before work, in the hope of getting a chance to have just a moment with the patient, even though, forty-eight hours after the fact, he had still not wakened from his coma, although Dr. Keller assured them it would not be much longer. Still, it was comforting, somehow, to stand beside his bed and watch the rise and fall of his breath and note the occasional tremor they chose to interpret as Brian's efforts to return to the land of the living.

Thus they were the only ones there to hear the clipped, cold announcement on the PA system: "Code blue, ICU. Code blue, ICU. Dr. Keller, 6117 STAT."

Ben was quick with easy reassurance. "It could be anybody, Michael. There are lots of other patients in ICU, and Dr. Keller is probably the primary physician on call. Don't jump to conclusions."

But Michael remained unconsoled. Ben meant well, meant to offer comfort and ease his husband's mind. Only he didn't know Brian - the world's foremost drama queen.

Michael just nodded and continued to gnaw on the cuticle he'd already reduced to bloody shreds - knowing, and wishing he didn't.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Airports were a lot like hospitals, he thought. Pretty much the same the world over, even if one qualified for admission to the VIP lounge. Which he did - courtesy of Steven, of course, and the first class ticket he was trying to exchange for an earlier flight.

Today. That was his only stipulation. It had to be today.

The real problem was that the stupid airline had no flights headed for the US mainland until the regular daily departure at 9:45 PM. Six and a half hours away. Six and a half useless hours, separating him from where he needed to be.

Justin sat in a booth in the discreet darkness of the bar, nursing his Beam and muttering under his breath. Of course, there was also the slight difficulty posed by the fact that the flight was fully booked, with no available seats - first class or otherwise - but he would deal with that problem when the time came. There would be someone willing to negotiate; there had to be. In the immortal words of someone who was currently much too far away, "Money talks". He would just have to make sure it said the right thing to allow him to prevail. Meanwhile, here he sat, nursing his drink, firmly ensconced on the stand-by list, and staring at his watch, knowing he needed to eat, that he would probably be sick if he didn't, but unable to bear the thought of food.

The bartender was giving him another come-hither look, and he reflected that it was really too bad he was gay, as she was quite pretty and obviously interested. But he confined his response to a pale smile, before going wide-eyed as he noticed the commercial playing on the TV behind the bar. Endovir - The AIDS drug - the ads which had been the first to be produced by Kinnetic Corp, the product of the advertising genius of Brian Kinney.

It was truly a small world, he thought, allowing himself a tiny sigh. Only not quite small enough - today.

Justin closed his eyes and knew that it was time. He could put it off no longer. He wasn't even sure why he had done so up until now, for the knowing or not knowing would change nothing.

But it was time to know.

He retrieved his laptop from his carry-all, and attached it to the Internet outlet beside the table, then waited while it booted up. Allowing himself no chance to procrastinate, he clicked on Google and typed in Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, waited for a moment, and managed - barely - not to flinch as the front page of the largest of Pittsburgh's dailies appeared on the screen.

The article was just a small piece at the bottom of the front page, bearing the headline "Kinney Attack Under Investigation."

Justin took a deep breath, trying to ignore the hard thump of his heartbeat and the huge lump in his throat, and began to read.

"According to a statement issued by the Pittsburgh Police Department, the attack on local businessman, Brian Kinney, is being treated as a hate crime and federal involvement in the investigation is pending. Mr. Kinney, owner and president of the advertising firm, Kinnetik Corp, and of the gay nightclub, Babylon, which was the target of a terrorist-style attack last year, remains hospitalized at press time, still listed in critical condition.

Detective Carl Horvath confirms that a number of leads are being pursued and interviews with potential witnesses continue. The attack occurred last Friday evening, as Mr. Kinney was abducted by his attackers after leaving his nightclub prior to closing. No official statement concerning the severity of the attack has been issued, but unconfirmed reports suggest that he was badly beaten, and his injuries were extensive; however, an unidentified source reports the doctor overseeing his care indicates that he is 'cautiously optimistic' concerning his patient's chances for recovery.

The individual who was killed during the police rescue has been identified as George McCormick, a resident of Chicago and ex-convict allegedly affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang.

No further details have been released at this time. The police department is urging anyone who might have information concerning this attack to call the TIPS hotline as soon as possible."

Justin leaned his head against the back of the booth and closed his eyes. There was a picture, of course. He had known there would be. Who, after all, would resist the urge to publish a photograph of that face? Brian, not quite smiling, not quite smirking, but something in between. Just quintessentially Brian - and quintessentially beautiful.

There would be more - much more - he was certain, if he called up an earlier edition: the front page article from the day after the event. He just wasn't sure he was ready to know it all.

Still, there was no point in delay. He lifted his hand to initiate the search, but had not completed the gesture when he became conscious of a presence standing over him.

"Hello, Steven."

The young broker did not offer a response until he'd made himself comfortable on the opposite seat, bracing his hands against the table and signaling for the bartender to bring him a drink along with a refill for his companion.

"Justin." Just that. Just his name and no more.

And Justin took a moment to draw a deep breath. "You knew," he said, without a trace of uncertainty, his voice admirably steady despite the anger erupting like a flame in his chest.

Steven sighed. "Yes."

"Why . . ." Another deep breath, obviously struggling to remain calm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Steven reached forward and touched his finger to the photograph still centered on the computer screen. "Because he didn't want you to know. If I understand it correctly, he fought like a son of a bitch to remain conscious long enough to make sure the powers that be knew to keep you away."

"Because?"

Steven wanted to look away, wanted not to see the fury rising in those incredibly blue eyes - but couldn't. "No one knows for sure, but it's only logical to assume that they threatened you. That they told him they'd be going after you next."

Justin's eyes were drawn once more to the photograph on the screen. "And that was enough - for you and for him - to decide to keep me in the dark?"

Steven sighed. "It should be pretty obvious that both of us only had one thing in mind. To keep you safe."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"Justin, think about it. Please. If he manages to come through this, how do you think he'd feel to discover that he survived, and you didn't?"

Justin's eyes narrowed, becoming cold, dark slits. "Now you think about it, Steven. Suppose I survive it, and he doesn't. Do you really think my life would mean anything to me? That I could just go on, without him?"

"You've been without him," Steven retorted, "for the past year."

Justin's smile was tentative, sweet, wistful. "I've never been without him, although I admit that, for a while, I thought so too. But the truth is . . . he's always with me."

Steven felt the pain bolt through him. "Then . . ."

"I'm sorry, Steven," Justin interrupted quickly. "I owe you a huge apology. I used you to try to cover up the hurt I felt when I thought I'd lost him, and that was completely unfair to you. Because I've only just now realized something. I can't lose him; he's a part of me, whether he admits it or not. Whether we're together or not. He'll always be a part of me - and me of him. That's not going to change."

"But he sent you away." It was a desperate protest, a last ditch effort to point out the obvious.

"Yeah, he did," answered Justin. "And I, like a stupid twat, let him do it, because I let myself buy into the bullshit." Then he looked deep into Steven's eyes, obviously sorry for the pain he knew he was causing, but unable to maintain his silence. "Even though I knew better. I even said it once, when Lindsey was spouting all her bullshit about why I needed to go to New York, why I could only grow into the artist I was supposed to be if I answered the call. I told her then that New York wasn't my opportunity of a lifetime - that Brian was. And then - like an idiot - I let myself forget it. Because he was determined not to stand in my way. To let me go find myself. But . . ."

"But?" Steven suddenly sounded much older than his 36 years.

"But I will never be the man I want to be without Brian. I don't know how we'll do it, how we'll pull it off, but, whatever we do, whatever we're meant to be, it will only work . . . together."

Steven could not find a single word with which to form an answer,

"I'm truly sorry."

And what was there, after all, to say to that? The young broker found no response sufficient. Still, there was something he needed to say, even though it would serve no useful purpose.

"I know," he said finally. "So am I."

"It wasn't meant . . ."

But Steven waved him off. "Please don't offer me platitudes, Justin. It won't help. And it's not like I hadn't already figured it out, you know. I think I always knew. But I . . . I just couldn't turn around and walk away. Even though I knew it was the best thing I could do. But . . . I really loved you, you know. I wanted to give you the world."

Justin's pale skin made the flush touching his face seem almost garish. "I'm . . ."

"I know," Steven said quickly. "You're sorry. And so am I." He smiled then, with a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the island around them. "This was meant to be the trip of a lifetime - a trip that would make you . . ."

"Forget everything?"

"Not everything. Just him."

Justin could only sigh, and offer his ultimate truth. "If I never saw him again, never heard his name, never touched him - and spent the rest of my life traveling to every beautiful place in the world - he would still be here." He touched his heart with his thumb. "Right here.

"I'm just sorry it took something like this . . ." He nodded toward the article on the computer, "to make me realize it."

"I know."

Steven stood up then, and spent a moment staring down into the beautiful eyes looking back at him. Then he leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on Justin's forehead.

"Good-bye, Baby," he whispered. Then he turned and walked away, and Justin watched him go, feeling a sense of shame when he couldn't muster up a single ounce of regret for what might have been.

So he had not been lying when he'd said it had always been Brian - even when he'd tried to believe it wasn't.

He glanced once more at his watch. Six hours and twenty minutes.

He pulled his laptop toward him, looking for a way to pass the time. Looking for the whole story. Only . . .

"Mr. Taylor?"

He looked up to find a young man in a dark suit standing over him.

"Yes?"

"Your flight is ready, Sir."

Justin blinked. "My . . . flight?"

"Yes, sir."

Justin cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but I thought there were no flights out until tonight."

"That's correct. There are no commercial flights out, until this evening."

"So what are you talking about?"

The young man smiled. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"Mr. Ellis' Gulfstream is waiting on Runway 3, fueled and ready to go. We'll have you in Pittsburgh in no time."

"Mr. Ellis?" Justin echoed. "But I don't even know Mr. Ellis."

"No, but you do know Mr. Fletcher. He's the one who called in a favor."

Justin felt a pang of guilt. He had not even offered his thanks for everything Steven had done for him - was still doing for him, and, knowing the corporate world as he did, he doubted that such a 'favor' would come without strings attached.

He really should take the time to express his gratitude, for both the favor and the generous spirit that was the driving force behind it. He really should, only . . .

The jet was waiting. Pittsburgh was waiting. Brian was waiting.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Though it was very early, Lindsey had been up and about for several hours. She was finding it difficult to sleep these days. Sleeping in a hotel; sleeping in Pittsburgh again. Sleeping while Brian was locked away in a sleep from which he might never awaken.

She missed her children; she missed her home; and she missed the man who had been such an integral part of her life, for such a long time. What she didn't miss, in the least, was the shitty attitude her partner had been displaying since they had arrived here. She had tried to be understanding, to accept how difficult it must be for Melanie to be here, in this place, under these circumstances, and know, as there was no denying, that her partner had always been at least a bit in love with Brian Kinney.

But that did not excuse the pissy attitude, while Brian lay suspended between life and death.

Lindsey had, after all, left him here when she and Melanie relocated to Toronto. Left him here, conveniently forgetting how distraught she'd been on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday, when he'd been the one threatening to move away, to build a new life in New York.

Why was it, she wondered suddenly, that all of Brian's friends took it upon themselves to determine what was or was not acceptable in his life, but felt free to pursue their own interests, no matter what their actions might do to him?

Especially when he did so much for them.

Like now.

She had not spent a lot of time at Kinnetik since Brian had opened it, and she felt a little like an interloper when she followed Cynthia into the inner sanctum - his office.

It was just as she remembered it, of course - elegant, streamlined, beautiful. Like its owner.

"Cynthia, I really appreciate your . . ."

"No need to thank me," said Brian's assistant. "I didn't do anything. It was all Brian. Did you really think he'd made no provisions for Gus?"

Lindsey sighed. "I know he's always sent a check every month. But that was before he . . ."

"It's a trust fund, Lindsey. He set it up years ago, and the income is still there. It won't change just because he's not available to write the checks."

"I have to admit," said Gus' mother, "that it would have been tough . . ." She laughed gently. "Okay, it would have been impossible without the money he sent."

Cynthia regarded her solemnly. "You know, Linz, I have to tell you I was always a little surprised Melanie was willing to accept his help, given how she feels about him."

"We-ell!" Lindsey drawled. "As to that . . ."

"She doesn't know." Cynthia's tone made it obvious that it was not a question.

"No. She doesn't."

Cynthia gave a tiny, tight little smile. "You guys have an interesting arrangement," she said. She was careful to guard against any nuance of disapproval which might color her tone - no matter what her private opinion might be. This was the mother of Brian's son, and if he had no problem with the way she lived her life, then his administrative assistant would certainly abide by his decision.

Nevertheless, Lindsey felt a chill anyway. She did not like feeling as if she had to lie to her partner, especially when she was sure Cynthia was comparing her deceitful behavior to Brian's brutal, unrelenting honesty - and finding her wanting.

"Do you need it now?" Cynthia continued.

Lindsey nodded. "Especially with all the added expenses of the hotel, the trip to New York, and the car rental. It all adds up, you know. I even wondered if it might be possible for us to use Brian's . . ."

"Not a good idea." There was no uncertainty in Cynthia's voice. "One thing he would not want violated is his privacy. The loft is off-limits. However, if you like, I'm sure he'd want me to arrange for Kinnetik to pick up the tab for the hotel. And I'll make a stop at the ATM on my way to the hospital. Will that do?"

"That'll be fine."

"A thousand," said Cynthia. "Right?"

Lindsey nodded and took a moment to study the décor of the office. Minimalist, with lots of space, and clean, uncluttered lines - exactly the kind of spare elegance Brian had always preferred in his surroundings, the kind of ambiance that served as a perfect setting to emphasize the beauty of the individual at its center.

"One more thing," said Cynthia suddenly, and Lindsey spun to study her face, hearing something strange and slightly disconcerting in her tone of voice.

"I don't know if you do much Internet surfing," said Brian's executive assistant, "but for the time being, you should avoid it like the plague."

Lindsey opened her mouth to deny any interest in web browsing, but then it occurred to her that this was not a non sequitur; this was an issue with a very specific point.

"Why?" she asked abruptly. "What is it that I shouldn't see?"

Cynthia stood up and walked to the window to look out into watery morning light, and took her time choosing her words - something so out of character for her, that Lindsey felt the first flush of true alarm. Though she could be discreet to a fault when acting on Brian's behalf, Cynthia was not exactly renowned for her tact. "There was apparently someone at the hospital the night they brought him in. Someone with a camera. There are photos posted all over the Web, especially on certain homophobic sites."

Suddenly, Lindsey's knees buckled, and she dropped into a chair that was just close enough to catch her. "Oh, my God!" she whispered. "It's not enough that they almost destroyed him. Now they have to flash pictures of what they did to him all over the fucking world. What did he ever do to make these people hate him so?"

Cynthia's face was like a mask, absolutely without expression, cold and distant but in striking contrast to the strange current of dark emotion threading through her voice. "He's queer, Lindsey. That's all it is, no matter how much they might claim that it's because he's too bold, or too flashy, or too defiant. It's really not any of those things. He fucks guys. That's the first reason, the primary reason. And he's not afraid of them. Reason number two. Put them together, and he becomes their version of the Anti-Christ."

Lindsey nodded, slightly surprised by the veiled layer of passion she heard beneath the words. Cynthia was not much given to emotional extremes; in point of fact, Brian had often referred to her as his "voice of reason".

"You know," she said slowly, "you should feel very proud of what you've accomplished here. With Brian, I mean."

Cynthia turned away from her contemplation of the uninspiring vista beyond the window and regarded the other woman with cool detachment. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that Brian isn't much given to trusting straight people. Yet, he trusts you implicitly. Doesn't he?"

Cynthia smiled. "Maybe that's because he and I don't see each other as examples of our sexual orientation. He's Brian. I'm Cynthia. And we're a damned good team, so why would it make any difference who we fuck?"

Lindsey dredged up an indulgent smile. "That sounds like an example of a very mature attitude, something I wouldn't ordinarily associate with Brian Kinney."

Cynthia abruptly moved to Brian's desk, ostensibly to check something on his calendar, but Lindsey thought it rather strange that the other woman was careful to avoid direct eye contact. "Maybe," she said slowly, "you don't know him quite as well as you think you do."

Lindsey opened her mouth to laugh off the suggestion, slightly outraged at the notion that anybody could possibly know Brian Kinney better than she did, but she was forestalled by the sudden buzz of the office phone.

It was still very early in the day - too early for business as usual.

Nevertheless, Cynthia picked up the receiver and answered with cool professionalism.

Then she said nothing, merely listening, her face very still and pale. When she sank into Brian's executive chair, Lindsey knew something must be very wrong, knew - somehow - that Brian's desk was almost a shrine to his position in this company. Nobody would just sit in Brian's chair - not unless there was suddenly no alternative.

"When?" Cynthia's voice did not break, but it was very soft.

"Of course," she said a few seconds later. "I'm on my way. And Lindsey Peterson is here with me."

She hung up then, and hesitated for a moment, the only indication of her concern being the way she clamped her teeth on her bottom lip.

"What is it?" asked Lindsey, a surge of cold fear flooding through her body.

"We have to go. Now."

"Why?"

"Brian. They're rushing him back to surgery. Something's wrong."

Cold fear morphed immediately into blind panic. "What? What's wrong?"

Cynthia took a deep breath. "They don't know. Keller's doing an exploratory procedure, to try to find the problem."

Lindsey confined her response to a nod, grabbing her purse and heading for the door, the terror inside her now making it hard to breathe, to think, to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.

The two women left the office together, sharing the same compulsion. They had to get to Brian, to be there, to be close by, just in case he should . . .

But the thought stopped there, just short of stepping off into a void neither of them was willing to explore.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Justin sprawled on the plush sofa and allowed himself to savor the comforts usually afforded only to the very rich. This, he thought as his eyes swept the cabin of the Gulfstream 550, noting the soft lighting, the designer signature of the décor, the state-of-the-art communications system, the whole luxury package, was an entirely new definition of living the good life.

Then he frowned. Good life or not, there was no way to defy the laws of physics. He was still many hours away from Pittsburgh, and a series of calls placed to various individuals there had failed to yield the results he'd sought. The hospital had provided no answers to his questions, just as he'd expected. He was not, officially, a next of kin, or even family, and the Patient Relations staffer who had taken his call had been polite but firm. Mr. Kinney's condition was still listed as critical. For anything more, the caller would have to contact a family member.

Only there weren't any; at least, none that Brain would tolerate being anywhere near him during such a difficult time. And since the Brian Kinney manual on how to live life as he saw fit did not rely on random chance to insure that things turned out the way he wanted, Justin was certain that the necessary arrangements had been made to keep Joan and Claire Kinney at a safe distance.

There was Michael, of course, and Ben. And Debbie. All of whom Brian loved deeply. But Justin tried to imagine either of the Novotnys - mother or son - having to handle the critical decisions concerning Brian's care in a life-or-death situation and couldn't begin to visualize it. No. That would inflict a burden on them, a sense of responsibility. Brian would never allow that. Ben, of course, could probably handle the weight of choices that might have to be made, but as Michael's husband, he would not be acting alone.

Lindsey? She was, after all, the mother of Brian's only child, and they shared a long, complex history. But it was a well known though seldom verbalized fact among the extended family that Lindsey loved Brian. Sometimes excessively, or even compulsively. Added to that was the whole hate/more hate dynamic between Brian and Melanie, and it seemed unlikely that Brian would compound the problems he inevitably caused between the two Lesbians by giving Lindsey the authority to decide his fate.

So, no. Not Michael, not Debbie, not Lindsey. But there had to be someone, someone who . . .

Justin smiled, and the flight attendant who was approaching with his dinner was momentarily dazzled. Too bad, she thought, this one so far beyond the pale - gay as blazes and completely unapologetic about it.

Justin stood and moved to take a seat at the bar, and took a deep breath, enjoying the delicate fragrance of lobster newburg as the attendant filled his wine glass with a fine sauvignon blanc. He was not really hungry - had not had any interest in food or drink since he'd opened that horrible email. But he knew he would need his strength if he were to have any hope of out-maneuvering the ranks of Kinney's Army. For he did not fool himself. Brian was nothing if not resourceful, even if he was lying comatose in the ICU. He would have made his preparations carefully, a long time before such arrangements were needed.

But he knew now where to begin - the only logical place.

So he ate. Sparingly, but sufficient to the needs of the moment.

Then he settled back into his seat on the suede-covered sofa, savoring his second glass of wine and pulling a small, leather-bound book from his carry-all.

He wondered, as he stroked the soft cover, if he was the only person who'd ever gotten close enough to Brian Kinney to discover one of his closely guarded secrets - something Brian would undoubtedly classify as a weakness. Yet, after a bit of fumbling and completely uncharacteristic embarrassment, the Stud of Liberty Avenue had admitted a surprising truth. He had a fondness for certain works of a few of the poets ordinarily classified as - Romantic.

Byron, in particular. Justin thought it entirely appropriate.

The book fell open at a bookmarked page, as Justin had known it would. He had no idea why this particular verse had always seemed to speak to him, as it had somehow spoken to Brian before him.

The book was old and worn. It had resided in a drawer in Brian's desk for many years before he had one day placed it in Justin's hand, saying nothing with his mouth, but saying everything with his eyes. Since that day, through good and bad, thick and thin, being with Brian or without Brian - loving him or hating him - it had never been beyond Justin's reach.

He looked down at the page, and the verse was waiting for him. He didn't really have to read it. It sang in his mind, as it always did.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.*

He felt the sting in his eyes, and could almost hear that sardonic voice whispering in his ear, insisting it really wasn't worth crying over. Only it was. He was. And it was time to recognize the truth, and to move heaven and earth to make sure that Brian, finally, recognized it too. There had been entirely too much silence, too many tears.

It was time to shout it from the rooftops.

Brian Kinney belonged to him; they belonged together - and fuck anybody who tried to stand between them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


* When We Two Parted -- Lord Byron

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 15

OR # 7 had certainly seen its share of crises over the years - trauma victims clinging to life by a thread, some saved and some not; patients rushed in from the intensive care unit or the emergency room or the OB suite, crashing, convulsing, bleeding out, in cardiac arrest, flat-lining, or exhibiting any of a dozen other varieties of extreme distress, all requiring the initiation of desperate measures in striving to reach a single goal: the prolongation of life. Sometimes the prolongation was brief: a matter of minutes or hours or days. Some times, there was no prolongation, and even the most heroic measures proved futile.

And sometimes, remarkably, the measures taken proved so effective and the intervention so successful that the result could not be termed a prolongation; sometimes it became a matter of a life saved, of death averted and sent packing.

In effect, the surgical suite was regularly and repeatedly transformed into a battleground - a site of bloody confrontation between the powers of death and destruction and the skills of the individuals who fought to push back the night and rekindle the radiance of life renewed. Those who fought that battle invariably faced the conflict with a cool pragmatism, refusing to be awed by the power of the opposition. It was the only way to achieve the necessary cool professionalism required to function with any hope of success.

When victory was won and the dark invaders finally repelled, the room - only recently christened Keller's Lair by the hospital incrowd - was sometimes filled - temporarily -with a strange sense of dissociation, a weary lethargy that was the complete antithesis of the urgency and near-panic prevalent only a short time before. It was as if the successful effort had drained the entire group of surgical personnel - the assault force of medical intervention - of every ounce of energy and resilience, leaving them boneless and empty, although very happy.

First among the exhausted soldiers in that army of very special forces would be the surgical prodigy himself. Matthew Keller frequently emerged from the frontlines of the battle barely able to stand, limp and pale and listless and wanting nothing more than his bed and the bliss of consciousness released.

But not today.

When the surgical procedure was finished and the crisis averted; when the shrill alarms of vital signs monitors went silent, no longer signaling catastrophe; when the patient resumed breathing on his own, without requiring a ventilator to inflate his lungs, Matt Keller was still in his element, still strong and vital and eager and flush with victory. Not because he hadn't poured heart and soul into his work - as he always did; not because he'd held back any particle of strength or power that might be the last little deciding factor in whether or not a patient lived or died. He'd done all that, and more.

But this was no ordinary patient, and his efforts, no matter how exhaustive, were too intimately tied to the fate of the man whose life was literally in his hands to allow him to pull back and release his hold on the ties binding them together. He would pour his life force - every ounce of it if necessary - into this body. But he would also get something back - a constant reinforcement of his own strength. The contact between them was more of a loop than a one-way passage, and the benefit and energy circulating there would either benefit both - or neither.

The surgical staff, well accustomed to the eccentricities and habits of their young prodigy, watched with growing disbelief as Keller prepared to close and complete the procedure. Matthew Keller never closed. That was, in his own parlance, what assistants were for.

When RN Gloria Beck lifted her eyes and looked as if she might open her mouth to question him, he simply stared at her. Daring her to make the comment or the suggestion.

Luckily, she knew him well enough to take the hint.

"Nice call, Doctor," she said finally, understanding, as only a well-trained trauma nurse would, that the patient had been very fortunate that it was Keller who had been the man in charge. Another doctor - possibly even a very good one - might have missed the diagnosis, and the only explanation for young Mr. Kinney's failure to survive the surgery would have come from the autopsy performed to determine cause of death.

Luckily, that had not happened. Keller, acting on a combination of medical expertise and gut instinct, had called it correctly and acted accordingly. Even more luckily, the young surgeon's skill in performing laparoscopic procedures was almost legendary among his peers, enabling him to find and eliminate the problem when many others might have failed to do so. Virtually undetectable and skulking beneath the trauma inflicted on other major organs, the patient's badly lacerated gallbladder had begun to hemorrhage into surrounding tissues, its condition deteriorating rapidly, compounding other problems and making diagnosis even more difficult.

If there had been any delay or if the physician had hesitated even slightly, it might well have been too late. Damage to the gallbladder from blunt force trauma was a rare occurrence and thus not always recognized in such cases, and the organ had been on the verge of rupture by the time Keller found the source of the problem.

Young Mr. Kinney had been very lucky indeed.

He would live. And that was all that Matt Keller cared about. There might be consequences. Side-effects. A price to pay.

But Brian Kinney would live, and . . . Matthew allowed himself a weary smile . . . he would undoubtedly do so beautifully. The smile faded a bit, but only for a moment. It was time to call in the cavalry, thought the physician. He had known from the beginning, from the moment he'd walked into the room and come face to face with the degree of his patient's injuries, that he would eventually get to this point, although he had to admit, if only to himself, he had not been thrilled with the prospect.

Still, the moment was at hand. He would not allow his own reluctance to jeopardize his patient's chances for a complete recovery. Even had the patient been anyone other than the man who was, in some ways, the love of his life.

Time to face the music.

"Beck," he said sharply, as he administered a tiny, almost invisible stitch to close the last of the laparoscopic incisions, "I need you to locate someone for me."

The nurse looked up, slightly uneasy with the note of uncertainty she detected in his voice. Matt Keller was never uncertain - of anything.

"Who?"

He turned then and spent a moment looking down into his patient's face, inspecting every mark, every bruise, every laceration, the image before him overlaid in his mind with the image called up from memory. The contrast almost took his breath away - and reinforced his resolve.

"Find Rick Turnage. I need to talk to him."

"When?" she asked, mind already reeling. How the hell was she supposed to . . .

"Yesterday," he replied.

She was too much a professional to display any misgivings she might experience, but she knew both Matt and Dr. Richard Turnage well enough to justify experiencing more than a few. "Now there's a name I haven't heard you speak in . . . what? Five years?"

He hugged a tiny laugh. "At least. And I'd have been more than happy to never speak it again. But . . ."

"But?" she prompted when it appeared he would not continue.

"Sometimes," he said softly, "only the best will do, and a man's gotta swallow his fucking pride and do what's necessary."

Beck smiled behind her mask. "Well, who would have dreamed that this ordinary, run-of-the-mill day would spawn a miracle? For you - of all people - to admit that he . . ."

"He's an arrogant, self-serving prick and a canker sore on the arse of mankind." Then he paused to draw a deep breath. "But he's also the best at what he does, and - in this case - only the best will do."

The nurse was silent for a moment, observing the gentleness of his hands as he continued his task.

"Jesus!" she whispered finally. "You must really love him."

He merely looked at her, a hard glitter in his eyes daring her to say more.

Then he shifted his focus, forgetting everyone and everything except the man lying supine and helpless under his hands, and leaned forward so that he was almost nose to nose with his patient. His lips moved gently, generating only the faintest whisper of sound. "I made you a promise, Baby. And I aim to keep it, even if I have to eat a shitload of humble pie in the process."

He stepped back then, peeling off mask and gown and gloves, his mind already turning to the next task at hand. To wit - facing Michael.

He had not allowed himself to dwell too much on the facial expression worn by young Novotny - and why in hell was he thinking of him in that way when Michael was actually older than Brian and the same age as Matthew himself? - when the trauma team had wheeled their patient out of ICU and raced off down to corridor to the staff elevator, which was waiting to take them down to the surgical suites on a lower floor. There had been no time for explanations or assurances - only a hurried statement that Brian had developed complications and needed more surgery. But Matt had not quite managed to forget that look either. He had seen enough blind panic in the course of his life to recognize it, especially when it was couched within a framework of despair.

Michael had been terrified, had been forced, for the first time in his life, to contemplate the possibility that Brian might never come back to him.

Matt knew that feeling, had felt it himself on more than one occasion, and knew he had to take steps to relieve it. Not for Michael; he frankly didn't give a shit about Michael. But Brian loved the little nerd - always had and always would. So it was time to ease Michael's pain, for Brian's sake.

He was only three steps into the waiting room when he found himself surrounded by avid faces, barely able to contain the panic sparking in their eyes. He looked around, recognizing Michael, of course, and his partner; his mother, Debbie; Lindsey and her 'husband'; Brian's friends, Emmett and Ted, and his assistant, Cynthia. Other faces were familiar, but he could not put names to them. But it didn't matter anyway. It was Michael who was front and center, and who was not going to relinquish his place, no matter who tried to remove him.

"Is he . . ." Huge brown eyes were glossy with tears brimming at the edge of control.

"He's all right, Michael."

The tears spilled over, then, far beyond suppressing, and Michael, obviously not knowing what else to do, wrapped his hands in the collar of Keller's lab coat and just let them flow. "What was wrong?" he managed to whisper.

Keller debated whether or not to go into the technicalities of what had happened, but realized there was little point. Even if some of these individuals were able to grasp the medical jargon, it would make no real difference. They didn't need to be able to understand the terminology or define a cholecystectomy or comprehend why it had been necessary; they only needed to know the result.

"Complications from the original injuries," he said smoothly. "When there's so much damage, it's easy to miss something."

The group was quiet, eyes haunted and filled with shadow, until Cynthia spoke up - pragmatic and rational. As always.

"And how can you be sure you haven't 'missed' something else?"

He summoned up a weary smile for her, recalling how Brian always referred to her as his "good right hand". "Medicine isn't nearly as exact a science as most doctors would have you believe, so there's no such thing as 'sure' in a situation like this. But I've exhausted every possibility I can think of, and - if I did miss something - I promise you I'm going to be close enough to step in and fix any other problem that might arise." The smile faded, to be replaced by grim resolve. "He will survive this."

As he spoke, his eyes moved from face to face, gauging the reactions of the various members of the group. It was not surprising, he supposed, that there would be such marked variations in how the individuals responded to his words. Brian's relationships with these people ran the gamut, after all, from the kind of friendship that defined lifelong commitment to a barely-controlled hostility masking an even deeper resentment. Thus, Michael's expression was almost incandescent with relief and hope restored while Lindsey's partner (Melissa? Melinda? Something like that?) looked as if she couldn't decide whether or not she dared display annoyance at the degree of Lindsey's concern.

Lindsey, however, merely looked exhausted, and Keller knew exactly how she felt.

"When can we see him?" demanded Michael's mother. "We haven't even had a good look at him yet, you know. We need . . ."

Matthew raised a hand to stop her in mid-tirade. "You'll see him when it's safe to do so, and . . ." He paused and let his tone of voice shift to emphasize his meaning, "when he wants to see you."

"He'll be waking up soon then?" That was Emmett, the shadows in his eyes reminding the doctor that it had been this young man who'd participated in Brian's rescue and who, as a result, had actually seen the worst of what had been done to him, rather than just imagining it, like the rest of the people in this room.

"Soon enough," he answered gently. "We'll keep him sedated for a while, to give him a chance to begin to heal. And to control his pain. In fact, he'll probably sleep all day today. But I see no reason to extend the induced coma, especially since the swelling in his brain has begun to subside. He'll wake up when he's ready."

With that said, Keller dredged up a tired smile and turned away, to hurry down the corridor, disappearing around a nearby corner and leaving many of the group frustrated with the terse quality of his responses.

"I don't get it," snapped Debbie. "Isn't the family supposed to be kept in the loop, to know. . ."

"Debbie," said Lindsey softly, "much as we'd like to think so, we're not."

"Not what?"

"Not family."

The redhead's eyes grew huge. "Well, if we're not, who the hell . . ."

"I don't know," said Melanie slowly, eyes dark with speculation, "but we could probably find out. At least, some of us could." She looked up then and regarded her partner solemnly. "You're the mother of his only child, so . . ."

"No," said Lindsey sharply. "I won't use that, and I won't invade his privacy."

"But you have a right . . ."

"The only rights that matter in this," replied the blonde, "are Brian's rights."

"As usual." That was Melanie again - not quite inaudible and not quite able to conceal her impatience with the thrust of the conversation.

Most of the group trailed back to their seats, each lost in his own thoughts, while Emmett took his leave, hurrying off down the corridor and disappearing around the same corner where Dr. Keller had vanished only moments earlier. Seconds later, Cynthia also made her exit, with no more than a silent nod to Lindsey to signal her departure.

Emmett did not - quite - break into a run once he was out of sight of his friends, but it was a near thing. He needed to speak with Matt Keller privately, and he needed to do so right now. But he had taken only a few strides down the hallway when he realized it was not to be. Whatever conversation he could manage to have with the surgeon, it would have to be with an audience, for Drew was coming out of the elevator just a few feet away, and Lance Mathis was with him, and neither of them looked to be in a mood to be shunted aside.

But Emmett was determined to avoid spending another minute living with the horrible uncertainty which had stuck in his mind with painful persistence since the moment he had first looked down into Brian's mangled face. He would endure it no longer. So he pushed past his one-time lover and his companion and hurried toward the doorway at the end of the hall. It was one of a half-dozen just like it, virtually indistinguishable each from the others, except for a small, discreet metal sign affixed to the wall beside it, with the words "Doctor's Lounge" engraved on the surface.

Emmett did not hesitate, nor take any notice of the fact that he was no longer alone. He did spare a quick thought to observe that most of the people who knew him well - or thought they did - would have been shocked to see him now, to comprehend the intensity of his determination to get an answer to the question driving him. Forceful was simply not an adjective anyone would ordinarily use to describe him.

But fear, he thought, can turn the most mild-mannered pussy boy into a raging lunatic, and this particular pussy-boy had reached his limit.

Matt Keller had just poured a cup of black coffee almost caustic enough to etch glass when he found himself under intense scrutiny from three pairs of eyes. Two of his observers appeared to have simply tagged along for the ride, uncertain of where the road would lead them, but there was no mistaking the intense focus of the third. Emmett Honeycutt had come for answers, and would not be turned away until he got them.

So much, then, thought Keller, for his intention to close his eyes for a few minutes before entering his latest observations into the medical chart he carried under his arm.

The doctor felt a sudden, intense surge of sympathy for the young man standing before him, along with a quick swell of gratitude that Brian had managed to inspire such loyalty from someone who did not appear to be infatuated/intoxicated or otherwise in love with him. For Brian, true friendship, offered up without traces of lust or romantic fantasy, was a rare blessing.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Keller pointed out with a sardonic smile.

"Sorry," replied Emmett, in a tone that clearly belied the word, "but I need to talk to you. Alone."

The doctor's eyes flicked to Emmett's companions.

"They don't count," Emmett explained. "They're not emotionally invested in . . ."

Keller spotted a shadow moving in Drew Boyd's eyes, and was quick to realize that Emmett was not entirely correct in his assumption. It was not, however, anything that needed to be addressed, and he let it pass. "Honeycutt, I . . ."

"Emmett," said the young man quickly. A strange melancholy touched his face then, and his next remark seemed to be a non-sequitur, but the doctor was somehow certain that it wasn't. "Nobody gets to call me . . . that."

Keller nodded. "Emmett, then. Look, I appreciate that you're concerned and think you have a right to . . ."

"No," said Emmett quickly. "Not a right. I have no rights here. Except . . ."

When he fell silent, it was obvious that he was struggling to find the right words to express his concerns, and Keller forced himself to be patient - to give the young man the time he needed.

"We saw," he said finally, with a nod of his head to include the two men at his side, "what they did to him. The others - the rest of the Brian Kinney fan club assembled out in the waiting room - they came later. After he'd been cleaned up and bathed and bandaged, so they didn't see how bad it was." He shuddered then and closed his eyes. "And I think I'll always be grateful for that. For some of them, anyway." Then he dredged up a tiny smile. "If Michael had seen him like that . . . it doesn't even bear thinking about.

"But here's the thing, Doc. The first thing - for all of us - was to be sure he would survive this, and now you've told us he will. But if you know Brian as well as you seem to think, then you know simple survival is not going to be enough - for him."

Emmett's eyes were suddenly huge and very liquid as memory raced through him like a raging tide. "I remember the first time I ever saw him. He was away at college when I first came to the Pitts, and Michael and I became friends while he was gone. Then, when Michael found out he was coming home, that was all he could talk about, for weeks on end. It was Brian will love this, or Brian won't want that, or Brian will do that better than anybody, so, by the time he actually arrived, I was heartily sick of hearing his name. And prepared to dislike him intensely because I figured nobody could live up to all that hype." His smile was self-deprecating. "What the fuck did I know?

"And then . . ." He closed his eyes as if reliving the moment. "It was a Saturday morning in the spring, one of those fabulous, brilliant mornings when the whole world feels new and reborn, and he came walking into the diner with his arm slung around Michael's shoulders, and I . . . I could barely catch my breath. I never admitted it to anybody. Certainly not to him. But he knew it anyway. Brian always knew, I think. He was twenty-two years old, and he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. He walked in, and it was like he lit up the room, brighter than any ray of sunlight, and everybody there just basked in it."

He sighed and took a moment to compose himself. "I need to know . . . if that Brian Kinney is going to survive. I need to know that you can . . ."

The physician did not answer immediately, choosing instead to take a seat beside a narrow window and stare out into an overcast afternoon.

"Please, Dr. Keller," Emmett continued. "I know you can't divulge confidential information, but please, can you just tell me if . . ."

"I remember too," Keller interrupted, as he watched a helicopter approaching from the South and descending toward the helipad on the roof. "That's how most people react on first meeting Brian." Abruptly, he turned away from the window and looked up to meet Emmett's gaze. "I can't fix him," he said flatly. "The damage that was done to him was horrendous. All I could do - can do - is save his life. But . . ." He smiled, but there was no joy in the expression. "Knowing Brian, I doubt he'll thank me for that, all things considered. You know, as well as I do, that 'being Brian Kinney' - in all his glory - has always been the primary focus of his existence, so . . ." He stood up then and stepped forward until he and Emmett were face to face, with no room for subterfuge between them. "While I, personally, cannot give back what they took from him, I do know someone who can."

"Meaning?" Emmett wanted to believe, wanted to hope, but dared not allow himself to accept meaningless placebos and empty platitudes.

Keller lifted one hand to rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "My med school graduating class was truly outstanding," he said, apparently apropos of nothing in particular. He looked back at Emmett then, and his smile was diffident. "It produced a number of brilliant physicians, including, if I say so myself, the pre-eminent trauma specialist in the eastern United States, and . . ."

"And?" Emmett did not know why the doctor seemed loathe to continue, but he had run out of patience.

"And the best fucking plastic surgeon in the world."

"Wow!" said Lance Mathis, observing the physician with a shrewd gaze. "Bet that hurt, didn't it?"

Keller's grin was sardonic. "You have no idea."

"So who is this genius?" demanded Emmett. "Is he here?"

"No."

"On his way, perhaps?"

The doctor sighed. "No. Not yet, anyway."

Emmett was not comforted by the note of ambiguity he heard in Keller's voice. "And why is that?"

"Because I haven't asked him . . . yet."

"Because?" Emmett's friends would undoubtedly have been surprised by the relentless nature of his interrogation of the physician, but he was beyond caring.

Keller took a deep breath. "Because he's a narcissistic prick who wouldn't bother to spit on me if I was going up in flames. Because we can't stand each other, and I'd rather slit my throat than ask him for a favor. Because he'll almost certainly hang up on me when I call, after telling me in no uncertain terms to fuck off. But mostly because I haven't yet figured out how to beg piteously enough or to prostrate myself sufficiently or to manipulate the situation into such an irresistible challenge to his super ego that he'll have no choice but to agree to come."

Emmett's smile was suddenly very gentle. "Wow! You really do love him, don't you?"

Keller thought he'd be perfectly content if everyone would just stop saying that, no matter how true it might be.

God help him! He really did love Brian Kinney, and the little fucker was going to owe him - big time - when this was all over.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"We're about thirty-five minutes from touchdown, Mr. Taylor," said Jill McCain, the flight attendant who had been seeing to his needs throughout the long wearisome flight. He had dozed fitfully from time to time, but he wondered if she had managed to sleep at all. Since she'd been constantly available whenever he'd looked around for her, he rather doubted it.

"I've prepared a light lunch for you," she explained, "although I'm sure the time difference has you completely uncertain of what you should be eating - or when. Still it's mid afternoon here, and you haven't eaten all day."

"I'm not hungry," he replied, suddenly irritated at being the center of so much attention. Then he realized that he'd spoken sharply and was instantly ashamed of himself.

"I'm sorry," he continued. "You've been nothing but kind to me, and I'm acting like a shit."

Her smile was gentle. "You're acting like a young man who wants nothing more than to get to the person he loves in his hour of need. Don't apologize."

"Don't apologize," he echoed. "My boyfriend would agree."

"Then he's a very wise man, isn't he? Now come along and eat. It's just shrimp scampi, and a tiny Banoffee Pavlova."

"A what?"

"If I understand correctly," she replied, "you were in and out of New Zealand so quickly that you never even got the chance to experience our most delectable confectionary masterpiece. And we can't have that, now can we? A Pavlova is a meringue. In this case, one that is combined with banana slices and caramel sauce. And you absolutely cannot have visited New Zealand without ever having sampled a Pavlova. It would be a national disgrace."

"I'm really . . . :

"Not hungry. I know. But perhaps you'll be so enchanted by the taste that you'll want to take a sample to your boyfriend. He might love it."

He laughed to imagine the look of horror on Brian's face on being presented with such a concoction. Then he paused to reconsider. Perhaps it was time to tempt Brian to rethink his priorities. Perhaps this incident would encourage him to do so.

Always provided . . . but no. He wouldn't explore that thought, wouldn't let himself wander into that dark, dreadful realm of possibility.

Instead, he would eat. Hungry or not. To gird his strength.

The intercom buzzed discreetly. "Mr. Taylor," said the pilot's voice, "we've just been advised that an escort will be meeting you when we land. And you're not to leave the plane until they arrive."

"Escort?" Justin snapped. "What kind of escort?"

There was a tiny pause before the pilot replied. "Pittsburgh PD. A Lieutenant Horvath, I believe."

"Shit!" said Justin, rising and walking to the window to gaze out on the cloud bank below, suddenly feeling the first faint rise of panic. Horvath. So it was real; there would be no more eluding the truth.

Jill McCain looked on with sympathy. She knew virtually nothing about what was happening in this young man's life, beyond the barest bones of fact. But she knew distress when she saw it - and fear, even if he was remarkably good at concealing it.

She stood by in silence, as the young man made a quick call on the plane's sat-phone. Well trained in the practice of discretion, she carefully avoided listening to his conversation, noting only that he appeared satisfied with what he'd heard when he put the phone down.

"Can I get you something?" she asked.

"No," he started, then hesitated. "Yes. You wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes on board, would you?"

She laughed. "French, English, or American?"

So he smoked - chain-smoked - for the remainder of the trip. Brian's brand. Marlboros.

And the Pavlova remained unsampled.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I'm not a prisoner," Justin said coldly, his eyes staring out through the rear window of the squad car. "You can't hold me."

"Justin, please." Horvath pretended not to hear the note of desperation in the young man's voice, pretended not to know how terribly afraid he was. "Please try to understand me. We have no idea where the threat comes from, but we do know it's real. Brian . . . for him to have clung to consciousness in spite of everything, just to pass on the message, it has to be real."

"I don't care. I'm not going into hiding because of some homophobic pricks that might be stalking me."

"What happened to Brian makes it a lot more than a threat, Justin. This is serious."

"I know that. Brian's lying in a hospital bed, so . . ."

"With all due respect, you don't." Horvath's certainty left no room for argument. "You haven't seen him yet. And I gotta be honest with you. I'm not sure you should. Not until he's stronger."

"Stronger," said Justin flatly. "What does that mean? What is it you don't want me to see?"

Horvath sighed. "Justin, he's . . . it was really bad. He may not want you to see him this way."

"I know what to expect," Justin insisted. "Some helpful soul couldn't wait to send me the photo."

The detective winced. He too had seen the photographs that were turning up all over the internet - photographs he hoped would go unnoticed by Debbie and Brian's friends. Still, he knew that nothing would prepare Justin for the real thing. "You only think you know, Son. No photograph is going to prepare you for this."

Justin sat back and returned to staring out the window where a slow, iron gray rain had begun to fall. Appropriate, he thought, for the city of steel.

Horvath was still talking, but Justin's mind had begun to wander when the car came to a stop and someone slid into the passenger-side front seat.

"Justin," said the detective firmly, "I want you to meet someone - someone who is going to stick very close to you during the next few days."

The young artist looked up to stare into sable eyes that were studying him intensely, without a single spark of sexual interest. "This is Lance Mathis," Horvath continued.

"I do not need a bodyguard."

Horvath opened his mouth to respond, but Mathis beat him to the punch. "On the contrary. You do need a bodyguard, whether you want one or not."

"Yeah, well, I don't see how you get a say," Justin snapped.

Mathis smiled. "Oh, it's not me who's saying it. It's Brian Kinney. Unless you want to argue with him."

Justin turned to look at Horvath. "Who the fuck is this?" he demanded.

"Meet Brian's new chief of security." Horvath's smile was slightly venal. "And just in case you're considering throwing one of your drama queen-outs, consider this. If something happens to you on my watch, I only have to answer to my superiors - and Debbie, God help me! But if something happens to you on his watch, he'll have to answer to Brian Kinney. Would you wish that on anybody? Even your worst enemy?"

"No, but . . ."

"Why not just give it a chance?" said Mathis. "I promise to be discreet."

"Shouldn't you be protecting Brian?" Justin snapped. "Shouldn't he be at the top of your list?"

"Who says he's not?"

"Then you won't have time for me." Justin's retort was triumphant, as if he'd come up with a point that was irrefutable.

Mathis smiled. "You let me worry about that. Mr. Kinney's reach is greater than you think."

Fuck! Walked right into that one.

Justin opened his mouth to try again, but closed it quickly when he read the determination in the security chief's eyes and realized this was an argument he was not going to win. Even if he refused to give in and insisted on getting his way, Mathis would simply fall back just far enough to carry out his mission and avoid any direct confrontation.

He was quiet for a while, considering options. "Do you have any idea . . . who . . ." And he was amazed to find he could not summon up the will to finish the sentence.

"Not yet," replied the detective. "But we're going to get them, Justin. It just takes time."

But the younger man was not reassured. "You guys said the same thing a year ago, and you still don't have any idea who planted that bomb at Babylon."

Horvath nodded, conceding the point. "However," he said slowly, "this time we're going to get some help. Some very powerful help. But that doesn't change the fact that you're at risk, and . . ."

"All right," Justin said abruptly, wanting to hear no more about his own need for protection. "On one condition."

"And that would be what?"

"That you take me straight to the hospital. No more of this 'he wouldn't want you to see him' bullshit. OK?"

Horvath sighed, understanding that further argument would be futile. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an object that was wrapped up in a handkerchief. "There's one more thing," he said softly, his voice reflecting a tiny glimmer of uncertainty. "Something that - well - something I thought you might want to return to him."

"Like what?"

It was Horvath's turn to look away, and Justin was astonished to realize that the detective was slightly embarrassed. "All of his personal effects - everything he was wearing that night, such as it was, is in police custody now. As evidence. Most of it is probably beyond salvaging anyway, and plenty is missing, I'm sure. His wallet was gone, and his watch. Which suggests that, even though this was undoubtedly a carefully planned attack, there was also an element of opportunism in it. The masterminds who arranged it were only out to teach him a lesson - or to kill him in the most painful, gruesome way possible - but the thugs who carried it out weren't above stuffing their pockets with whatever extra loot they could lay their hands on. But this . . . they didn't touch this. Probably didn't consider it worth taking. But I remembered it. From another time, and it occured to me that I couldn't recall ever seeing him without it. So . . ."

He opened the handkerchief and reached out to drop the object into Justin's hand.

Justin stared for a moment, and could not suppress the rise of tears in his eyes as he recognized the shell bracelet that Brian always wore.

For a time, there was only silence in the car, except for the sound of breath roughly drawn, as Justin fought to control a sudden, almost irresistible urge to weep. Beyond that, there was only the soft voice of the patrolman/driver as he answered a radio call.

"Thank you, Carl," Justin stammered finally. "I can't . . . this will mean so much . . ."

Horvath sighed. "Just keep it to yourself. Nobody needs to know."

Justin nodded. "If he was wearing his watch - and that's a big IF, by the way - it's a Patek Philippe. He bought it to celebrate the grand opening of Kinnetic. It's engraved with his initials, and the date of the opening."

Justin spent a moment more staring down at the bracelet and tracing his fingertips across the shells before tucking it into his pocket. Then he turned to stare at Lance Mathis with cold eyes and a no-nonsense expression. "As for you - you do what you have to do, but keep your distance. OK?"

Mathis nodded. "I promise. You won't even know we're there."

Justin sighed, resigned to his fate. That was exactly what he was afraid of.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Assuming you're not yet ready to face the thundering herd," said Lance Mathis, "I thought we'd go in the back way. Also assuming you have permission to see him at all, that is."

Justin nodded. "Oh, I have permission all right. Although, it wouldn't make any difference if I didn't." His eyes were suddenly hard and cold. "One way or another, I'm going in to see him. Right now."

Mathis flashed him an insolent grin. "Somehow, I think I detect the teachings of the master, don't I?"

Justin had the grace to flush. Mathis was right. In many ways, he had become more and more like Brian in the years since they'd first met - a development for which he had cause to be extremely grateful. He had always had a healthy level of self-confidence, but Brian had taught him to exercise it without apology or regret.

Not a bad legacy, he thought.

Instead of driving up to the hospital's main entrance, they took a little detour and turned, instead, into a narrow enclosed parking area, a spot reserved for medical directors and VIP staff members, where a uniformed parking attendant waved the patrol vehicle through the gate with a smart salute.

Justin got out of the car quickly, sparing no thought to his luggage which was stowed in the trunk of the patrol car, sparing no real thought for anything - except the only thing that mattered.

From this angle, there was only one visible entrance into the building, and the door was swinging open before he was half-way across the lot. Later, he would pause to wonder why he had not been surprised to recognize the man who appeared in the opening; he was, after all, a famous individual, instantly recognizable anywhere in America and especially in Pittsburgh. But, at the moment, it seemed only natural that Drew Boyd should be standing there waiting for him.

"Thanks, Cuz," said Lance Mathis, closing in behind Justin. "Anything new going on here?"

Boyd smiled. "He's still unconscious, but they just brought him back to ICU."

"And the doctor?" asked Justin.

"Waiting to see you," replied the quarterback, "and not too thrilled about it."

Justin muttered something and barreled through the door, leaving the football player to cock his head and lift one eyebrow at his cousin, obviously perplexed. "Did I hear him correctly? Did he just say, 'Tough shit'?"

Mathis grinned. "You did, and he did. So let's get a move on. This is one show I definitely don't want to miss. This is going to be the classic example of an irresistible force clashing with an immovable object, and neither one of them has a goddamned clue what they're up against. We could be on the verge of witnessing the creation of a Black Hole."

They moved up the stairs together, quickly enough to keep young Taylor in sight, but maintaining enough distance to allow them to speak without being overheard.

"He really OK?" Mathis asked, not entirely sure why he was somewhat reluctant to hear the answer. There wasn't a gay bone in his body, so he didn't know why it should matter so much, why he cared what Kinney might look like when all this was behind him.

Only - somehow - it did.

"Doctor says he'll live."

The security chief favored his cousin with an inquisitive glance. "That's not exactly what I asked, is it?"

Boyd sighed. "Jacob needed to take a piss, so I relieved him for a few minutes, and that's when they brought Kinney back into the ICU."

"And?"

"And they hadn't finished replacing all his bandages - on his face - before they moved him back into his bed."

Mathis closed his eyes for a moment. "Bad, huh?"

"Bad enough. When I think about how he looked before, I just . . ."

"What? Just what?"

Boyd took a deep breath. "I just want to kill somebody - to get my hands on one of those fuckers that did this to him and rip him apart."

Then he shook his head, and started moving more quickly up the stairs.

"What's your hurry all of a sudden?" asked Mathis.

The quarterback did not slow down. "If it hits me like that - and I barely knew the man - what do you think it's going to do to that kid?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Drew Boyd was both right . . . and wrong.

Justin was about to get hit with something for which no amount of warning or foreboding or experience could have prepared him, but it was many years since he had been a kid, and the man who stepped forward to intercept him as he plunged through the rear entrance - actually a service entrance - to the Intensive Care Unit, seemed to be aware of both facts instinctively. Radiating belligerence, Justin was immediately ready to take on the world and move it, if necessary, in order to get to Brian, but Matt Keller was equally determined to stop him - and he had help.

Both Boyd and Mathis - and a third, muscular young man who moved forward from a small alcove located within a pod of patient rooms - stepped forward to end the confrontation before it could actually happen.

"Get out of my way," Justin snarled, still struggling against the multiple sets of arms that restrained him.

Keller could not quite swallow a quick smile, regardless of the gravity of the situation. "I take it this is Justin," he said to no one in particular, noting in passing that the kid was fucking gorgeous, and realizing he had expected no less of the individual who had managed to do what no one else had ever done in capturing the heart of Brian Kinney.

It was doubtful that Justin, totally focused on reaching his goal, knew or cared who was blocking his way. "I said, get out of . . ."

"Not," said Keller sternly, "until you listen to me."

"But I need . . ."

"Better listen up, Kid." The doctor's voice was diamond-hard and offered no quarter. "I don't give a flying fuck what you need. This is about what Brian needs. Understand me?"

Justin went very still and rigid, but he was not ready to concede defeat. "You think you know what he needs?" he demanded. "Better than me? You don't . . ."

Keller stared at the young man, struggling not to laugh in his face. So earnest. So beautiful. So confidant. And so unprepared for what he would have to endure. "Look, little shit," he said firmly. "I know you think that nobody could possibly know Brian Kinney better than you do. Because he loves you. Right? And you love him. Because you're soul mates, or some kind of romantic bullshit like that, so how could anybody possibly know him better? Right?"

Justin's eyes were huge by this time, and flashing with anger. "Right," he snapped.

"Wrong." Keller wasn't in the mood to tolerate any romantic drivel. "Because, in this one instance, you don't know him half as well as I do. I've known him longer - through more crap and trouble and shitty history than you can even imagine. And I have one more advantage that all the fucking and dick-sucking and rimming you two might have shared can't come close to."

"And what's that?" Justin's temper was growing harder to control with each passing moment.

The doctor leaned forward until he was virtually nose to nose with the love of Brian's life. "Maybe," he said softly, "you've had your dick inside him." Then he paused and realized he wasn't even sure that much was true. "Maybe. But I've been up to my elbows in his guts, trying to put him back together and keep him from bleeding out all over the fucking floor. So right now, as much as you might think he needs you and your tender loving care, he needs me more. Which means I'm the one who calls the shots here. Every step of the way. Until he's well enough to call them himself. So are we clear on that?"

"Crystal!" snapped Justin. "Now get out of my way."

Keller shook his head and finally gave in to the smile which would no longer be denied. "God damn!" he almost laughed. "Brain Kinney, twisted around the finger of a twinkie. Who'd a thunk it?"

"I'm not a twinkie."

"Of course, you're not. So do you want a full report on his condition or . . ."

"That depends."

"On?"

"On whether you can talk and walk at the same time."

Drew Boyd and Lance Mathis very deliberately did not look at each other as the young blond strode across the room toward a particular cubicle, as unerring as a guided missile, leaving the surgeon to pursue or not, as he chose.

In the end, with a tiny self-deprecating chuckle, he chose to give in and proceeded to provide a crisp, concise summary of Brian's condition and treatment.

But he fell silent as Justin stepped through the door and got his first glimpse of the patient. Luckily, Drew had followed and was close enough to be able to lean forward and catch the younger man as his knees buckled and he lost his balance.

"Fuck!" Justin gasped, closing his eyes for a moment as he reached for composure and struggled to breathe. He had believed himself to be adequately prepared, and sufficiently girded against whatever he might see. He could not believe how wrong he'd been, for nothing could have prepared him for this. The acute awareness of his own helplessness, his own vulnerability to the cruel indifference of fate left him reeling."Fuck!"

Matt Keller said nothing, understanding that, at such a moment, there was nothing he could say which would make any difference. But he studied Justin's face with an unexpected surge of tenderness, realizing he had been uncertain of how he would feel about this kid; this callow young man who was - God, he could barely even credit it - the love of Brian's life. But he saw immediately that he could lay to rest the one concern he hadn't previously dared to contemplate. Whatever else the young man might think or feel or do, whatever problems he might cause, one thing was immediately obvious: Justin Taylor loved Brian Kinney with his whole heart.

And that was enough to make everything else unimportant.

He also understood something else: the entire population of the state of Pennsylvania could have come trooping through the ICU at that moment, and Justin would have seen, heard, or noticed nothing but the man who lay silent and still before him.

He moved forward inch by inch, his body stiff and graceless like a flawed marionette, until he was pressed against the side of the bed, his eyes huge and empty somehow.

"Brian." Just a whisper, but broken for all that. "Brian . . . please."

Keller was compelled to step forward then, to shrug off a strange inertia and try to offer some kind of consolation. "I don't think . . . he can hear you."

Justin, ever perceptive, noticed the slight hesitation and raised his eyes, filled with tears he made no attempt to hide, to study the physician's face. "But you're not sure, are you?"

Keller offered a tiny, reluctant smile. "No. I'm not sure."

And Justin went back to staring down into Brian's face, of which he could see little beneath layers of fresh bandages. "Can I . . ." The young man paused to draw a trembling breath. "I want to see him. I want to see what they . . ."

"No." There was absolutely no uncertainty in Keller's immediate response. "You don't."

But Justin was not one to give up anything without a fight. "I have a right . . ."

"Don't go there." Brisk, stern . . . cold. "I told you before. This is about his rights. Not yours."

"But he's my . . . " He fell silent then, unable to find words that would say enough to express the need rising inside him.

"I understand," said the doctor gently, surprised - and a little annoyed - at his own desire to offer comfort to the young man. "Better than you think. But you're not ready for this. And neither is he. You're going to have to trust me on this."

That got Justin's attention, and his eyes were suddenly ablaze with renewed determination. "And exactly why should I trust you?" he demanded. "I don't even know you, so . . ."

"No, you don't," Keller admitted. "But Brian does. He knows me, and he trusts me, and that's going to have to be enough. For now."

Finally, after a whirlwind of conflicting emotions spun through his mind, Justin was forced to concede the point. For the moment.

"Can I have a few moments with him - alone?"

The doctor hesitated, obviously doubtful.

"I promise not to rip his gown off and fuck him raw."

Keller grinned and nodded. The kid might be under control - for the moment - but he was certainly not intimidated or defeated.

"Spunky little shit, isn't he?" he muttered to Boyd as the two of them left the cubicle.

The quarterback chuckled. "Does that surprise you?"

Keller glanced back toward the two occupants of the room, remembering all he knew of Brian Kinney. "Not in the least."

Justin didn't notice when they left; he was too wrapped up in the physical presence of the man laid out before him.

How could it have been a year since he'd seen him? How could he have stayed away for so long? Because it was what Brian wanted, was that it? That was bullshit, and he knew it. He sighed as the epiphany struck him; he'd always known it. What would he have done if . . .

He flinched as he was assaulted by a sudden, piercing pain in his core, huge and black and devastating. He had always managed to believe that Brian would always be here, waiting for him - a rock which could stand in the face of any battering, a Gibraltar neither time nor tide could take from him, a deathless certainty. But this - this was the reality. Brian had almost died. Brian was not immune to the cruelties of fate or random chance. And what would Justin have done - how would he have lived - if Brian had not.

The realization struck him with mind-bending force. Brian could have been lost to him forever.

It was followed immediately by a second one, just as strong and just as real as the first. Being Andy Warhol would have meant nothing to him, without having Brian to share it.

Carefully, gently, in full knowledge that he must be breaking a hundred rules and not caring in the least, he lowered the railing on the side of the bed and hoisted himself up, threading his way through IV lines and plastic tubing and electronic wires until he was able to press himself against Brian's side and tuck his face into the hollow beneath that beloved jawline.

Only then did he begin to talk, to speak what was in his heart.

"Fuck this shit, Brain. Do you hear me? Because, if you do, you better fucking listen to me. Are you listening? This shit ends - now. Because guess what. I do not want to be Warhol, or Pollock, or fucking Picasso. What I want is you, is us. Brian and Justin. And I know that's what you want too. Us, together. Natural and real and free. No fucking rings, no fucking ceremonies, no fucking locks on the doors, and - listen to this, because this is the really important thing - nobody's fucking business but ours. I can't believe we both bought into the bullshit and let other people decide what was right for us? Well, no more, Brian. Nobody is ever - ever - going to pull us apart again."

With exquisite gentleness, he touched his fingertips to a tiny patch of bare skin at the base of Brian's throat. "So you better get well, and come back to me. Because I'm not leaving you again. I'm never leaving you again. No matter how hard you try to push me away. Understand? I'm - not - going."

Then he remembered the bracelet in his pocket, and he dug it out, careful to avoid jostling the motionless figure at his side.

"If you can hear me, you'll know what this is. You must be missing it; you've worn it as long as I've known you. So here. Let me just put it on you."

He eased the blanket down to expose Brian's arm and fastened the bracelet around his right wrist, taking great care to do so gently. "This is me," he whispered, "holding your hand. Holding you close to me. Binding us to each other. I will never again be further from you than this."

He adjusted the bracelet to his satisfaction before pulling the blanket back up and tucking it close against the faintly metallic chill in the air. Then he touched his lips to the small patch of skin behind Brian's ear. "I love you," he whispered, unable and unwilling to control the tears welling in his eyes. "More than my life, more than anything, and I can't, I won't live without you any more. Don't leave me, Brian. Please. Come back to me."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 16


A slate gray sea. Everywhere. Only . . . it wasn't really wet. But it was cold and slick against his skin. Except . . . it wasn't really his skin. There was something in the way, something between his skin and the water that wasn't - quite - water. And the water was not quite as silent as it should have been.

There were strange sounds, that might have been of the sea - but weren't. He wasn't sure how he knew that, or even that he knew it at all. How, after all, could he say for sure, when he had to concede that he didn't know anything - for sure.

He wanted to open his eyes, to see if everything was as gray as he thought it was. Only he wasn't really sure why he thought it was gray since he could see nothing but darkness.

Thus he did not know if his eyes were already open and seeing only a darkness that was everywhere, that had consumed everything. Or if his eyes were closed, and the darkness was confined to his own thoughts, his own mind.

And in the end, did it really matter?

He was floating; of that much, he was reasonably sure. But on what, or in what he could not say.

In fact he could not say much of anything, except that he understood, in a primal way, that to stay here, to remain in this darkness and perpetual emptiness was to turn away from everything in his life he'd ever cared about; it was to surrender, to give up, to concede defeat. There was no rational thought process involved in knowing this; rational thought processes were not accessible in this black abyss. But he knew it just the same. So, something insisted, he should struggle; he should reach . . .

But something else inside him knew better - knew what lay there waiting for him, daring him to try.

Here, all was dark and empty . . . and safe. Here, there would be no more pain, no more despair, no more wanting what he could never have. Here was the absence of all the old, familiar hurts that had lived in his heart for as long as he could remember.

Here . . . was peace. The end of striving for what he could never touch, the end of needing, the end, he supposed, of all things.

Except for the cold. There would, apparently, be no end to that.

Was this, then, the true definition of hell? Not the raging flames or the blistering heat or the eternal molten corruption of flesh and bone, as propounded by the old fundamentalist preachers and the Bible thumpers, after all, but the exact opposite - the relentless cold of being completely, irrevocably, eternally alone, untouched and untouchable.

He had spent his entire life trying to touch someone - trying to find the right someone to touch - only to find himself, ultimately, alone.

Time, perhaps, to accept what he could not change. A memory stirred, words spoken by him? To him?

He couldn't remember the circumstances, but he remembered the words.

"That's how we all came in. That's how we're all going out."

Alone. Did anything in between the two extremes really matter at all?

He decided that he didn't want to know.

In fact, he wanted not to know. Anything. Ever again.

Only . . . he was really, really tired of the cold, and found, to his own amusement, that he had a sudden overwhelming need to feel the warmth, just once more. For just one moment. But, in order to touch that warmth, to put aside the bitter frost, even for that micro-burst of time, he would have to navigate back through all the barriers and the darkness and the monsters that inhabited the night.

The pain. He had endured it when he had to, had withstood it long enough to do what he knew he must, to put up the only wall that mattered, the one that would protect what must be protected at all costs.

But now, could he really bring himself to step back into that tempest, to open himself up again, to feel again?

No, he . . .

"You back again?" The voice was close, almost in his ear, and he didn't even pause to think about the whys and wherefores. He simply opened his eyes.

"Aren't you tired of hanging around in a place you don't want to be?"

The cold was still there, as bitter and biting as before, but the face looking back at him was warm and pleasant and wreathed with a smile. Vic Grassi hadn't aged at all since the last time they'd seen each other, but then . . . he wouldn't, would he? Not in this place.

"Not my choice," he answered, and wondered why his face felt so stiff, as if cast in stone.

"Yeah. Sucks, doesn't it?"

He thought he nodded, but he wasn't entirely sure. "So," he said softly, "did I really do it this time? Am I . . ."

"Not yet." Vic's smile was exactly what one would expect from the old queen, smug and slightly sardonic. "But it's still do-able, if you decide that's what you want."

Brian felt his breath catch in his throat. "Why . . . why would I want that?"

Vic's eyes were suddenly very gentle. "Because you're tired of all the bullshit, Kiddo. And you're tired of being alone."

"I've never been alone."

Vic didn't bother to argue; he just let the sadness in his eyes speak for him.

Brian thought about it - thought about what he remembered of what had happened to him - and felt something old and primal shift within his consciousness. "But I will be now. Won't I?"

The older man smiled. "Who is Brian Kinney? Isn't that the real question?"

"Not who he was before." The answer was harsh, guttural, bitter.

"Maybe," said Vic, "but maybe that's good thing."

To his own surprise, Brian dredged up a smile, and was instantly conscious of the tightness in his face and the pull of muscles too long unused. "What? Some kind of poetic justice? Beauty and the beast?"

"The person you were," Vic replied slowly, "is still there. Inside you."

The smile grew wider. "Nobody ever gave a shit about what might be inside me, Vic. It was only what was on the surface that they wanted."

The older man shrugged. "Some of them, maybe. Are those the ones you really care about?"

And it was suddenly too much. Brian found that he didn't want to see any more, hear any more, feel any more. So he closed his eyes.

But Vic was persistent, if nothing else. "So that's it? You're just going to walk away. What about him?"

The sigh seemed to rise from the very bottom of his soul. "It's the best gift I can give him."

Vic was silent for a while, and Brian dared to hope he might have given up and gone looking for fresher, rarer game. But no such luck.

"If you choose to leave him behind, he'll find a way to go on. You're right about that much. He's learned everything you ever tried to teach him. He's strong and bright - and as beautiful in his way as you are in yours. But if you go, make no mistake about it. You take his heart with you. He'll never love again, Brian. Never. Is that what you want for him? Is it . . ."

"Better not to love at all, than to be locked up in a cage, behind bars of pity and duty - and commitment." He pronounced the word as if it were the vilest curse. "Because of some dumb notion that he owes me his life because I'm damaged."

"Did you?"

Unable to resist trying to fathom the strange tone in the older man's voice, Brian opened his eyes again to confront his nemesis. "Did I what?"

"Did you take him in, take care of him, watch out for him . . . did you owe him your life, because he was damaged? Because he was too weak or foolish or stupid to fend for himself?"

"No, but . . ."

"So what makes you think . . ."

"Because he did it before." The words came swiftly, without forethought, and it was only after they were spoken that he realized how true they were, how much he had always believed them, even if he'd never quite dared to confront the issue. His voice sank to a whisper. "And I - shit! - I let him do it. Because I was too weak to fight him off, to stand up and make him understand that I could manage on my own."

The older man's smile turned venal. "Oh, that's right. The great and powerful Kinney can handle anything, can't he? All by himself. Even cancer." Then he sighed. "Jesus, Brian! Don't you understand that nobody - nobody - should have to endure something like that alone? Once in a while, we all need somebody. Even you."

Brian looked away. "Yeah, well, considering how I've lived my life, I think it would be pretty fucking stupid to expect anybody to be there for me."

Vic reached out and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Why? Because you think you've never been there for them? Is that really what you think?"

Brian didn't offer an answer - just a look that spoke volumes about truth as he perceived it.

"So . . . you want to watch them while they grieve over you? That can be arranged, you know. The laws of physics don't apply here. Only metaphysics." Vic grinned, obviously pleased with his pun. "You can pretty much do anything you . . ."

"No." Not even a tiny little nuance of uncertainty. "I don't want to see."

"You sure? Not even for old time's sake? One last look at his face?"

"No. I just want . . ."

"To be left alone." The old man sighed. "Forever is longer than you can imagine, Brian."

The smile came then, bittersweet and haunted. "It's only time."

For a while, silence reigned. And the cold, of course. And Brian, settling once more into the chill of night, thought maybe he should ask Vic; maybe Vic would know if it would just continue to get colder and darker. Maybe . . .

"He's here, you know."

Though Vic was speaking softly, the effect was like a shout in the stillness around them.

"Who's here?" Not bothering to open his eyes and hoping that failing to do so would encourage the other man to wander off in search of a new target.

A tiny little snicker of sound told him that he was shit out of luck.

"Justin. He's here."

"Fuck!" Hazel eyes were suddenly wide, and seeing entirely too much.

"Sorry, but that's one thing you can't do. Not right now anyway."

"Fuck!" His mind was reeling, trying not to remember, trying not to know why it mattered so much, why it was so vital that Justin not be here. "I asked them to do one little one thing. Just one fucking thing, and they can't even do that right."

Then he paused and his eyes filled with suspicion. "How the fuck do you know he's here?"

"I know," answered Vic, "because you know."

"Me? How do I . . ."

"Close your eyes, and reach out with your mind. Concentrate. You've been too busy blocking the signals your body is trying to send you to let yourself notice."

Brian's face twisted into a snarl. "That's because the signals from my fucking body hurt like a motherfucker."

"I know. But that's the only way. Concentrate on your right hand. Just that one little area, so it won't be too unbearable. Just let it come to you."

"Easy for you to say," Brian grumbled. "You're dead, so nothing can ever hurt you again."

He ignored the quick smile he saw on the older man's face.

Fuck! If Justin was really here, if the pricks had let him come despite the extreme measures Brian had taken to keep him away, then somebody was going to pay - and pay dearly - once he was strong enough to . . .

"So," the voice was not - quite - laughing at him, seeming to come to him now from a distance. "I guess this means you won't be keeping me company any longer."

Fuck!

But there was no resisting any further. Except for one tiny question that still needed an answer.

"You're not really here," he called out, no longer able to see the figure he was addressing. "Are you?"

The fact that no response was forthcoming told him all he needed to know.

Concentrate on just the hand, huh? Think about moving just one finger, just the one . . .

Oh, fuck, that hurt like a son of a bitch!

But beyond the hurt there was - just barely - the faintest trace of warmth, of tender fingers stroking, touching, and a voice - gentle on the surface, but not so gentle underneath. Rough and uneven, driven by strong emotions that were not composed only of sweetness and light. There was anger there as well, grim and struggling with fear and need.

"Don't leave me, Brian. Please. Come back to me."

Fuck!

He knew there was no resisting it now.

So he reached, and, for the barest fraction of a moment, he felt it - the warmth, the solidity, the sweet breath of life. Then the pain hit, and he reeled back, knowing he could not touch the one without enduring the other. So he let go, sinking back into the bliss of nothingness, of no pain, but . . . not forever. It was inevitable now; he could not let himself take the easy way out, could not embrace forgetfulness.

Could not endure the cold.

He would wait, because he had no choice; his body had betrayed him by leaving him too weak, at this moment, to resist the sweet seduction of limbo. But he would heal. Quickly.

He knew it was futile - knew he would not be heard, but found he could not resist the urge to try to speak, to transmit the thought singing in his mind.

"Wait for me, Sunshine. I'll be back."

Then he managed a mental smile, as consciousness faded. No choice any more. He would be back. Like the Terminator - and he planned to more than live up to the name when he returned. His friends - such as they were - should be afraid; his enemies even more so. Very, very afraid.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Nurse Beck bustled into the room, Justin had disentangled himself from the plethora of tubes, wires, and sundries attached to Brian's body and settled on the physician's stool beside the bed, reluctantly relinquishing his full-length body contact in favor of clasping Brian's right hand. And he was smiling, brightly enough that the nurse - jaded by too many years of watching people in dire moments, sometimes at their worst and other times at their best - was slightly taken aback. She wanted to be intensely annoyed at the boy and his temerity - he was, after all, where he absolutely should not be - but she couldn't quite reach the level of irritation that should have come so easily.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked, less gruffly than she'd intended.

"Dr. Keller brought me in."

She glared. "Yes, well, Dr. Keller has a tendency to ignore the rules, when it suits him. But I . . . what are you smiling at?" She hadn't intended to ask that, but found herself completely unable to resist when his smile had broadened into a grin.

Justin, to her chagrin, appeared completely immune to her tone of voice and the level of impatience it should have conveyed. "He smiled at me," he answered, never looking away from the patient's face, "and he squeezed my hand."

"How the hell could you tell?" she demanded, examining Brian's bandages to make sure they were still in place and doing the job they were meant to do.

But Justin was not in the mood for pragmatism. "I just know."

Beck glanced quickly at the various indicators measuring every aspect of the patient's physical condition, and found them showing pretty much the same thing they'd been showing since he'd been brought in after his first surgery. The patient was unconscious, albeit no longer comatose.

She wanted to be abrupt and stoic, so it surprised her when her voice and manner took on an unexpected gentleness. "Honey, I know you want to believe that, but . . ."

Justin didn't bother hearing her out. "I know what I know," he said.

Thinking she should disabuse him of his flight of fancy, she opened her mouth to do exactly that but realized, suddenly, that there was no harm in allowing him to indulge in his little daydream. If it gave him hope, what did it matter if it was all a figment of his imagination?

"Beck!"

There was nothing remotely gentle or diffident in Matt Keller's voice as he barked her name.

"Yes, Doctor?"

He barreled into the room, exuding his characteristic aura of barely-controlled energy, before coming to an abrupt halt.

"What the fuck is he doing in here?" he demanded, barely looking up from his perusal of a printout in the bulging chart he held in his hands.

"He says you let him in," she replied calmly.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. But get him out of here. I need to . . ."

"I'm going," interrupted Justin, still totally focused on the patient, leaning forward and touching his lips to a patch of bare skin below Brian's bicep. Oddly, though both the physician and the nurse were completely focused on their respective tasks, both paused and watched in complete silence, frozen in place and not quite understanding why. Then the moment was past, and Justin stood and walked out of the room.

"Shit!" That was Keller, and it elicited a quizzical stare from the woman who had become his most trusted assistant during his tour of duty at Allegheny General.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said quickly, determined not to display the upsurge of tenderness rising inside him. "Just . . ."

Beck didn't smile often, but when she did, her face was filled with warmth and understanding. "Yes," she said softly. "I know."

He closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache threatening to engulf him. "Did you find him?"

She managed - barely - not to roll her eyes. "Finding him wasn't the problem."

"So what did he say?"

"Before or after the 'Tell Keller to fuck off' part of the conversation?"

He flashed her a roguish grin. "Since I'm hoping that wasn't the end of it, let's say after."

"You should be careful what you wish for," she replied. "After that rather rude remark, he continued - and this is a direct quote - 'Never mind. I'll tell the motherfucker myself. Tonight. He should wait for my call.' Then he hung up on me."

Keller moved to the side of the bed, and spent a moment gazing down at his patient, looking in vain for any signs of consciousness returning. "Wake up, Fucker!" he whispered. "If you only knew what I'm going to put up with - for your sake - you'd be on your knees giving me a blow job as we speak."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

So far, he had been really lucky, he thought, as he quickly made his way toward the elevator just down the hall from the ICU waiting room. Now, if his luck would only hold for . . . .

"Justin!" It was as much a screech as a shout. "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Not lucky enough.

If anyone else had noticed him, he might still have managed to steal away - if he was fast enough and sneaky enough.

But with Debbie?

No fucking way. Time, he knew, to face the music.

"Hey, Deb," he managed to gasp as he found himself wrapped tight in her embrace. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Of course, you didn't," said Michael with a grin, stepping up to lay a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder, brown eyes meeting blue and saying more about shared concerns and mutual understanding than any words could have conveyed.

"Where else would we be?" demanded Debbie as she stepped away to get a better look at him. "Christ, Sunshine! You look like shit."

He shrugged. "I did just fly half way around the world, you know. Literally. So I'm a little jet-lagged."

"Right," she crowed. "Tahiti, huh? That Steven is really something, isn't he? What was it like? Did he come with you? How'd you get here so fast? When are you going back? Where is . . ."

Justin took a deep breath and rattled off his response. "Not Tahiti. New Zealand, Yes, he is something. It was great - what little I saw of it. No, he didn't. I came on a private jet - a Gulfstream. And I'm not."

"Not what?"

He sighed, not eager to have this discussion but knowing Debbie would not just drop it, no matter how reluctant he was. "Not going back. Now, if you don't mind, I am a little tired, and . . ."

"Well," she interrupted, not particularly pleased with what she heard in his voice or saw in his eyes, but knowing better than to make an issue of it now, "you shouldn't have hurried. You won't be allowed to see him anyway. Not until . . ."

"I already did," he interrupted.

"You already did . . . what?" she demanded.

"See him."

Debbie's eyes were huge, as were those of some others in the group. "Well, how the fuck did you manage that? Some of us are still waiting to get our first look at him."

The blond answered her with a wink. "Just lucky, I guess."

The look on her face said clearly that she didn't believe a word of it, but couldn't figure out how to get the answer she really wanted. With good reason, Debbie considered herself a master at extracting information from the members of her extended family, but had learned, long ago, that both Brian and Justin were immune to her methods, when they chose to be.

"So, how does he look?" she asked.

The only answer he offered was a half shrug.

Instead he looked around, dredging up a gentle smile for Ben and Lindsey, and a cool nod for Ted and Melanie and . . . he couldn't remember the name of the guy who was sitting across from Ben - a guy who lived near the Novotny-Bruckners, he thought, but he couldn't quite place him. Then he realized he didn't much care. The sight of the man's face - long and pale and vaguely bovine - conjured old memories he didn't care to examine - like the one of a smug voice observing, "Of course he went to Australia, since he's already slept with everyone on this continent."

And yet here the man sat, obviously pleased to be included in the group, as if he had a right to be here among those whose hearts were tied irrevocably to the fate of the man lying unconscious within the ICU, even if they didn't all realize it.

Then Justin realized that it wasn't so much the memory of the man's snarkiness that disturbed him; it was rather the fact that no one who had been there to hear the remark had bothered to offer a single word in Brian's defense, despite the fact that it was only due to Brian's generosity that the fundraiser had been possible at all, and he was struck with a dawning recognition of how often such things had happened, and how many times Brian's so-called friends - himself included - had just accepted whatever comments petty little cretins chose to make without ever once speaking out.

Some friends we are. Even though the very idea of Brian wanting or needing anyone to defend him was ludicrous.

Sensing he was being watched, Justin looked around, and found himself the object of scrutiny by a pair of shrewd, knowing eyes, and realized immediately that his thoughts were being monitored - and approved.

Cynthia was studying his face from her spot in the far corner of the room, late afternoon sunlight catching in the curls piled atop her head. The hairstyle was a dead give-away. She only swept her hair up and pinned it when she didn't have any time to spend fussing with it. Obviously, she had been a very busy young woman, and Justin knew he had cause to be enormously grateful for her efficiency, her intelligence, and her dedication to her employer. She smiled a greeting for him, but did not break off her conversation with the well-built, casually-dressed young black man at her side, who was speaking softly to her, while Lance Mathis and Drew Boyd stood relaxed and at ease nearby, obviously following every word and occasionally nodding their agreement.

Justin would speak to her later, but that could wait. It wasn't Cynthia, after all, who had the answers he needed. It wasn't Cynthia who had been there, had seen it all go down, had witnessed what had been done to Brian. It was Emmett who had experienced all that; thus, it was Emmett he needed to see. And, judging by the look of dread on that young man's face as he turned to return Justin's gaze, he knew it perfectly well.

He had been standing at the window, staring out into the rapidly falling twilight, before turning to smile a weary welcome to the new arrival, and Justin felt his breath catch in his throat as he realized he was seeing something unprecedented in his friend's eyes, something that spoke of things known that could never again be unknown - of innocence irrevocably lost.

When Michael would have pulled him aside, obviously wanting to tap into the intimate understanding only Brian's closest friends could attain together, Justin favored him with a gentle smile, but pushed past him. He knew what Michael wanted and needed, and he hoped he would be able to provide it in time. But not now. What he needed now, he needed from someone else, and it was something he knew Michael would not be able to tolerate.

"Welcome home, Baby," said Emmett as he enfolded Justin in a warm embrace. "Can't tell you how good it is to see you, except . . ."

"Except what?" Justin replied, content to rest briefly within the circle of his friend's arms.

"Except," said Emmett, allowing just a trace of disapproval to taint his words, "that he didn't want you here. The fact that he managed to remain conscious to speak at all . . ."

"Did you really think I'd stay away?" Justin understood that Emmett felt he had failed to accomplish the mission Brian had set for him, but he also needed to make it clear that neither of the co-conspirators should have appropriated the right to make decisions for Justin.

"What I thought," Emmett replied, without a note of apology, "was that maybe you wouldn't find out, until . . ."

"Until what? Until it was all over? Until the danger was past? Until what?"

"Justin, I . . ."

But Justin was not going to back down on this; it mattered too much. For this time, of course, but also for any other times that might arise in the future. He needed to make himself perfectly clear.

"I know you felt you had to do as he asked," he said softly. "I really do understand that. But you need to understand this. If I . . . if he had . . ." To his intense annoyance, he found he couldn't bring himself to say the words. "If I'd been too late, I would never have forgiven you. Any of you. Can you understand that?"

But he was not the only one who was determined to be understood. "If it kept you safe - the way he wanted - then I'd have learned to deal with it. You could hate me for it, but, at least, you'd still be alive to remember him. To mourn for him."

"Emmett, I . . ."

"No, Justin." Emmett's eyes were dark with shadows which would remain with him for the rest of his life. "You don't know - can't know - how hard he fought, how much it meant to him. As glad as I am to see you, and as much as I know you want to be here, there's still a part of me that just wants to beat the snot out of you for ignoring his wishes." He paused then, and tried to swallow around the huge knot in his throat. "You can't imagine what he . . . what he endured to try to keep you safe."

Justin simply stared for a moment, realizing the room around them had gone silent as everyone tried to listen in on their conversation. "No," he agreed finally, "I can't. But you're going to tell me."

"No, I . . ."

"Emmett." Justin waited, watching as his big Nellie-bottom friend almost cringed away from the idea of talking about what he'd seen, what Brian had endured. "Emmett, you . . ."

"I can't, Justin. I just . . ."

"Listen to me, Emmett. Are you listening?"

For a tiny moment, something flickered in Emmett's dark eyes - a reflection of gentle memory. "Yes. I'm listening."

"If he endured it for me," Justin whispered, "then I can endure it for him. Don't you see, Em. He had to watch what happened to me, had to kneel at my side while I lay there on the cold cement, suspended between life and death, had to sit there, helpless and lost and scared, not knowing if each breath would be my last. And to this day, he still has nightmares about it. I know he does, even though he's never said it. Now, if he could stand it, so can I. So you're going to tell me." Then he looked around, reading the looks on the faces of his friends, and the intense interest in the faces of those who were not his friends. "But not here," he said quickly. "Let's take a walk. I need a cigarette anyway."

Emmett summoned up a sardonic smile. "Another graduate of Father Kinney's school for wayward boys."

There was a faint snicker of laughter from somewhere in the room, but it definitely did not come from Justin. "Why do you do that?" he said firmly, clearly. "Why do you all do that? You all blame him for every bad habit I have. What am I - some kind of mindless brat who can't be held responsible for any choice he makes - who can't think for himself? In case you've forgotten, I was smoking the first time we ever met. And, just so you know, just so you all know, everything I ever learned that helped me grow into the man I wanted to be - every lesson that mattered - I learned from Brian Kinney."

He turned then to head for the door, pulling Emmett with him and waving Michael off when he looked as if he wanted to accompany them. But he paused at the entrance and looked back at the circle of faces regarding him with huge, shadowed eyes. "You know what? You should all take some time to stop and think about it, and ask yourselves what lessons he might have taught you. You might be surprised."

Then he was gone, Emmett at his side and the young black man who'd been talking to Cynthia trailing behind them, eyes moving constantly, sweeping in a continuous arc to cover every angle of approach. Drew Boyd and Lance Mathis stood together, watching them go, appearing satisfied with the circumstances, but Cynthia, from her spot near the corner, was less sanguine. "You sure about this?" she said softly, looking up to meet the security chief's eyes.

"Yeah. I'm sure."

She pursed her lips and studied his face with narrowed eyes. "For your sake," she replied, "you better be right."

"You trying to scare me, Princess?" asked Mathis, biting his lip to keep from smiling.

But she wasn't kidding, and her expression told him he'd better be listening. "Scare you? Why would I do that? You're certainly smart enough to figure it out for yourself."

"Figure what out?"

Then she smiled, but it was not the least bit comforting. "What your life would be worth if something should happen to that kid on your watch. You know the old saying about the fury of a woman scorned? Well, remember this. No shrew that ever lived could hold a candle to Brian Kinney in a rage."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


When the elevator doors opened to admit Justin and Emmett, they came face to face with a slender young man with dirty blond hair and a narrow face, whom Justin did not immediately recognize.

Hunter Novotny-Bruckner had changed quite a lot in the year since Justin had moved to the city. He was taller and brawnier; his skin was no longer deathly pale, and his face had filled out, eliminating the hollow gauntness leftover from the days when he had been forced to live on the streets and barter his body to survive. His eyes were different too, no longer filled with shadows of desperation and a cynical disregard for all the things in life he had been denied.

Justin greeted him with a nod. Despite their shared youth, they had never been close, since they'd had nothing else in common. Justin, despite his final alienation from his father and the entire Taylor side of his family tree, had lived a life of privilege prior to his coming out, while Hunter had known nothing but hardship and betrayal from the time of his birth until stumbling into the opportunity of a lifetime with Michael and Ben. Thus, Justin assumed now that he had nothing to say which might interest the younger man, so he simply stood aside and waited for Hunter make his exit from the elevator. Hunter, however, had a different idea. After studying Justin's face during an awkward moment of silence, he turned to focus on Emmett's; then he moved further back into the elevator car to allow them room to enter with their discreet shadow bringing up the rear.

"Aren't you . . ." Justin began.

"I'm going with you," the boy replied, in a tone that left no room for debate.

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Emmett quickly. "Justin and I have some things to . . ."

Hunter nodded. "You're going to talk about what happened to him," he said slowly. "What they did to him. And I need . . ."

He did not bother to complete his statement, but his eyes were filled with anguish, and Justin finally nodded his agreement, although he wasn't sure why he felt compelled to do so.

The four rode in silence for a while, as the car descended, but Emmett was still perturbed by the idea of having to speak of what he knew to even one young man - much less two.

"Hunter," he said gently, watching the numbers flit by on the floor indicator, "I think you should turn around and go back up. Ben and Michael will be so glad to see you. Since you started spending so much time in Penn Hills - with Natalie's family - they don't see as much of you as they'd like, and I'm sure . . .

"Emmett, please," said the young man, raising a hand to stop the flow of words. "I really need this."

But Emmett was not going to be so easily persuaded. "Why? Why would you need this? I understand, if only just, why Justin might feel the need to hear all the gory details, out of some perverted sense of indebtedness. But you don't really even know Brian, so why would you . . ."

"But I need to know him, to understand the man he is, so I can . . ."

Though the words were addressed to Emmett, it was Justin who was struck with a sudden epiphany. "So you can move past him," he said softly, sympathetically.

The boy nodded.

But Emmett was still confused. "Hold it! Just hold on here. Why would you give a shit - beyond the fact that he's like a brother to one of your dads - what Brian Kinney is really like, or how he dealt with what was done to him? You're not gay, as you've gone out of your way to demonstrate lately."

Hunter took a deep breath, as if preparing to confess something horrible, something unspeakable. "It's not that simple," he said very softly. "Yeah, after I was able to put an end to my life as a hustler . . ." He paused and flushed, took a deep breath and seemed to summon up a new resolve before he started again. "When I was forced to live that life, I figured out that I really didn't enjoy taking it up the ass. That it was pussy I wanted. And I looked back on every one of my tricks, and hated them for using me and hated myself for letting them do it, for selling myself so cheap and telling myself it was something I wanted. Something I enjoyed.

"But I never did enjoy it. I was just fooling myself, because I knew I didn't have any other choices. I never once met a man I really wanted. Not until . . . "

Emmett's eyes were suddenly huge, and dark with understanding. "Until Brian," he said gently.

The boy nodded. "Until Brian. He was so beautiful, so perfect, and so much more than all those bastards who used me and then threw me away, like yesterday's garbage. He refused to use me, to take what I was so eager to give him. For the first time in my life, I really wanted a man, and he wouldn't even give me the time of day. Until all that shit with the cop. I let myself get fucked by a murderer and swiped the condom full of his jizz, and I did it for one reason. I didn't give a fuck about Jason Kemp or justice or any of that shit. I just wanted Brian to see me - really see me. Not as this pesky kid who kept hanging around; not as Michael and Ben's stray foundling. But as Hunter, as a person who wanted him, and who was worth wanting."

"But he didn't react the way you hoped," said Justin, remembering what it was like to want Brian so badly and be denied.

Hunter shrugged. "Not the way I wanted. But that night, when he took me back home, he tried to stick up for me when Michael and Ben went ballistic. And I realized something in the middle of that whole fucked up mess. Ben and Michael loved me; that went without saying. But Brian - somehow - understood me, and tried, in his own strange way, to defend me. That was something no one had ever done for me. I didn't know how to feel or what to think, and I never got a chance to figure it out.

"I never got the chance to get to know him, and I see now that it was something I needed to do. To understand him, and how he looked at life, how he was able to accept things that would have destroyed anybody else, and . . . how he was able to see through my big act and accept me, without judging me."

"But you moved on," Emmett pointed out. "You're doing well in school, well on your way to becoming the next F. Lee Bailey, according to Michael. And you're with Natalie now." He looked over at Justin. "And she's really lovely, Sunshine. They're adorable together, just you wait and see."

Hunter smiled. "Yes. She really is. But I just feel . . ."

"Like you have unfinished business with Brian?" That was Justin, not quite sure how he felt about Hunter harboring feelings for Brian, but knowing in his heart that the younger man was not a threat. In fact, he believed - had believed for a long time - that there were no threats to jeopardize his place in Brian's heart.

The younger man smiled. "It may be silly, but I feel like I need to get to know him and to tell him how much it meant to me. How much it still means to me. And how sorry I am about all the shit that came after. Because I never let myself forget what he did for us, for me, what he was willing to give up to help Michael protect me. Even if everybody else did forget it."

By this time, they had reached the lobby, and their silent escort gestured toward a courtyard off to the left, a quiet, shady place with freeform benches arranged around a quiet reflecting pool and only one exterior entrance - ideal for security purposes.

It was a perfect spot for their discussion, as it was currently deserted, and filled with shadows - a place where they could speak freely and not worry about being interrupted or overheard.

Emmett chose his place carefully, opting for a shadowed nook with the only light source behind him. Justin and Hunter took their places side by side in front of him, as their bodyguard blended into the gloom near the exterior doorway.

When Emmett began to talk, his voice very soft, almost monotone in his effort to say everything that needed saying without breaking down into emotional excess, it was as if the three of them were enclosed inside a sphere of silence, where no sound could penetrate from beyond the circle as the rest of the world fell away into shadow and timeless stillness. It was not a magical time, not an occasion for joy or fulfillment or enlightenment. Instead, it was dark and frightening and filled with regret and remorse, and none of them would walk away from it unchanged.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Matt Keller had intended to spend the evening in his tiny little cubicle, dozing when he could, or playing Tetris, perhaps, which somehow helped him to focus his mind and order his thoughts. Maybe he would have phoned for Thai take-out - a fondness he had developed in the company of one Brian Kinney - or, in desperation, tackled the Times crossword puzzle. Anything - anything at all - to keep from watching the clock and trying to figure out what he would do if Rick Turnage refused to be persuaded to work his magic on Keller's VIP - very important patient.

But he had quickly realized he could not bear to sit still and wait, so he had gone for a walk, strolling around the park situated down the street from the hospital, his cell phone tucked into his pocket. He needed to clear his mind of all the extraneous crap that seemed to accumulate there every day and concentrate on how to do his best for his patient - and his patients. It wasn't, after all, as if he only had one.

As he walked, he forced himself to think about the others: the five-year-old boy with severe abdominal damage inflicted by his psychotic mother wielding a meat cleaver in her determination to cut the devil out of his body; the twenty-one year old soccer player struck by a car and sent plunging through a plate glass window; the autistic teen-aged girl
suffering from severe congestive heart failure resulting from a genetic defect; the young black woman with multiple skull fractures inflicted in a beating administered by a jealous boyfriend.

And those were only the most critical of the group for which he was responsible.

And Brian Kinney, of course, who had been as badly injured as any of the others, but appeared to have pulled back toward life before reaching the point of no return. Physically, at least. Mentally and emotionally - well, that might prove to be a different matter altogether. He believed in Brian - in his strength and his courage and his ability to survive whatever life might throw at him, but this . . . this was not going to be a walk in the park, by anyone's definition.

Matt walked and smoked - another habit he usually blamed on Brian Kinney, although, in his more honest, lucid moments, he admitted that it was something he would almost certainly have resorted to on his own, as a result of the extreme stress he endured in the practice of his profession.

A glance at his watch revealed it was later than he'd thought - past time for Turnage to have called. So he would return to the hospital, and make the call himself, if he could only figure out what to say.

As he left the park, he looked up, and paused, transfixed by the image that caught his eye. In a small square located at the center of the major intersection across from the park entrance, a small sign was situated in such a way that it caught the attention of everyone who passed by, either walking or in a car. Low floodlights focused on the image, and every line, every angle in the arrangement led the eye of any observer to the center of the display.

It was ingenious. It was also indisputably the work of one Brian Kinney, another confirmation, as if any were needed, of how well the man knew his business.

The image was of a small child strapped onto a gurney being bundled toward a waiting medical helicopter, small arms reaching back for someone left behind. The caption was simple. "Is this how you'd want to say good-bye?"

Beneath the image, the sub-text was stark and black. "Your donation makes sure Allegheny General is all he'll ever need."

Shit! The man was a fucking genius. Every parent/grandparent/godparent or foster parent within a hundred miles had dug deep to pony up funding for the new transplant clinic the hospital was trying to build as a direct result of this advertising campaign.

Keller sighed and turned toward the hospital, his mind still focused on the ad campaign and the power of the photograph. He froze in mid-stride. The power of the photograph.

He was smiling when he resumed walking, when his cell phone rang.

"Keller."

"Where the hell are you?" That was Beck, tactful as always. "I've been paging for ten minutes."

"I needed some air."

"Since when does cigarette smoke count as air?"

"Yeah, well . . .

"Never mind. I thought you might like to know."

"Know what?"

"That someone - some very special someone - seems to be waking up."

"Fuck me. I'll be right there."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The waiting room was almost empty by that time, visiting hours having ended over an hour earlier. After Justin, Emmett, and Hunter had returned from their little expedition - solemn and pensive and subdued - the extended family, two by two, had trouped into the ICU and stood looking down at Brian's bandaged face and studying the monitors that surrounded him, hoping that the indicators blinking in green were all signs of good news. To everyone's surprise, Justin had gestured for Hunter to accompany him as he'd stepped forward to be first in line, and the two had spent several minutes within the inner sanctum, speaking to Brian and to each other and sharing things they never bothered to disclose to anyone else, not even Ben or Michael. The rest had waited impatiently for their turns, but no one had quite dared to voice their irritation when the young men lingered, ignoring the fact that the minutes were ticking away. When they'd finally made their exit, the others had divided the time remaining between them, all speaking to the patient in soft, muted voices and taking advantage of the opportunity to touch him - his hands or his hair or any bare spot of skin they could find. Debbie and Michael had each touched his forehead with their lips. Lindsey had lifted his hand and dropped a kiss on his fingertips while Melanie looked on in silence, and Emmett had spent a couple of minutes whispering in his ear.

Then they had all said their good nights, and Justin and Emmett had gone off together, with a new security guard accompanying them under orders to drive them to the destination of their choice and remain there to watch over Justin until his relief arrived. Ben and Michael had also departed, with Hunter and Debbie in tow, and Theodore, Lindsey, and Melanie in their wake.

It had been a long day.

In the end, only Cynthia remained in the waiting room, filling out a new set of insurance forms and waiting to speak with Matt Keller, providing he returned to the hospital before she decided to retire. In addition, Lance Mathis was still somewhere around, and one of his hired guns was standing guard near the ICU entrance while another prowled the halls.

Cynthia was grateful that Mathis was taking no chances, although she was beginning to wonder if the man ever slept; obviously, both Brian and Justin would be safe under his oversight.

She finished up the paperwork and delivered it to the duty nurse before gathering her belongings and preparing to depart. That was when Matt Keller came barreling through the ICU door, pausing at the nurse's station to hand the RN a sheaf of documents and instructing her to dispatch them by fax to the number written at the top of the first page. Then he turned toward Cynthia, and she rose quickly, noting the brightness in his eyes and hoping she was not wrong in thinking it promised good news. She had not, up until this moment, allowed herself to consider the alternative, to entertain the possibility that Brian might not make a full recovery; she did not know how she would handle that.

Then he dropped into the chair at her side and offered her a weary grin. "Damn, I'm good."

To her own surprise, her knees were suddenly too weak to support her, and she collapsed back into her chair. "Please don't be cryptic," she said sharply. "I'm not in the mood."

"He's waking up."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "Can I see him?"

"Not tonight," he replied, correctly interpreting the relief in her eyes and reaching out to take her hand. "He's still mostly out of it, but he's stable enough for us to move him out of ICU in the morning, and put him in a private room. You'll be able to see him then, although he still may not be awake. For the next few days, he'll be in and out of consciousness, and the more he sleeps, the better off he is. He's still going to be in a lot of pain, so the painkillers are going to make it difficult for him to stay awake for any length of time. So, for tonight, go home. Get some rest." To her surprise, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "He's going to be fine, and he's very lucky to have you."

She nodded, suddenly more exhausted than she had ever been in her life.

When she left, after taking a few moments to collect herself and re-establish the mask of indifference she wore so well, Keller rose quickly and hurried back into the ICU, pausing at the desk to check on the condition of his other patients before returning to Brian's bedside just in time to see lashes fluttering and one hand lifting from the bed as if reaching for something.

The doctor enfolded it within both of his own, and leaned forward until he was sure his patient could see him - providing he chose to focus.

"Brian? Can you hear me?"

After a beat of silence, the answer came, and the tone was undeniably, quintessentially Brian Kinney. "Why? Did you think I'd be deaf?" It was weak and halting, but there was no mistaking the sarcasm laced through it.

Keller grinned. Whatever else might be damaged - and he didn't bother to try to deny that there would be plenty - the wicked intellect was intact, and demanding a response in kind. "Actually, I thought you might be dead, but it seems that, once again, those reports have been greatly exaggerated. How do you . . ."

"Like I lost a round with Godzilla. Any more stupid questions?"

Keller was quiet for a moment, checking vital signs and considering how much he should say at this juncture. He finally decided on keeping it simple, for now. "Do you know where you are?"

Because of the bandages covering his face, only the irises of Brian's eyes were actually visible to the doctor, so how was it, he wondered, that they could still convey so much contempt. "Ibiza? South Beach? St. Tropez?"

"Smart ass! Would you just . . ."

Eyes clinched briefly, and a tremor acknowledged a fresh wave of pain rushing through the battered body, but Brian was not about to slip back into the comfort of drug-induced sleep until he got answers to the questions he'd awakened to ask.

"Where . . . is . . . he?"

Keller sighed, realizing that he should have known, should have been prepared for this particular interrogation. "He's nearby, Brian. He . . ."

"Fuck! I'm . . . tell Honeycutt . . . I'm going . . . to kill him when I . . . get out of this fucking . . . bed."

The doctor chuckled. "Yeah, I'm sure he's quaking in his boots. But you shouldn't be angry at him. He did convey your message. But your little blond . . . he has a mind of his own, you know. I don't think a brigade of Ninjas could have kept him away from you, so Honeycutt never had a prayer."

A twitch in the bandages around the patient's mouth made Keller wonder if he was trying to smile. "Yeah. Stubborn little shit."

Keller nodded. "Stubborn, but not reckless. He's being well looked after, I promise."

Then he placed a gentle hand on Brian's forehead and regarded him with a warm affectionate smile that would have astonished most of the people who thought they knew the physician well. Neither warmth nor affection were ordinarily part of his repertoire of expressions. "Why don't you get some rest now? And - in case you're wondering - you're going to be just fine."

And those eyes were looking at him again, already knowing more than they should. Never once, in all the years they'd known each other, had he been able to lie to Brian, and he would not start now. There had always been only truth between them, and he could offer nothing less now.

But not tonight. Tonight he would simply kiss his old friend good night and wish him sweet dreams, even though he was pretty sure it would be a long time before such dreams were possible again for Brian Kinney.

For now, all he could do was find a way to survive the nightmare.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 17

He leaned against the wooden railing on his deck to stare out into the starlit mass of the Atlantic and watch brilliant white breakers accost not-quite-so-brilliant white sands, as he listened to the thunder of the surf and noted the pale tracery of lightening flickering far out to sea, while a fitful wind swirled around him, molding his linen shirt to his body and tousling thick, dark hair until it stood on end. Master of all he surveyed; the phrase was particularly appropriate, he thought, as he gazed out upon the crescent of beach that comprised the border of his private reserve, stretching from the promontory on the left where the tall spire of a lighthouse perched at the edge of a steep drop-off that plunged straight down into turbulent water, to the row of dunes far off to the right that marched away from the broken shoreline. It was beautiful and pristine, and it all belonged to him.

Then he was reminded of another minimalist phrase which had become his mantra of late.

Rank hath its privileges.

He was living proof of that. It was definitely good to be the best in his field. And if that was a slight exaggeration - there was, after all, the rest of the world which might dispute the claim - it really didn't make much difference. He was the best in this country, and nothing else really mattered, for this was the place where it mattered most - the place where the demand for his services generated incredible profits and allowed him to indulge himself in any lifestyle he might choose.

Being the best had provided him with the wherewithal to live the life he'd always wanted, and to surpass the standards established by his father. The old man, after all, had been one of the best - a member of an elite group - and had achieved an astonishing level of professional and financial success while inspiring his only son to aspire to even greater heights.

Thus, Joseph Richard Turnage was still renowned worldwide as an accomplished plastic surgeon, even though he'd been retired for almost a decade, but J. Richard Turnage - he had dispensed with the despised "Jr." when he'd hung up his first shingle - had established himself at a remarkably young age as the premier plastic surgeon of his generation; perhaps of any generation to date. At this point, he was only thirty-seven years old, and his reputation for incredible skill and mastery of his art was surpassed only by his notoriety as a pompous, arrogant prick who not only refused to suffer fools gladly, but actually refused to suffer them at all. Thus, he was almost impossible to work for or live with, and the only people who could tolerate him were those who profited enormously by the association. Because of his expertise and an intuitive feel for artistry and beauty, his services were constantly in demand among the so-called 'beautiful people' - the movie stars and models and trophy wives who depended on the perfection of their faces and bodies in order to live their glamorous lives.

Rick Turnage was the man who created and/or maintained that perfection. It had made him very rich and enabled him to pick and choose which patients he would accept and which he would reject, and he was the only person in the world who understood the criteria he used for determining which was which.

Except - maybe - for one annoying bastard. He closed his eyes and visualized the documents currently sitting in the center of the blotter on the massive teakwood desk in his private office. Son of a bitch! This was not something he had expected to deal with at this time. He had other things on his mind, other priorities that needed addressing.

Like the voluptuous redheaded journalist who had come to interview him just ten days earlier, and agreed, several hours later, to join him for a week on his yacht, for a Caribbean cruise. As a man who sought to create beauty out of ugliness, he was always fascinated by loveliness that occurred naturally, without his intervention, and the journalist was one of a miniscule number of individuals who had needed no enhancement from him to qualify as the 'real thing'. Thus, he was enchanted and intrigued and eager to explore the depth of her charms.

He had reached the zenith of his profession, but, strangely, that achievement had coincided with reaching the nadir of his personal life. He and his father hated each other; his mother had gone missing on a trip to the Far East six years earlier and was presumed dead; his third wife was in the process of learning to hate him as much as her predecessors; his twin sister resented his success and his fame and his failure to display what she considered "proper family devotion"; and he could not remember the last time he had seen or spoken to either of his two sons.

He consoled himself by believing that it was simply the price of greatness. And by taking advantage of the attentions of the string of exquisite individuals - mostly women - who were eager to fill the empty places in his life, for their own ulterior motives. Primarily, they enjoyed the fact that those places were invariably filled with all the trappings of his life of luxury, but they also were pleased to be seen in the company of the man who created such beauty for others while needing no such service for himself, for Rick Turnage was as beautiful in his own way as any product of his skill.

Physically.

And he relished the rewards of his skill and his looks - rewards like the idylls he envisioned in the company of his newest passing fancy.

And now . . . this.

Shit! And even more annoying than the timing was the nagging suspicion that the fucker who had interrupted his plans had known exactly what he was doing.

It wasn't the first time he'd had good cause to despise Matthew Keller, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last.

He turned away from the spectacle of the sea and went back inside, pausing at the bar just within the entry to pour himself a hefty shot of Chivas Regal before continuing into his office where his desk was set into a bay window with a panoramic view of the ocean. The room was dark except for the golden cone of light falling from the vintage Tiffany lamp that sat on the corner of his desk, and it was no more than an element of random chance that the illumination fell directly on the grainy portrait sitting atop a sheaf of documents he had tossed there earlier, in a display of temper.

He didn't want to look at that face. And yet . . . in truth, he did want to look at it. But not like this. Not at this grainy, imperfect image that was about as clear as one could expect of something expelled from a fax machine.

With a disdainful snort, he sank into his high back leather executive chair, and swung to face his computer monitor as he tapped out a series of commands on his keyboard. It was only a matter of seconds before the screen lit up with the image he'd selected, and he sat back to stare at it.

He'd been right (as usual). The image provided by the fax machine was a poor substitute for the full-color perfection of the photograph culled from the pages of an article in a professional magazine.

Hazel eyes stared back at him from a face that was decidedly not smiling, but the gleam in those eyes clearly indicated that the man behind the face found something amusing.

Smart, bright, and blessed with brilliant sardonic wit; that was patently obvious in a perfectly proportioned face.

A perfect face - almost.

And that, of course, was the secret that Turnage had never revealed to anyone. True perfection, in symmetry and design and proportion, was beautiful to behold, but was, ultimately, boring. To make it truly stand out - truly pop - such a face needed some small detail that was a departure from the predictable lines of perfection.

And here it was, staring back at him, and forcing him to acknowledge, as he did only rarely, that nature, when it chose to do so, was still better at designing the ideal human form than he was.

The man's chin was not - quite - as rounded as it would have to be to reach true perfection, and the not-quite-smile touching those incredibly sensual lips seemed to say that the man knew it perfectly well, and dared anyone to point it out. There was no doubt that this man knew he was beautiful, and reveled in it; knew that anyone who looked at him would be consumed with either lust or envy.

Turnage stared for a while, sitting back and allowing his eyes to study each feature, wondering if there was a way to improve any one of them, to make the whole more beautiful than it already was. Then he leaned forward and generated another command, and the head shot vanished, to be replaced by a casual pose: Kinney, in impeccable Armani, standing with two stunning blonde women at his left, and another blond - an exquisitely beautiful young man - at his right, and the doctor's eyes narrowed. The caption indicated that this was a moment, caught on film, of the opening of the man's advertising agency, but the story told by the photograph was much more interesting than the one conveyed by the copy. While both of the women were staring up at Kinney as if he were the center of the world, he, in turn, was staring down at the blond man beside him, one arm wrapped firmly around the youth's waist, and it was obvious that the women - and the rest of the world - could have faded into oblivion and the two men would never have noticed, so lost were they in each other's eyes.

Gay, then! And that much more intriguing for it. Gay, and bold enough to make no secret of it.

Turnage wanted to snarl his rage as he felt the hook, dangled before him by that motherfucking Matt Keller, embed itself more deeply in his tenderest tissues.

Fuck! He didn't want to do this. He wanted to go to Barbabos, and to St. Thomas - to Paradise Revisited - while fucking the redhead every hour on the hour. He wanted sin and surf and frozen margaritas as the sun sank over tropical waters. He sure as shit didn't want to go to Pittsburgh.

But there was one thing - only one thing - he wanted even more than his sensual pleasure; it was the thing which kept him perpetually seeking out new cases and accepting new patients, when he could have simply rested on his laurels. He wanted his Mona Lisa; his Starry Night; his Pieta.

His masterpiece - the one he'd been seeking all his life; the one case which would prove to be his ultimate accomplishment, his greatest work of art.

Still, he really, really didn't want to go to Pittsburgh, of all places.

But, if he took the bait Keller had set for him, there would be no help for it. Yes, his clinic was here, just a couple of miles away from his beautiful seaside home, and yes, he would be free to insist, as he always did, that the patient come to him, treatment and surgery to be scheduled at the convenience of the physician. But even he could not - quite - get away with demanding that this young man, now so badly damaged and clinging to life by a thread, according to the chart information Keller had provided, travel half-way across the country for treatment that might not be feasible, or even possible. In order to determine whether or not he could do the job Keller was asking him to do, he had to accept the bait - and go see for himself.

Shit!

When he picked up the phone and dialed, he promised himself he would allow only three rings; thereafter, all bets were off.

He almost snarled when the dreaded response came after only two.

"Keller."

"How bad is the damage?"

"I sent you . . ."

"Yeah. Which is about as revealing as a kid's finger painting. So . . . how bad?"

A sharp huff of breath, quickly suppressed. "As bad as I've ever seen. They did a hell of a job on him."

Silence then. "Is he as . . . was he really . . ."

"The most beautiful man I've ever seen." There was no uncertainty in Keller's words. "And that's not just my opinion. Ask anybody. Ask . . ."

"I don't want to ask anybody. I want you to tell me the truth. If you're lying to me . . ."

"Look, Turnage." All patience exhausted now, but fury still held in check, if only barely. "No matter what we may think of each other - you and me - the one thing you can't accuse me of is lying to you. Not ever. And you're smart enough to know that if there was anybody else - anywhere in the world - I could trust to do this job, I'd have called them. You're the last person, literally, that I'd ask for this kind of favor. But . . . this time, it matters. Only the best will do."

More silence, punctuated by a distant roar that was the constant growl of the sea while Turnage mused. "If you're wasting my time, you're going to pay for it."

"OK."

"And if I do this, you're going to owe me."

"We'll see about that."

"Look, motherfucker," snarled the plastic surgeon, huge blue eyes gone icy with resentment, "who do you think . . ."

"I think," Keller interrupted, "I'm the man who just gave you something you've spent your whole life looking for."

"What the fuck do you . . ."

"Your masterpiece." Sharp, flat, unapologetic - and holding not a trace of uncertainty. "It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

The only answer was a beat of silence, followed by the sharp sound of a disconnect.

But it was enough to make Keller smile. The hook was set; the bait, taken.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The silence between the two women was neither comfortable nor easy; it was, instead, heavy with words not yet said but lingering unspoken. Waiting.

The room was spacious and well-appointed, a great improvement over the tiny one they'd taken when they'd first arrived in Pittsburgh; the upgrade was, of course, courtesy of Kinnetic Corp - something they both knew, but neither had actually acknowledged.

Lindsey was the first to break the silence, although she could have thought of at least a million things she would have preferred to do.

"I want him here, Mel. Surely you can understand why . . ."

"Oh, I understand all right." Melanie's voice was harsh, almost strident, and bordering on shrill, threaded as it was with bitter resentment. "I understand that it's taken us a whole year away from this place - away from him - to finally get him out of our lives so we can be a real family. And now, first chance you get, you want to drag Gus back here, so Brian can play daddy again. At his convenience, of course. Never mind how it might screw things up for us. And for Gus."

Harsh words of accusation rose to Lindsey's lips, but she forced herself to swallow them, to pause and think carefully before saying something she would regret.

Instead of blurting out the bitter recriminations roiling in her mind, she chose to walk to the window and stare out into the darkness, watching a spring wind play among the branches of a red maple just budding with the promise of warm weather to come. "That's not fair, Melanie," she said slowly. Gently. "When we took Gus away to Toronto, I promised Brian he would still be a part of Gus's life, that I would make sure his son didn't forget him. And since then, I've allowed you to systematically try to dismantle every link that connects them to each other - to do everything you could to get Gus to forget his father ever existed, despite the fact that it's never seemed to bother you too much to take advantage of Brian's generosity and his love for his son, when it's convenient for you. I saw it in your face every time you commented about Brian 'playing father' - when he'd come to pick Gus up so they could spend time together. But, because of everything we endured before, I didn't want to make an issue of it. I thought it would just blow over, with time. But it's not fair, Mel. It's not what I promised in order to get him to give us his blessing."

"Don't you dare talk to me about what's fair," Melanie snapped. "It's my salary that's always provided for us. It's my hard work that enables me to keep you in style and allow you to dabble in your precious art and keep Gus in the best private schools while my daughter has to make do in a crappy daycare center that . . ."

Lindsey spun quickly, her eyes wide and filled with shadow. "Excuse me. Did I just hear you refer to J.R. as your daughter? Is that what you just said to me? That's odd, because I always thought she was our . . ."

"Right," Melanie retorted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Only she's not Brian's. Is she? She's just a product of inferior genes - mine and Michael's and . . ."

But Melanie's voice trailed away into silence as she realized what she had said - and what she had almost said - and she experienced a moment of bitter regret, for she knew in her heart that the accusation was unfair. Lindsey loved J.R. every bit as much as she loved Gus. But why did it have to be this way? Why was it that, every time she looked at the little boy who was supposed to belong to her and her partner, all she could see was the beautiful face of Brian Kinney?

Fuck!

When Lindsey sank into the overstuffed chair near the window and spent a few moments fighting to regain her composure, Melanie was suddenly conscious of a specter rising in the room, a ghost of old pains and not-quite-forgotten anguish, and she felt a lump forming in her throat that felt like a chunk of dirty ice. Thus, when Lindsey began to speak again, Melanie recognized a deadly coldness in her voice that seemed perfectly suited for the moment. "Is that the real reason you wanted to move to Toronto, Mel? Was all that rationalizing about keeping our kids safe and building a new life in a place where we'd have the right to be a real married couple just . . . an excuse?"

"Of course not. Why . . ."

"Because I'm not quite as stupid as you seem to think I am." There was a terrible, new resolve in the blonde's tone, a determination Melanie had never heard before. "For years, I allowed you to paint Brian as the villain of this piece. Even when I knew better. And let's just clear the air here, shall we? You and I - together - chose the daycare that J.R. attends, because we both agreed that the staff there was the most loving, most nurturing, most dedicated of all the places we visited. The fact that it was not the most expensive one we investigated was just a bonus, not a criteria for judgment. As for my 'dabbling' and your 'keeping' me - I am well aware that my job doesn't establish groundbreaking legal precedents, or change the world, but it does allow me to encourage artistic efforts and help young people develop their talent, so it feels worthwhile - to me. And I happen to be very good at it, so it allows me to earn a decent salary. Not, of course, on a par with yours, but if you've convinced yourself that I couldn't survive on it, maybe you should think again. Particularly since neither one of us has ever survived without a little help from a special friend. And you may claim that you were unaware of Brian's contributions over the years, but we both know that would be a lie. Just because I didn't rub your face in it doesn't mean you didn't figure it out. As you're so eager to remind me, you're not that stupid."

Melanie's cheeks flushed hot and red as she rose and crossed her arms across her chest. "As if you'd ever passup a chance to remind me of how much he's always been a part of our lives. And now you want to bring our son back here, simply because . . ."

"Because it's what he would want," Lindsey interrupted. "And because he has a right to expect it. Have you really managed to forget that the only reason you have parental rights to Gus at all, is because Brian gave them up to save our marriage? Is it possible you've convinced yourself that never happened?"

"I - don't - care!" Melanie snarled. "I don't want him in our lives; I don't want to have to put up with his bullshit, or with you making excuses for him, or with how you feel about him."

"He almost died, Mel."

Melanie opened her mouth and managed, by the thinnest of margins, to close it again without uttering the toxic words that were trembling on her lips, but it was immediately obvious that her effort was in vain. Spoken or not, Lindsey had heard them anyway, and could only stand and stare at her partner, eyes full of a terrible certainty.

When there was a discreet knock on the door, it was debatable which of them was more relieved at the interruption.

Or more surprised when the identity of their visitor was revealed.

"Daddy," said Lindsey, her voice faint with disbelief as she opened the door. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

Ron Peterson stood motionless and stared in silence for several seconds at the daughter he had not seen for more than a year. Then he glanced toward Melanie, and was quick to identify the glitter of anger in her eyes, confirming his suspicion that he was interrupting a confrontation of some sort, based on the muffled words he'd overheard as he'd come down the hall.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I've come at a bad time."

"Actually," replied Lindsey, deliberately avoiding looking toward her partner, "your timing was perfect. But I still don't understand how . . ."

"The news has been full of the story about Brian's attack," he answered, "so I figured you had to be in town."

Then he reached out, moving slowly so as to allow his daughter the opportunity to resist should she choose to do so, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "I know how much he always meant to you, and I . . . well, he is the father of my grandson. So I called his assistant; and she was kind enough to tell me where to find you. You know, I'm not sure why but . . ." He leaned back and favored her with a tentative smile, "I always kind of liked him. Although your mother . . ."

Lindsey looked up at him, studying the gentleness in his eyes and hearing something almost unprecedented in his voice. "Where is Mom?" she asked, knowing without asking that her mother was not waiting somewhere in the corridor.

Mr. Peterson sighed. "Corfu, I think. Or Kalamos, maybe. What day is it?"

"She's in Greece? What in the world . . ."

"She and Lynette went to see Mamma Mia on Broadway a couple of months ago, and got inspired. So they're island-hopping in the Aegean."

Melanie cleared her throat, obviously weary of being ignored, but Lindsey forestalled the comment she was about to make by grabbing her handbag and taking her father's arm. "Why don't you buy your daughter a nightcap?" she suggested with a smile.

The Petersons - father and daughter - departed quickly, leaving Melanie to brood and simmer and look for a suitable outlet for the rage building inside her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Lindsey ordinarily confined her consumption of alcohol to an occasional glass of wine or, at celebratory moments, a champagne cocktail. But she didn't hesitate when she seated herself at the hotel bar beside her father. "JB," she said to the bartender. "A double."

"Make it two," said Ron Peterson as he regarded her with one raised eyebrow. "Are we celebrating?" he asked with a tiny smile.

"We are," she replied firmly as the bartender poured their drinks. She lifted her glass to touch it to the one her father was holding. "Brian's going to live. That's cause enough, don't you think?"

He nodded, and they drank together. Then he chose to stare into the mirror behind the bar, rather than look at her directly. "I have to confess, Daughter Mine, that I've never completely understood your relationship with him - given your sexual orientation, I mean."

She surprised herself with a tiny laugh. "Join the crowd," she replied. "I don't think anybody understands it exactly - including me and Brian. But however we might try to explain it or define it, it's real and it's precious. To both of us - and to our son."

Ron shifted his gaze and sat for a while staring down into his drink. "He's not here with you, is he?"

"Not yet," she answered hesitantly. "I assume you heard some of the . . . conversation Melanie and I were having when you knocked on the door. That was the subject of our discussion. I want Gus here. Immediately. And Melanie . . . disagrees."

"Has Brian asked for him?"

She shook her head. "Brian hasn't regained consciousness yet. But when he does, I think he'll want to see his son." She sneaked a quick glance at her father's face and surprised something in his eyes that she couldn't quite identify. "I know you and Mom don't think much of my life choices, Dad. Or of the people I've chosen to include in my life, but Brian - no matter what you might have heard about him - loves Gus very much and, in his own admittedly oddball way, he's been a good father. For one thing, he's always been there to provide for Gus - and for me - when I've needed him, even though Melanie has not always been very . . ."

"Appreciative?" Mr. Peterson did not appear to be surprised by how easily the right word came to him.

Lindsey smiled and nodded and drained her glass. Then she turned to regard him directly. "Why are you here, Dad? The real reason. I don't think it's just that you got tired of being on your own while Mom's globetrotting."

Since her father had always been gifted with a facile tongue and a quick wit, Lindsey was marginally surprised - and slightly alarmed - when he was slow to respond and when, as he began to speak, he still refused to meet her eyes.

"I've missed you, Linz. More than you know; more than your mother knows, and I . . . lately, I've begun to realize that I don't want this to go on. I want . . ." He sighed, and drained his drink. "I want to get to know my grandson. And I want my daughter back. It's time to mend fences, before it's . . ."

"Before it's what?" she asked, not quite able to control the tremor in her voice.

"Before I get too old to enjoy the reunion," he replied, with a bright smile. But Lindsey was almost certain that was not what he'd originally intended to say.

"But why now?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Maybe because of this whole debacle with Brian. I mean, he's a young man, strong and capable and healthy, and yet . . ."

"And yet, he almost died."

"Right."

Lindsey sipped and thought. "What else?" she said finally, knowing there was more.

His smile was slightly self-deprecating. "It looks like Lynette is not going to be able to have children," he admitted. "They're not sure yet, but . . ."

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," she said gently as she thought about her sister and the extended family who loved her so much. "Mom must be . . . devastated."

He simply nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright in the gloom of the bar. "Well, you know your mother. She'll survive."

Lindsey was quiet for a time, playing with her glass, watching her father out of the corner of her eye and hearing something else. Something he wasn't saying. Something, she finally realized, he was not going to say - not yet. Not tonight.

So it would be left to her to make the next gesture. He had come to her, had trusted her with the few comments he was able to make.

"Dad," she said slowly, tentatively, "I'd really like for Gus to be here when Brian wakes up. But I'm not comfortable with leaving. If something should go wrong, and I wasn't here, I don't think I could ever forgive myself. And I don't want to hire some stranger to bring him to me. I think it would frighten him. I thought maybe Melanie would . . . but I don't think that's going to happen. So, if you're available . . ."

If she hadn't been staring at his face in the mirror, she doubted she would have noticed the bright, crystalline blaze of pure joy that lit up his eyes, and then, of course, she had to pretend not to have seen it because she had a feeling he would be embarrassed to admit how much it meant to him.

"You know," she continued, "I have a daughter too. You've never met her, but I know you'd be as enchanted with her as everyone else is. Only I don't know if Melanie would allow . . . "

He nodded. "I understand, Honey. I don't want to cause you any trouble, but I'd be glad to bring them both back, if all parties agree. Whatever you wish. And I'll leave first thing in the morning." He fell silent for a moment before reaching out to touch her face with gentle fingers. "And thank you, Lindsey. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

When he reached for his coat, apparently ready to depart, she grabbed his hand and gave him a genuine bright smile which reminded him of the relationship the two of them had shared when she was much younger. "You don't have to run off right now," she laughed. "Let me write down the address for you, and directions."

His smile was gentle. "I know the address, Honey. I made certain of that, and I even got directions on MapQuest - months ago. Just in case."

She looked down quickly, not sure she wanted him to see the luster of tears rising in her eyes. "I never dreamed you'd care enough to do that."

"Lindsey," he said softly, "I never stopped caring. It was just . . ."

"Mom," she said firmly, knowing she was right, but also knowing he would almost certainly never admit to it.

He frowned. "You have to keep in mind that she grew up in a different world, and she never learned how to adapt to the way it changed around her. I know it's been hard for you to accept, and I wish I could have figured out a way to fix it. I wish I'd been there for you, when you needed me."

"You're here now," she said, touching his hand once more. "And that means more than I can tell you. Thank you, Daddy. But she won't be happy with you, will she? Maybe we should just keep this . . ."

"No." If he had been tentative and uncertain before, that was no longer true. "I've kept things too much to myself over the years. And it certainly won't be the first time your mother has been less than happy with me." He leaned forward and covered her hand with his own. "It's time to settle this. You're my daughter, Lindsey, and that's not going to change. I don't want to waste what time . . . any more time."

With a small sob, quickly swallowed, Lindsey put her arms around her father, and rested her forehead against his shoulder, briefly amazed at how comforting it was to be able to do so. So she snuggled a bit closer, and enjoyed the familiar scent of his aftershave and the faint residue of the special blend of pipe tobacco he had used for as long as she could remember.

Thus she did not see the quick grimace that touched his face or the flicker of pain that flashed in his eyes as he let himself understand how much he had lost that he would never be able to regain.

But this much he could do for his beloved daughter, too long estranged and pushed away because of the demands of convention - this and a few other things he needed to arrange, even though he knew it would never be enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kinnetic had never been so quiet, she thought. Even late at night, there was almost always someone working against a deadline or scrambling to capture an image or an idea before it faded with the moment or feverishly attempting to transcribe vision into reality - to create something so perfect for its purpose that it would impress the man who was the heart and soul of the company, even though the man himself would have laughed at such a romantic notion. Many times, regardless of the hour, Brian could be found in his office, having lost track of time in the grip of inspiration. At such times, he frequently did his best work, tapping into something inside himself, some wellspring of intuition that produced unique methods for capturing imagination or generating interest.

Cynthia had often watched him work at such moments, marveling at his degree of concentration and the depth of his perceptions, always being very careful to avoid attracting his attention. One did not, after all, interrupt genius at work, and she occasionally allowed herself a moment of smug satisfaction in the knowledge that she was one of the few who understood the depth of his talents. Though his education had been intensive and extensive, it had only provided the polish, to put the finishing touches on his abilities; the ability itself had come naturally. No one - including Brian - could ever quite define how he always found the perfect way to present the messages he was charged to deliver; he just did it.

But he wasn't doing it now, and neither was anyone else.

Cynthia entered his office slowly, her eyes sweeping the room to make sure it was as immaculate as he preferred before proceeding to his desk where she touched a fingertip to a sensor concealed beneath a carved molding; a quick pulse of light scanned her fingerprint and dispatched an electronic signal to a mechanism that opened a hidden panel in the wall between Brian's office and his private bath.

The safe was small but state of the art, accessible only to Brian himself and to Cynthia. Inside were a number of files containing data vital to the company operation, details from his investment portfolio and copyright certificates and Gus's trust fund, certain enormously valuable contracts, certified copies of Brian's will and other legal instruments, insurance policies, and his personal documents, including his copies of Gus's ID and custody papers.

It was these final items Cynthia withdrew from the safe, glancing at her watch to confirm that Lindsey and her father would be arriving shortly. Since Ron Peterson was ready to depart for Toronto to fetch his grandson and bring him back to Pittsburgh, Cynthia had agreed to provide the necessary documents to make sure there was no difficulty at the border in bringing the little boy into the country. Since Brian had not yet recovered sufficiently to tell her what he wanted her to do in this instance, she was operating on sheer instinct, but she couldn't imagine that, once he was awake, he would not want to find his beloved son at his side.

She retrieved the items she needed and relocked the safe, before turning to make her exit. But she had only taken a few steps when she hesitated in mid-stride, glancing toward the big desk that dominated the room. She went very still and found, to her amazement, that she was trembling and barely able to stand.

She had almost lost him; he had almost died, and this was the very first time she had allowed herself to consider all of the ramifications of losing him and how it would have impacted on her life.

Cynthia did not love Brian - not, at least, in the way that other people loved Brian. Not like Justin loved Brian, or Michael loved Brian, or Lindsey loved Brian - even though the latter two would never have admitted that the love they had for him was not so very different from the love Justin had for him. They had long ago managed to adjust their perceptions to convince themselves that their feelings for him had no romantic connotations.

Cynthia had never bothered to voice her opinions on the matter; not even to Brian himself. But she knew the truth - just as he did, though he had never verbalized his certainty either. But he knew, just the same.

But she wondered if he understood how she felt about him. Probably not, since she didn't entirely understand it herself. She was not in love with Brian Kinney; she did not worship him or sit at his feet and allow him to guide her through life. She did not believe him perfect or infallible; in truth, they argued and fought at least as often as they co-operated and agreed.

But she did love him, in her own way, for she knew something only a very few individuals were privileged to know. Brian was the most honest individual she had ever known, and while she would never be naïve enough to believe that him incapable of lying, she did know, without a single doubt, that he would never make a promise he didn't intend to keep.

He was the brother she had never had and the best friend she ever would have, and their relationship had grown and deepened during the year since Justin had decamped to New York. She was now a member of a very elite fraternity - and yes, that was the right word, despite its gender bias. This fraternity only had two members: her and Michael Novotny, and the criteria for membership was very narrow. To wit - they were the only two people in the world who had ever been allowed to see Brian Kinney cry.

That simple truth said as much about the two of them as it did about Brian; he did not trust easily but, when he did, he trusted with his whole heart. And it left him unexpectedly vulnerable.

She had come to understand that very slowly as their friendship had grown and deepened, and she resolved that she would never, never betray that trust. Not the way Michael had.

She was constantly amazed that Michael had never realized how deeply he had hurt Brian, but she had gradually come to understand the reason for his ignorance. Obviously, Brian had never told him, had never allowed him to see the hurt he'd inflicted. Any more than he had ever allowed the rest of the people who made up his extended family to recognize how often and how thoroughly each of them had betrayed him over the years.

Sometimes, in moments of frustration or anger, she thought she'd really enjoy having a chance to confront all of them, and force them to see the truths none of them had ever been willing to acknowledge or examine.

But no. She sighed, as she heard the discreet chime that announced the arrival of her visitors. She would remain silent, no matter how much she longed to make them understand the depth of their betrayal. She would remain silent, because that was what Brian would expect from her. Unless, of course, they ever came to her, to question the whys and wherefores.

She smiled as she moved toward the door. If that should happen, unlikely though it was, then all bets were off.

She hurried to the lobby, inspecting the contents of the file she was carrying to make sure it contained everything Mr. Peterson would need, glancing once more at her watch to gauge how long it would take her to finish up here and get to the hospital.

Today would be the day, she thought. Today Brian would open his eyes and return to the land of the living, and she intended to be there when . . .

She rounded the corner and stepped into the lobby, expecting to be greeted by a smiling Lindsey and her father, but the tableau awaiting her was not at all what she'd anticipated.

She found Lindsey crouched on her knees, eyes huge and welling with tears with one hand clamped tight over her mouth while the other was clinched against her chest, clutching a rolled-up document. She seemed to be gasping for breath while her father knelt beside her, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing, nonsense words in her ear.

"What . . . what's wrong?" Cynthia asked, suddenly finding her own breath difficult to draw. "It's not . . . he's not . . ."

Mr. Peterson stared at her for a moment, confused and uncertain, before realizing what she was asking. "No, no," he replied. "He's fine, as far as we know. It's not that. It's . . ."

Cynthia forced herself to center, closing her eyes and managing a deep cleansing breath. It took a moment, but she was finally able to regain her composure and summon up the ability to deal with whatever new crisis had arisen. "What's wrong?" Her voice was steady this time, and cool, almost without inflection.

But Lindsey could not find any words to convey her horror, so she simply extended her hand and dropped the item she'd been clutching to the floor. It was a rolled up tabloid sheet that opened as it fell, revealing the garish images that covered the entire page.

Brian Kinney - before and after.

Cynthia managed, barely, not to stagger as she forced herself to lean forward and pick up the paper. It wasn't as if she hadn't already seen the images, as these were the very same photos that had been flooding the Internet ever since Brian had been attacked. But it was different somehow - more immediate, more deliberate, more intense - to see it printed on news stock and hold it in one's hands.

She stared for a moment, unable to utter a single word. She recognized the photograph on the left side of the page; it had been taken during the party to celebrate the launch of Kinnetic Corp, and showed Brian looking down at someone, wearing a soft smile. Although there was nothing in the photo itself to indicate who he was looking at, Cynthia knew that it had been Justin at his side, Justin who had put that smile on his face. The second image, adjacent to the first, was not quite as crisp or focused - snapped, no doubt, in haste, by someone who just happened to have a digital camera handy and recognized a golden opportunity when it presented itself.

She had seen the picture before, but she had not allowed herself to really look at it, until now.

It was Brian's face, all right, but a face distorted and mangled, torn and sliced and mutilated and, in a few places, laid open to the bone - swollen and lurid and robbed of all its beauty, though still, somehow, recognizable.

The headlines were huge and printed in brilliant scarlet. At the top of the page, the line read, "Beauty . . . and the Beast."

And at the bottom, equally large and vivid, "The Wages of Sin."

There was no logo, no masthead - nothing to indicate who might have produced the page. And on the reverse, there was only a vitriolic outpouring of homophobic nastiness, identifying Brian as a "notorious homosexual with a record of depraved behavior and accusations of child molestation" and claiming that he had gotten what he deserved for choosing to indulge his filthy perversion and flaunt himself in the faces of the God-fearing Christian community of Pittsburgh.

Lindsey continued to weep, rocking herself now in a jerky rhythm, still breathing erratically.

"Where did you get this?" Cynthia was finally able to ask.

Ron Peterson sighed. "They're all over the place. Stacks of them on top of every newspaper stand, and beside the doorways of every building on Liberty Avenue."

"Jesus!" she whispered. "How could anyone . . ."

Ron Peterson stood abruptly and walked to the window where he stood looking out into the soft pastel brightness of a spring morning. "I don't know," he said softly. "I feel like I should apologize. Even though I would never . . ." He paused and tried to swallow around the huge lump in his throat. "I never thought something like this could happen here."

Lindsey turned to study him, disbelief rising in her eyes. "Daddy, don't be deliberately stupid. It's only a little over a year since some cretin planted a bomb at Babylon, and killed eight people. Simply because they were gay, and happened to believe they should have the same rights as everybody else. This . . ." She gestured toward the lurid tabloid page without really looking at it. "This is exactly the same thing. They wanted to kill him - to destroy him - and now they're gloating because they think they've succeeded."

Cynthia looked up then, and the two women stared at each other, sharing the same thought. It was Cynthia, however, who gave it voice. "If they think that, they're in for one fucking big surprise."

At that moment, Cynthia's cell phone rang, and a glance at the screen revealed that it was Matt Keller calling.

She had to pause to take a deep breath, struggling to believe it would not be bad news. The tabloid sheet had shaken her, and made her doubt her determination and certainty, but she would not let it take away her faith.

"Hello."

"Good morning, Number One." Keller's voice was bright and strong and gave no indication that he had spent the better part of the night fighting to save the life of an accident victim. "I think you might want to get your ass over here."

"Is he . . ."

"Not yet," he replied, "but he did regain consciousness last night, for a few minutes."

"And," she paused to take a deep breath, "was he . . . all right?"

She could almost hear the smile in his voice when he replied. "He was exactly as you'd expect him to be. So I think your wait is almost over."

She closed her eyes and took a moment to whisper a two word prayer.

"I'll be there in a half-hour," she assured him.

"No big rush," he answered, "but you might as well be prepared. The herd is already gathering. And we've moved him to a private room, so they won't have to wait for ICU visiting hours to see him."

She swallowed hard, not entirely sure Brian would be pleased to waken to a chorus of babbling voices, but not bothering to voice a protest. Once she was on the scene, she would make sure he would not be troubled by unwanted visitors.

She quickly thrust the documents for Gus into Ron Peterson's hands, and gestured for Lindsey to accompany her. "You," she said to the man, "go get Gus and bring him back here so he can see his father."

Then she grabbed Lindsey's arm and pulled her to her feet. "And you come with me. He's out of danger, and they think he'll be waking up soon."

Lindsey huffed a deep breath and managed to square her shoulders, her face taking on an expression of grim resolve. Then she leaned forward and plucked the tabloid from Cynthia's hand, rolling it up so the images were no longer visible, and tucking it under her arm. "There are some people," she explained in a faint whisper, "who ought to see this."

Cynthia regarded her solemnly. "Yes. There are," she said finally. "Now let's go."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Michael had arrived first - except for Lance Mathis of course, who had been there all night - and proceeded to call everybody else, and they had all hurried to the hospital, but hesitated to barge into the room en masse. Thus, they had decided to drift in gradually - two by two - to avoid the unwelcome attention of the duty nurse. The hospital's policy on visitation was not terribly strict, except in the critical care areas, but nobody wanted to push their luck. So they'd strolled in, trying to look as if they had every right to be there, and taken their places, making sure to keep their voices down and avoid attracting attention.

Thus the posse was fully assembled before the dietary staff had finished serving breakfast, except for Justin, who was picking his mother and sister up from the airport on their return from their visit to Jennifer's family, and Lindsey and Cynthia, who'd had a task to perform at the Kinnetic office. Everybody - except Melanie, of course - had been curious about the nature of that errand, but no one had quite dared to question since Melanie's relentless frown had discouraged any expression of curiosity.

As they'd entered, each of them had moved to Brian's bedside and spent a moment staring down at him, looking in vain for some sign that he was conscious of their presence. Both Michael and Emmett had leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, and everyone else - except Melanie - had gotten close enough to touch him briefly, clasping his hand or stroking his face or his arm. Then they'd all settled themselves to wait, taking up chairs around the room or leaning against the wall, all positioned so that they could watch for any indication that the patient might be waking up.

Ben and Hunter had engaged Ted and Blake in quiet conversation, discussing the upcoming publication of Ben's latest story in The New Yorker, while Drew Boyd had retired to the hallway to talk with his cousin as Mathis took his turn at standing guard, both of them turning to greet the latest arrivals as they stepped out of the elevator. Michael and Emmett remained mostly silent, content to watch Brian, barely aware of the others in the room, while Debbie had settled herself in a chair by the window, suddenly caught up in a feeling of déjà vu. It had not been so long ago, after all, that she had sat in just such a room, waiting to learn if her only child would awaken from injuries inflicted by the same kind of homophobic bastards who had tried to kill Brian.

Michael had survived - and so would Brian. She could not allow herself to consider any other possibility. But . . . no, she would not think about that. Not now.

Eli Gruber had been the last to arrive, entering when his partner had come bustling in, in scrubs and lab coat, carrying his supplies for drawing blood. At that moment, Emmett had glanced at Michael, looking as if he wanted to question the man's right to be present at such a moment, but, in the end, he chose to remain silent, not wanting to cause a fuss over something that wouldn't matter anyway. Eli had then gravitated toward Melanie who seemed to welcome his presence and his interest in her opinion on a new version of Proposition 14 that was being sponsored by a local right-wing group.

For his part, Monty Peabody rather enjoyed being the center of attention as he went about his task of drawing blood from the port attached to Brian's shoulder. Thus, when he was done, he spent a few extra minutes making sure that the specimen tubes were correctly labeled, and then proceeded to reposition IV lines and check out the display on the monitors. In truth, he knew little of what all the data meant, since he was simply a lab tech who had taken a couple of courses in phlebotomy to qualify for a slightly higher pay grade. But it seemed a very professional thing to do, and he didn't want to miss out on any opportunity to impress his neighbors, the Novotny-Bruckners, and their friends.

Still, he was usually competent in the performance of his duties. But this particular patient had certainly done nothing to earn either his concern or his compassion, and he couldn't quite suppress a sense of satisfaction in seeing the mighty Kinney brought so low; thus he was not as gentle as he ordinarily would have been as he tugged the blanket up to cover the patient's arms and noticed a slight tremor through torso and shoulders, a response that was almost a flinch and that might indicate some measure of discomfort. The medical staff had noted on Kinney's chart - which Monty had made a point of inspecting just as if he knew what all the cryptic notations and abbreviations meant - that the patient would soon begin to regain consciousness for short periods of time, and Monty wondered if the moment might be at hand.

But he decided it would be inappropriate for him to make such an announcement. In fact, it might be amusing to . . .

"My, my, my!" he said with a quick glance around the room. "How the mighty have fallen, hmmm? Have you guys heard about the article in the tabloid that's all over the streets? I hear it's quite . . . graphic."

"Yeah, I heard about it. Beauty and the Beast, huh?" Ted's voice sounded strange, as if he wanted to say more, but didn't quite dare.

"Homophobic pricks!" observed Mel. "What kind of shitheads would do something like that? Still . . ."

Ted looked up, picking up on a strange jarring note in her tone, and met her eyes, immediately reading the expression there with perfect clarity. "Still," she repeated, "there is some tiny little nuance of poetic justice in all this. If you know what I mean."

Debbie turned away from the window where she'd been watching passing traffic, and spotted the tentative smiles that neither Ted nor Mel could quite conceal and closed her eyes quickly, not wanting to see or understand the meaning. "Like finding out that the idol has feet of clay after all?" she asked. Then her eyes went wide as she wondered how she could have allowed herself to say such a thing. Brian had almost . . . but no. She preferred not to think about that. In truth, she would have preferred to not even know it. If the invincible Brian Kinney was not immune to the fickleness of cruel fate, then what chance did the rest of them have?

The complete, total silence in the room was broken by a small, quickly stifled titter, and no one was exactly sure where it had originated. Nor did anyone really want to know.

Except for Emmett, who was definitely not laughing as he got to his feet, staring at the faces of the individuals around him. "I don't believe you people," he said softly. "I can't believe that any of you - no matter how much you might resent Brian - could find anything even remotely funny in this."

"Oh, come on, Em," said Ted. "Surely even you can understand a peon's interest in seeing the mighty Kinney taken down a peg or two."

Emmett stared at his old friend, and had the strangest sensation that he was looking at someone he didn't know at all. "Would that be the same interest that the savages who did this had, in seeing a fag cut down to size?"

"Aren't you giving him a little too much credit?" said Eli Gruber, not bothering to suppress the sneer in his voice. "He wasn't anything special to them. They just wanted to kill a fag - any fag. And this one came along at the right time, and just happened to be the perfect target, seeing as how he's forever all over the newspapers, rubbing people's faces in his decadent lifestyle."

As it happened, Ben was the only one who was looking in Emmett's direction at that moment, and he was startled when Emmett flinched away from Eli's words, flinched as if to evade a physical blow. What in the world would account for that, he wondered. But he didn't get a chance to ask.

"Did they now?" said Emmett, very softly. "I wonder. Or maybe they intended to get exactly this reaction. Maybe what they wanted was to destroy someone who was a walking work of art - to take away the man he was and make him into something else. Something people could cringe away from - and feel superior to, or laugh at. And if that's what they meant to do, then you're giving them exactly what they wanted, aren't you?"

The silence that fell this time was neither easy nor comfortable. Nor did it last long as Lindsey and Cynthia chose that moment to step into the room from the corridor, where they had been talking quietly with Lance Mathis when they'd overheard the comments made concerning the tabloid article.

"Bravo, Emmett," Lindsey said gently, stepping forward and reaching up to drop a kiss on his cheek. Then she moved to the bed where Brian lay silent and motionless, with only the gentle inhale and exhale of breath indicating that there was life yet within his body. She nudged Monty aside none too gently so she could edge closer and spend a moment staring down at the bandages that covered the patient's face, her fingers clinched around the newspaper rolled up in her hands.

It took several moments for her to compose herself, before she turned back to survey the faces of the group, and she was not surprised to find that none among them was quite brave enough to meet her eyes. Except Cynthia, of course, who looked as if she was ready to take on an army.

"I'm with Emmett," said Lindsey, so softly that all of them had to concentrate to hear her. And maybe that was her intention. "I can't believe it either."

First she looked at Ted. "How many times has Brian Kinney saved your ass, Teddie?" Then she turned to look at Debbie, then Michael. "How many times has he saved us all? How many times has he stepped up, to protect us, to rescue us? How many fights has he fought for us? How many that we know about - and how many more that we don't? I mean, never mind the wedding that never would have happened without him, or the jobs that never would have been there if he hadn't seen to it, or the prison sentence that was avoided because he intervened. Or the homophobic bastard who would have been mayor if Brian hadn't stepped up and risked everything to make sure it didn't happen. Or how about saving Justin's life? We know about those things, because there wasn't much he could do to hide them. But there's plenty more that we don't know, because he never told us. For example, did any of you ever stop to wonder how Justin managed to stay in school after he decided to run off with his fiddler? I mean, he obviously had no money, and his rat-bastard father wouldn't support him, and he couldn't qualify for financial aid because his family was too well off. Well, let me enlighten you. Brian paid his tuition. Paid it without saying a word, even to Justin - and when Justin went to him, to tell him he didn't have to do that in light of all that had happened, Brian's only response was, 'A deal's a deal.' He had promised to pay for Justin's schooling, and he would do so. No matter what, and it had nothing to do with who was fucking whom."

She paused and waited, but no one said anything. Then she looked at Debbie. "And if you're thinking he might have bragged about it later, let me set you straight. The only reason I know about it is because Justin told me - on the day he came to me and confessed that he'd figured out that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life, and was terrified that Brian would never take him back. But that's not Brian, is it? Brian always takes us back, even when we act like total shitheads."

She turned away then, and looked out into the brilliance of the morning. "I know a few other things too. Things I'm not supposed to know, because Brian never told me any of it, never wanted anybody to know. For example, I was in his office one day - several years ago - waiting for him to finish a meeting so we could go to lunch, when I noticed his checkbook lying on his desk, and, being just as nosy about Brian's life as the rest of you, I couldn't resist taking a peek. It didn't take long for me to understand what I was seeing because it answered a question I'd been wondering about. You see, I knew that big corporations aren't known for acting out of the goodness of their hearts. Like mortgage companies, for example. If anyone really spent any time thinking about it, they'd figure out PDQ that no commercial lender is going to allow a homeowner to suspend payments on their mortgage for almost two years, without penalties or interest or threats of foreclosure, simply because the homeowner has a sick brother who requires total care 24/7, and there's no way the owner can go to work to earn money to pay the mortgage. And yet, that's exactly what a certain mortgage company did. Isn't it, Debbie?"

Debbie Novotny's face went stark white as she rose slowly to her feet. "What are you saying? They agreed to . . ."

"Yeah," Lindsey interrupted sharply. "Sure they did."

"Now hold on," said Michael. "I went to them myself, and they said they'd allow it because my mom had been a loyal customer for so many years. They said . . ."

She regarded him with raised eyebrows. "Of course, they did!"

Debbie's eyes were suddenly huge. "Brian," she whispered.

"Brian," Lindsey echoed. "And that's just one time that I happen to know about - not because he told me, but because I stumbled across the evidence. Anyway, it always made me wonder how many other times things like that happened, and nobody ever knew. I figure Cynthia probably knows more than any of us, only she's too loyal to give him up - but I'm pretty damned sure there's a lot more that we'll never know. But apparently, when it comes to Brian, he can never do enough. But as for us - who are supposed to be his friends - it's always a case of 'What have you done for me lately?', isn't it?"

She sighed. "I always thought we all made him the target of our snotty little snipes because he was so much tougher and brighter and braver and more beautiful than the rest of us, and I guess I was right, as far as it goes. But I think it was also because he was always stronger and better able to take whatever we dished out, without caving in or folding up. But do we really believe he was never hurt by it? That he didn't notice how often we assumed he was guilty, only to find out later that we'd been wrong? And I'd bet that none of us ever bothered to step up and apologize for misjudging him."

She paused then and turned to stare at the silent occupant of the hospital bed. "Of course, he'd have just laughed it off if we'd tried, because that's how he is, isn't it? But there's no denying that all of us - including me - acted like a bunch of shitheads."

"Oh, come on, Linz," said Melanie, eyes sparking with anger and the jealousy she was never completely able to conceal. She would never quite find it in her heart to forgive Brian for being Gus' father - or Lindsey for deciding that he should be. "Even you have to admit that he usually asked for it."

Lindsey, who had known Brian even longer than Michael had - and loved him through all that time, although not the way a woman usually loves a man - turned to regard her significant other with a cold stare. "You know what?" she said softly. "He was right. Sometimes, you really are a cunt."

"What do you . . ."

"Before you go patting yourselves on the back - for your witty repartee and your cleverness, perhaps you should take a look at the article that has you all so amused, so you can get a really good laugh at his expense." She flung the rolled-up newspaper at Ted, who had to grab it to keep it from hitting him in the face. It fell open in his hand, and he stared at the images - side by side, full page images - of Brian as he had been, at the height of his beauty, and Brian as he'd been when brought in to the hospital that fateful night, as he lay close to death. In livid, full color, the contrast was devastating.

No matter how much they had heard about what the article depicted, there was no way they could have been prepared for the horror of it.

"Oh, God!" Ted's voice broke as he stared at the photographs, as the vile, vicious images assaulted him, assaulted them all, making them struggle to breathe, to understand how anyone - no matter how homophobic or vindictive - could have done such a thing.

No one else seemed able to speak. Not even Melanie.

"Get out!" said Lindsey coldly. "Everyone except Em."

"What?" snapped Michael, leaping to his feet in outrage. "I didn't say anything."

She turned cold eyes to glare at him. "No. You didn't."

"But . . ."

"He spent his whole life looking after you, and you couldn't muster up a single fucking word in his defense."

"Now wait a minute," said Ben, obviously uncomfortable with the confrontation but unwilling to allow Michael to be singled out or targeted.

"No, you wait a minute," Lindsey snapped. "All of you can take your sanctimonious, pseudo-flower child, supercilious, oh-so-superior attitudes and go enjoy your own inflated opinion of yourselves, because sitting here gloating over what those motherfuckers did to him is sure as shit not doing him a God-damned bit of good, although I'm sure it's making all of you feel much better. So get out!"

"You have no right . . ." said Debbie in a pallid imitation of her customary bluster, obviously still shaken.

"No, she doesn't," said Cynthia, speaking up for the first time as she fished a document out of her over-sized Gucci handbag. "But I do. If you knew Brian at all - which, by the way, most of you do not - you'd know he doesn't leave things to chance. This is his power of attorney. Signed, sealed, notarized, and delivered, authorizing me to make decisions concerning his care, his life . . . whatever decisions need to be made while he's incapacitated. And right now, I'm making this one. Lindsey is dead right. Get - the fuck - out!"

No one moved for a moment, until the door opened and two figures stepped into the room - Drew Boyd and Lance Mathis - and the security chief moved to stand at Cynthia's elbow, his eyes moving to meet those of everyone else in the room. Only Emmett had enough presence of mind to notice that the young man they had all met within the last few days - diffident and friendly and unassuming - had suddenly been transformed into someone who was a force to be reckoned with. If any of them had thought to resist Cynthia's instructions, they immediately realized the folly of the notion. There was no doubt that Mathis was ready and willing to do whatever he had to do to fulfill his duty - to defend and protect the young man who was the only reason for his presence here - and God help anyone who might try to interfere.

The group rose quickly then, stumbling as if in shock and too stunned to offer up any coherent protest, and headed for the door, with Eli, pale and all atremble, in their midst and Monty, who had enjoyed the little uproar he'd generated until the two blonde bimbos had stepped in to spoil the fun, bringing up the rear.

"Oh, and speaking of cunts," said Cynthia, her eyes cold and her face set in the mode that had terrified subordinates for as long as she'd been Brian Kinney's good right hand, "there's one more thing." She moved forward and stood nose to nose (or rather nose to non-existent hairline, since she was several inches taller) with Monty Peabody, and her voice dropped to a sinister near-whisper. "If either you or your cunty, pretentious, self-important, sycophantic, puffed-up, pathetic little pussy-partner ever come near him again, then you're going to find out just how vindictive this pissed-off non-lesbian feminist bitch can be. Because I'm not Brian; I'm not nearly as forgiving or as laid-back as Brian, and you might be surprised to find out that, for such a worthless, immoral, promiscuous fuck-up, a man so richly deserving of your contempt and condemnation, he has an astonishing number of friends - and contacts - in some very high places; friends who can actually appreciate the fact that he's the most honest, unhypocritical man they've ever known. Contacts he would probably never use, because he doesn't think that way. But I do, and I'd be perfectly happy to use them all. In short, by the time I'm done with you, you might just wake up from your little Stepford fag, pseudo-intellectual existence to realize it's an extremely bad idea to fuck with Brian Kinney."

"You can't threaten me," whined Eli. "Who do you think you . . ."

She smiled, and Emmett was glad he was not the object of her scorn. "I'll tell you who I am," she said softly. "I'm the personal assistant of the man who single-handedly devised the advertising campaign which has raised over twelve million dollars for this hospital's new transplant clinic. Now . . . who - the fuck - are you?"

She turned her back on him, and treated Emmett and Lindsey to a big smile as she heard him scurry for the door, like the cockroach he was.

Thus, the group found themselves standing around in the hallway, slightly disoriented and not altogether certain of how they'd come to be there and still stunned by the sudden change of direction of their day. They all paused to exchange glances, none of them quite sure of what to say, as Monty and Eli made a hasty retreat, neither of them comfortable under the cold unflinching gazes turned upon them. Then Ted held up the tabloid article that had sparked the confrontation, and they all crowded in to take a closer look at the lurid item and to inspect the grisly photographs. By the time they had seen it all and read it all and absorbed the ugliness and the vitriol from its cruel rhetoric, there wasn't a smile in sight - only the horror of having, even for one moment, lowered themselves to the level of those who'd written it and spread it around like the disease it was, and Lindsey and Cynthia, watching from the doorway, knew a moment of powerful vindication.

"You go, Girls," said Emmett with a gentle smile, as he draped an arm around each of them. "Remind me never to piss either one of you off."

"Fuckers!" Lindsey snapped, before turning to look up into his face. "You OK, Honey? You haven't exactly had it easy lately yourself."

He nodded. "I'm all right. A few bumps and bruises - in places best left unmentioned - but nothing to worry about."

She turned toward the bed, sparing a small smile for Drew and Lance. "If you three hadn't gone after him . . ." she whispered.

"You know," said Cynthia, as she moved around the bed to study her boss's face - what little of it she could actually see, "I have to confess that I'm glad I wasn't there. I don't know if I could have stood seeing him like that."

Emmett's smile was gentle. "I imagine you've seen him at his worst. Maybe even more than we have."

She nodded. "I guess - in some ways. I've seen him drunk and drugged out and sick and scared and desperate and . . . " She paused to draw a deep, hoarse breath, remembering how he'd looked in the days following Justin's departure, "lost. But I've never seen him helpless. Brian Kinney doesn't do helpless." Her smile was tremulous. "It just upsets the natural order of things."

Emmett didn't know Cynthia nearly as well as he knew Lindsey, and he was a little hesitant about approaching her, but, in the end, he just stepped up and wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. "Don't think about that. We have to believe it's only temporary and thank God that we were in the right place at the right time to see those guys take off after him, and that Lance was right there, with his car."

"They'd have killed him," said Lindsey, and this time the tears would not be denied although she did not give in to the urge to sob out her anger and her frustrations.

"One way . . . or another," Emmett admitted, remembering his discussion with the police and Lance and Drew and the conclusions they'd all drawn, and closing his eyes against the images that rose in his mind: the vicious snarls on the faces of Brian's attackers, the hatred and the lust for violence, and the power of the blows they struck, and the terrible sound of the impacts of fists and boots and unyielding metal against defenseless flesh. Between those memories and the equally vivid ones of his own experience as a victim, he didn't sleep much these days, and wondered if he ever would again, without having to endure those graphic images playing out in his mind. He sighed as a gentle hand touched his shoulder and he felt soft lips just brush the nape of his neck.

"Hush now," he said gently, his eyes rising to acknowledge Drew's caress as he took Lindsey's hand and enclosed it with his own. "You know he wouldn't want you to cry."

"No," said a strained voice, barely audible, "he wouldn't."

Cynthia, of course, was quickest to recover - except for Mathis, who managed to look completely unsurprised - and first to react, as both Emmett and Lindsey dissolved in fresh tears. She leaned forward and took Brian's hand, touching him as gently as if he were fragile and breakable, which, in a sense, he was at that particular moment, although he would quickly demonstrate that he was still Brian Kinney, still invincible, still undefeated. "Welcome back, Boss man," she said firmly, allowing not the slightest hint of a tremor to affect her voice. Still, she couldn't quite resist a compulsion to bend down and drop a fleeting kiss near his ear - one of the few places on his head that was not swathed in bandages.

When he whispered something she could not quite catch, she turned to position her ear against his lips so he could repeat it.

Then she smiled.

Two words from him, and she was on cloud nine. How ridiculous was that? But still, Brian Kinney did not pass out praise like sticks of gum. To get it, one had to earn it.

Two words in a broken whisper. "Good girl."

And it was enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 18

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Fuck!

He didn't want to be here, but he'd had no choice.

Fuck!

And now the fucking plane was late, so he'd have to wait around even longer, and he had a momentary urge - almost a compulsion - to run out of the airport and hail a cab and leave his 'escort' in the dust. Only, if he did that, he would not only have to answer to Lance Mathis and his staff, along with half of the Pittsburgh PD; he'd also have to answer to Brian Kinney, once Brian had sufficiently recovered to voice his displeasure, and one thing Brian Kinney had never been loathe to do was use that voice, loudly, vehemently, repeatedly. It was silly of him to worry about it, Justin knew, as they had rarely managed to go more than an hour at a time without getting into some kind of argument over one thing or another, but he was hoping his first contact with an awake, alert, conscious Brian would involve lots of tongue action - albeit carefully administered due to the patient's condition - and sweet nothings and admissions of regrets for lost time, and not so much of recriminations and accusations.

So he was stuck - in more ways than one.

Fuck!

All he had wanted when he'd dragged himself to bed the previous night, tucked up safe in his mother's townhouse with his fucking bodyguards prowling the premises like hungry tigers, had been to grab a couple of hours of shut-eye to help him shrug off the remnants of jet lag, and rise in the wee hours of the morning to haul himself back to the hospital and wait for Brian to open his eyes. At that point, he had wanted nothing other than for Brian to open his eyes and look at him - and recognize him.

And yell at him. He knew that was on the menu, without having to be told. He didn't bother speculating on which emotion would be dominant when the moment came - anger or elation. But it didn't matter. He was prepared for either one; the only thing that mattered was that Brian woke up. Nothing else was relevant.

He had not let himself think beyond that point.

Earlier, when he'd left the hospital, he had intended to go to the loft - to the only place in the world that felt like a real home to him. But he had realized, in route, that the place would be too "Brian", that he would be inundated by memories and flashbacks and visions, and sleep would never find him there. He had understood that, in the final analysis, it wasn't the loft that was his home; it was Brian, and, without him, the loft was just four walls and a floor - beautiful, but empty.

So, after he and Emmett (and their eternally vigilant bodyguards) had shared a quiet drink and a brief conversation at Woody's, he had directed his driver to veer off so he could return to his family home and crawl into his bed, a remnant of his old life, pre-Brian, seeking nothing but unconsciousness. Still, sleep had not come easily, and he had tossed and turned until physical exhaustion had finally claimed him and pulled him to the brink of oblivion.

Unfortunately, that strange, timeless moment between awareness and slumber had provided the cue for Carl Horvath to enter, stage left, and present his soliloquy.

Justin had known, or course, that his mother was due to fly in early in the morning - had known that she had no idea of what had happened in her absence. Though the local news had been full of it, the attack on Brian had not made the headlines of the national press or the network broadcasts, primarily because it had not happened in New York or LA or Washington; Pittsburgh was still provincial enough to go unnoticed - mostly - by the national media. Thus, Jennifer was flying in without having any idea of what she would learn on her return or even that her son had returned from his adventure in paradise.

And that, he had believed, would be all right. Jennifer was nothing if not adaptable. She would hear it all soon enough, and she would cope, as she always did. But Horvath had insisted on forcing him to see another side of the equation, at the direction of a new player who had not yet made her appearance on the scene.

FBI Special Agent Alexandra Corey - despite the fact that she had yet to set foot in Pittsburgh - apparently had a very long reach and a mind keen enough to see things others might overlook. According to Detective Horvath, anyway.

It had been pushing two AM when he'd called, and Justin had grabbed for the phone on its first ring, his heart hammering in his chest as he leapt to a panicky conclusion.

His relief in learning he was wrong had been immediate - but short-lived.

In less than two minutes, he'd decided that Special Agent Alexandra Corey had earned herself a permanent spot at the top of his shit list and that he did not like the way her mind worked, although he could not - in good conscience - dismiss her concerns.

She had certainly done her preliminary homework, coming to conclusions he would rather not be forced to consider, especially when wrapped up tight in the spectral shadows inherent in the darkest hours of the night. Only, he couldn't refuse.

If she was right, there was simply too much at stake for him to ignore her concerns.

Thus, here he sat in a hard plastic chair, staring with weary, bloodshot eyes at the arrivals/departure board, noting that Flight 1611 was shown as due to arrive in ten minutes. That meant another half-hour, by the time it landed and passengers disembarked, and he wished, for the hundredth time, that he had simply insisted Horvath dispatch someone else to meet Jennifer and Molly on their arrival and give his mother the bad news. But the detective had pointed out - with annoyingly irrefutable logic - that Jennifer might very well refuse to accept the information provided to her unless it came from someone she could trust, and that, regardless of the source, she would be devastated and bordering on panic when confronted with any suggestion that she and her daughter might be in danger from some unknown, vicious assailant, or that her son might be in even greater peril.

That had been the scenario posited by Alexandra Corey, who had examined all the evidence and concluded that the primary target - going all the way back to the attack on Babylon, and maybe even beyond - might well have been Brian Kinney and, if so, those who were close to him - those he loved and cared about - might well be in extreme danger. Especially in the case of the young man who was widely recognized as his lover, along with anyone who might have family ties or close relationships to either of them.

Even the surviving Kinney family members - mother and daughter - were under discreet surveillance pending resolution of the investigation, which, Justin was certain, would not come soon.

He sighed and sat back, bracing his neck against hard plastic and allowing his mind to drift, watching idly as two birds - wrens, maybe, or sparrows, and how should he know since, in his estimation, one bird was much like another - flitted around through the exposed metal rafters of the domed ceiling. There were, he thought, plenty of places in Pittsburgh that could be described as uninspiring - but few more so than this very drab, very utilitarian airport. He felt sorry for the birds.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else - something bright and warm and pleasant and filled with color. Like Liberty Avenue. His smile was tentative, reflecting the fact that he really, really didn't want to be here. He wanted to be with Brian, holding his hand, touching his face, breathing his scent. Savoring his essence - the thing that made him Brian Kinney, which distinguished him from everyone else on the planet.

And even more than that, he wanted to be walking down Liberty Avenue at Brian's side, waving to friends and acquaintances, enjoying the color and the raucous atmosphere around them, laughing at the antics of Emmett and Ted, or exchanging eye-rolls over Michael and Ben's latest exhibition of pseudo-hetero-convention, noticing but pretending not to see all the lustful looks and envious glances directed toward them from the people who watched them pass by, engaging in the verbal sparring that was the life-breath of their relationship - taunting, teasing, squabbling . . . wanting. Christ! He had never wanted anything or anyone more than he had wanted Brian Kinney - every minute of every day. How the fuck had he let himself forget that, or let someone else convince him that anything was more important than the feeling which raced through his body like a flood tide when he was in Brian's arms? A feeling of perfect belonging, of rightness, of destiny fulfilled.

Justin loved Lindsey - he really did - and he knew Brian also loved her, in his own rather oddball way. But sometimes - like now - he just wanted to smack her and sneer at all of her artistic pretentions. He had gone to New York because he'd allowed her fantasies to infect him with a hunger for recognition which he'd never experienced before, a hunger that made him forget what he would have to give up in order to reach for the brass ring she had dangled in front of him.

Fuck!

With an impatient shrug, he stood and moved toward the arrival area where his mother would soon (please God!) make her appearance, as he suppressed a grimace of irritation when his 'escort' took up his customary position behind him, strolling along and projecting an easy nonchalance which betrayed nothing of the man's skill and professionalism. Justin had definitely not wanted to like the man, nor to admire his abilities, but he'd reluctantly come to realize that Jared Hilliard was probably exactly the kind of individual you'd want to have around in a moment of dire need.

Tall, well-built, strong and graceful, the light-skinned black man had incredible eyes of a color somewhere between green and blue and managed, somehow, to fade into the background and achieve a level of obscurity, despite startling good looks and a brooding physical presence. In addition, he had an easy, self-deprecating humor that Justin found appealing, and he caught himself speculating on how Brian would react to the man, for whom the phrase 'smoldering good looks' might have been coined.

Then he frowned, realizing abruptly that he didn't like where his thoughts were leading.

He and Brian had never had a monogamous relationship, unless one took into account those strange, surreal weeks following the bombing of Babylon, when neither of them had been themselves. He had never admitted to anyone - except Brian himself, of course - that he had not much cared for the people they had become during that period. They had both tried to walk the straight and narrow and, in the process, become strangers with little or nothing in common, and that, as much as anything else, had laid waste to their plans for building a life together.

Bottom line? Brian would be all over this guy, if he got a good look. And if Hilliard was amenable. Justin wasn't yet sure, but Brian would be. That much was certain; the Kinney Gay-dar was virtually infallible.

Now all Justin had to do was figure out how he felt about the prospect. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift. Brian - fully recovered and restored and beautiful, smoldering hazel eyes undressing the delectable bodyguard and sending an unmistakable message in the process; Brian, shucking out of his clothes, never bothering with buttons - just pulling the shirt off over his head, along with the tie and anything else that might be in his way; Brian - sprawled on the bed, perfect body on display and perfect lips smiling an invitation; Brian . . . irresistible. And . . . what the fuck was the matter with him? He had just returned from a year in which he'd been denied the man, the body, the person who meant most to him, and here he was fantasizing about that same man, enticing someone else into his bed.

What the fuck?

He wanted Brian - exclusively, permanently, privately - with no outside intervention or interference. Didn't he?

He opened his eyes and found Jared Hilliard staring at him, brows arched and beautiful eyes alight with speculation and a tiny smile.

What the fuck?

"Justin?"

Thank God - and never mind why.

"Justin, what are you doing here?"

"Hi, Mom. Welcome home, and . . . let's get your luggage while I tell you all about it."

He really hated admitting he was wrong about something, but it was immediately obvious that Horvath - and that smart-ass FBI bitch - had been right.

He'd barely begun to tell her what she needed to know, when Jennifer stopped walking, hands clasped to her chest as if fighting to breathe. He was forced to pause and wrap his arms around her, with Molly gathered close to his side, and simply hold her, to give her time to adjust, to absorb what no mother should have to endure. She needed him now, and he could not just walk away, even though he didn't want to be here; he wanted to be with Brian, holding his hand and waiting for the moment of his awakening. But Brian, no matter how wounded, was strong - was always capable of surviving, of facing whatever life might throw at him and facing it alone if necessary, even when others could not.

It was one of the things he loved most about the man - and also one of the things he loved least - an intimate part of the enigma that was Brian Kinney.

Fuck!


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jennifer's eyes grew wider and darker as Justin talked, and by the time he was done, her face was haunted and haggard as she contemplated the possibility of danger to her beloved son and daughter at the hands of some unknown cretin hiding out there in the darkness of his own evil, plotting his sick revenge against Brian Kinney individually, or against those who inhabited his world. She had known such fear before, but she was no better equipped to handle it this time than last. Memories blended with dread, and she flinched from the thought of Justin, bloodied and bludgeoned and suspended between life and death - past or future.

And one thing more.

When, she wondered, had this happened? When had the brash, brutally candid young scoundrel who had stolen her son's heart managed, somehow, without her knowledge or consent, to work his way into her own? When had it begun to matter to her what fate might hold in store for Brian Kinney, who certainly neither wanted nor needed her concern but . . . had earned it anyway?

She closed her eyes and thought about Brian, hearing pale whispers of everything Justin was not saying. Then she deliberately allowed herself to remember the first time she had ever seen him, fighting down the pangs of resentment that always rose in her when she thought about that moment. The memory was still vivid and harsh and heavy in her chest, stealing her breath away, as she retasted the bitterness of the sight of this man, this grown man, and the knowledge of what he had done to her innocent son.

And yet . . . she could admit now what she could never have faced back then. Even at that moment - hating him, resenting him, loathing him - she had seen it, and the voice had whispered in her mind.

Christ! He's beautiful. And together, they're breathtaking.

She had known it, even then, years before Kinney had finally faced his own truth, had finally admitted that he had fallen in love with her son; she had known that Justin's life would be irrevocably intertwined with that of Brian Kinney.

And now . . . dear God! What would happen to them now?


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emmett stood silently, hands clasped tightly behind his back, awaiting his turn to welcome Brian back to the land of the living.

Well, not exactly. More like waiting his turn for execution, for he knew that Brian was not going to be pleased with him. He had, after all, been charged with one task, and one task only, and he had managed to fail spectacularly.

Brian Kinney was not the kind of man who tolerated failure or fools, and Emmett's first instinct, on realizing that Brian had awakened during the ugly exchange between the members of the group who were supposed to be his friends, had been to hit the door running and not look back.

But the lapse had been brief. He always thought it ironic that he - the ultimate drag queen - should have such an unswerving sense of what it meant to be a real man, a definition that had nothing to do with sexual identity and everything to do with honor and decency. He had acquired it not from his father or his other male relatives, but from his beloved Aunt Lula and the grandmother who had died when he was still living in Hazlehurst, Mississippi - the only members of his family who had ever really loved him and accepted him for what he was. It would be a shameful thing to run away from the consequences of his own actions.

So he would stay here and await Brian's displeasure, no matter how much he dreaded the lash of that sultry voice and the ice that could flash in those beautiful eyes so much better suited to seduction.

He deeply regretted that Brian had wakened in time to overhear the ugly commentary from his so-called bosom buddies. And there was little doubt that he had heard it, even though he'd said almost nothing about it. But it was there to see, should anyone care to look for it - not in his words, but in the tone of voice and the shadows in his eyes, barely visible within the frame of snowy bandages.

He had spoken to Cynthia first, their words barely audible and very brief, and almost entirely professional, except for an initial emotional exchange, demonstrated by the quick brush of a kiss and hands clasped gently. Then Lindsey had pushed forward, barely able to restrain a desire to throw herself into his arms and obviously determined to distract him from what he had overheard, carefully phrasing questions about his injuries and avoiding any reference to the attack, and babbling about Gus and how eager he was to see his dad.

At that point, Emmett and Drew had exchanged glances, wondering if they were the only ones who noticed how much Brian was striving not to say, dismissing her concerns with typical Kinney aplomb.

Emmett had turned away then, finding it too painful to watch the tears welling in Lindsey's eyes and the extraordinary gentleness with which Brian managed to lift a hand to wipe them away. Instead, he chose to stare out into the growing brightness of the morning and wonder how many times the exact same thing had happened in Brian's life - how many times he had simply stood tall and firm, shrugging off the pettiness and the jealousy and letting it fall away, never allowing himself to react or respond to the hurt. Probably, never even allowing himself to feel it - although Emmett wasn't exactly sure how one could achieve that level of stoicism. . Unless it had become necessary for survival. Unless one had endured so much thoughtless cruelty and withstood so much pain at the hands of those who purported to be friends that it became automatic to raise new layers of insulation, new walls to deflect new hurts, so that, eventually, one became invulnerable, untouchable.

Alone.

Reluctantly, he allowed his mind to drift back, to sift through years of random memories - of nasty little barbed comments dropped deliberately into lulls in the conversation and intended to be overheard, of snide observations uttered to compensate for feelings of petty jealousy and inadequacy and the gay equivalent of penis envy, of gleeful responses to every occurrence that could be twisted to reflect badly on Brian or might result in some kind of discomfort for him, even though he never once displayed such a reaction, of the cruel smiles and venal laughter at his expense whenever anything happened that might prove painful or inconvenient or costly for him - as if he'd deserved their scorn and ill will.

And how - exactly - had he done that?

Emmett was appalled to realize he couldn't come up with a single rational response, except for the one truly unforgivable sin; Brian had earned their contempt and enmity by having the flair and the intelligence and the moxie and the courage to be the man they all wanted to be - and couldn't.

"Will you kindly stop dripping all over me."

Emmett grinned. Now there was the Brian Kinney they all knew and . . .

Christ! We really do love him, although I don't think any of us have ever realized how much, or stopped to consider how often we turn to him or how much we need him. Or what we would do . . . Christ!

"Sorry." Lindsey managed an awkward little laugh, obviously grateful for something to cover up the silences that were dwelling all around them, filled with words none of them dared say, as her eyes remained fixed on a patch of bare skin just above Brian's ear, as if she couldn't bear to look anywhere else.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian watched as the mother of his child tried not to stare, not to see and comprehend what she was seeing, and he took a deep breath, understanding that this was the first hurdle - the first instance of people trying to be kind, trying not to flinch away from the sight of him. He would get used to it - in time - just as he'd managed to get used to other things over the years. It was amazing what one could learn to endure when one had no other choice.

"Why are you still here?" he asked, in a soft, strained voice.

"Where else would I be?" she replied, reaching out to take his hand.

"With Gus," he answered, managing to convey his impatience in two clipped syllables.

"Gus will be here soon," she said, thinking to reassure him.

"Why?" Even more clipped and more impatient.

"Because he wants to see his daddy."

"Lindsey." He managed, barely, to avoid snapping at her. "He won't even recognize me, and, if he does figure out who I am, it's going to scare the shit out of him. Don't even think about . . ."

"Don't you even want to see him?" Typical Lindsey - all sentiment, no sense.

"Why? So I can watch him scream and try to run? All he's going to see is Frankenstein's monster. Don't you get that?"

"But . . ."

"No buts," he said, his voice sinking to a whisper. "I'm not going to subject him to that."

"But what do I tell him when he asks to . . ."

"Tell him I love him. For now, that's all he needs to know. He shouldn't have to think about the rest."

He lifted his hand and smoothed a lock of hair back from her face. "Now, go make peace with your husband who is bound to be majorly pissed off because you're here with me instead of . . . wherever with her. I need to talk to Emmett."

For a moment, she hesitated, and he could see that some small part of her wanted to argue, or, more accurately, felt that she should argue, should insist on remaining at his side, even while a larger part of her was grateful for the reprieve. He debated whether or not to comment on it, but decided it was better to ignore it and allow her to escape with dignity. He was sure it was a reaction that would become more and more familiar with time.

He also noted the sympathetic glance she directed toward Emmett and almost opened his mouth to offer reassurance. But that would have been completely out of character, and he wasn't quite ready to face the questions that would undoubtedly arise too soon for his liking. So he just waited until she made good her escape before shifting his gaze to the big Nelly-bottom. When Emmett stepped toward him, obviously nervous but managing to maintain eye contact in spite of it, Brian felt a twinge of conscience over what he felt compelled to do, but he was caught off guard when his old friend began to speak without waiting to be addressed.

"Brian, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"For what? For not doing the one thing I asked of you?"

He was caught even more off guard when Emmett shook his head. "No. Not that. I'm sorry that you had to hear all that bullshit. I know you understand it - that you figured out a long time ago why they all . . . why we all treat you like . . . "

"The black sheep of the family?" If he could have smiled, he would have. It was unfair, perhaps, to enjoy Emmett's squirming, since he had been one of those least guilty of multiple offenses, but even tiny nuances of vengeance should be savored when offered up so sweetly.

Emmett nodded. "You didn't deserve it."

This time, he did smile, and felt the burn of abused muscles and tissue around his mouth urge him to avoid doing so again. "After all these years," he said softly, "do you really think I give a shit?"

Emmett's smile was very gentle. "Of course you don't."

Brian closed his eyes, and was grateful that his injuries and the bandages that covered them made it unnecessary for him to guard his expressions. He was, of course, a master of doing so as he'd had years and years of practice, but he was pretty sure it was an art he would no longer need to depend on. He doubted anyone would be looking close enough to notice from here on out. "I assume he refused to listen to reason."

"I did try, Brian. Honest to God. I told the cops, and I made sure that nobody in the family called him. But . . . somebody did. I don't know who, and there was just no way to stop him. You know how determined he can be when . . ."

"When duty calls." And even though the face was completely obscured, there was no way to avoid hearing the caustic wit erupting in those three simple words.

"Duty?"

"Yeah. What else?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Emmett did not mean to sound quite so irritated; God knew Brian had enough to deal with without having to fend off verbal jabs, but this was really too much.

"Figured out what? That he's here because we're 'committed'? Because it's the 'right thing' to do?"

"Brian, you can't . . ."

"Get out!"

"What?" Emmett's eyes were suddenly huge, and dark with tears unshed. "Why would you . . ."

"Because," thick with acrid sarcasm,"I don't want you here."

"But . . ."

"Mathis!"

"Yeah, Boss?"

Brian turned to meet the steady gaze of his chief of security. "You still work for me?"

"Unless you're firing me." Mathis was not - quite - smiling.

"Then get him out of here."

Emmett watched in disbelief as the security chief turned toward him, eyes cold and determined, and knew that, if he chose to turn this into a confrontation, he would inevitably lose.

"I don't understand you," he said slowly, looking back at Brian and trying to determine what it was he was seeing in those hazel eyes.

"Few do." Was that a glint of humor, of smug satisfaction he saw there? Or was it something else - something darker and heavier?

Emmett took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He really didn't want to allow himself to express anger or frustration at such a moment, and he didn't want to fall back on Lana-Turner theatrics to save his dignity, but there were times when a drag-queen just had to do what a drag-queen had to do. Thus, he spun toward the door and made his exit with a flourish, pausing only to direct a smoldering glance toward Drew Boyd. "Are you coming?"

Boyd's smile was achingly tender. "In a minute. Wait for me in the hall."

When Emmett was gone, there was a moment of expectant silence, before all four occupants of the room shared a moment of awkward laughter. Then Boyd stepped forward so that he could look directly down into Brian's face. "Under other circumstance," he said, with a diffident smile, "I'd beat the shit out of you for treating him like that."

"That would be redundant," replied Brain, completely deadpan.

"But, for the moment, I think I'll let it pass."

"That's big of you. Now why don't you toddle along and go console your boyfriend. There are things I need to discuss with . . . my people."

Boyd nodded and started to turn away, but was held in place by Brian's hand clasping his sleeve with a surprising amount of strength for a man who had just awakened from a coma. The big quarterback allowed himself to be pulled forward until he was close enough to hear the words the patient whispered. It was only one sentence and, when he pulled back to try to read the eyes within the bandages, Boyd could almost believe he'd imagined it.

Then he smiled and straightened up, confining his response to a quick nod, eyes filled with a soft glow of understanding and, perhaps, something more - something that recognized and mourned the textured layers of tragedy and unavoidable destiny.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Cynthia had been glad to be given tasks that required her to focus on the minutia of the situation - to handle pending business decisions and practical problems, to address the needs of clients and work assignments, to find Matt Keller and advise him that Brian wanted to see him.

Thus, she left the room feeling relieved - and feeling guilty for feeling relieved, knowing that Brian had seen and understood what she was feeling - and why.

It had never mattered to her that her boss was a creature of rare beauty, except for the fact that it was a source of pride for him and a formidable weapon in his ongoing assault against the narrow minds of the advertising establishment. After an initial hormonal stir - something she was sure every woman experienced on first sight of Brian Kinney - she had shaken off any latent feelings of attraction and determined that it was more important, from a professional standpoint, to get to know the man beneath the façade rather than the luminary who lived on the surface.

And she had never regretted that decision; nor did she regret it now.

But being one of the few individuals ever allowed to get close to the inner Brian had never prevented her from dwelling on the gorgeousness of the package or his ability to use it to his advantage.

And now - Matt Keller's promises notwithstanding - that gift, that package, might be gone forever, irrevocably damaged. It would not impact how she saw him or how she felt about him; there was no question of that. But it might very well impact how he saw himself, and that could create fundamental changes in the man he was, changes she wasn't sure she could deal with.

So she set about her errands with firm resolve and a degree of satisfaction in having enough to do to allow her to avoid thinking too much.

Only she'd failed to anticipate one thing.

Michael.

When she rounded the corner to approach the nurses' station, she realized she should not have been surprised that he had waited. The only real surprise was that he had done so alone, as there was no sign of his mother or his lover or any of the rest of his customary entourage.

She ignored him at first, taking her time in addressing the charge nurse and arranging for Dr. Keller to be paged to Brian's room, but if she'd hoped that Michael might take the hint and take his leave, she was doomed to disappointment.

When she had finished her conversation and carefully reviewed some insurance release forms, she turned to face the young man, schooling her features to show no emotion beyond mild curiosity.

"Michael," she said firmly, "I don't have a lot of time, so . . ."

"Cynthia," he interrupted, his eyes downcast and bruised, somehow, as if battered by the emotions raging inside him, "please. Just . . . give me a minute."

She wanted to say no; more than that, she wanted to shout at him, to tell him to either stand up straight and stop acting like a pussy, or to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness he didn't deserve. Either way would be an improvement over this timid, self-effacing demeanor. Still, this was Michael, who was beloved of Brian Kinney, whether or not he deserved it.

"Come with me," she said finally, leading him into an unoccupied consultation room and closing the door to give them some privacy.

"Michael," she began . . .

"Wait!" he replied sharply, his voice breaking as he struggled to find the right words. "I know what you're thinking. I know that I've . . ."

"Sit down, Michael," she said abruptly, accepting that this was a conversation she was not going to be able to avoid. "Maybe it's time we had a little talk, whether I've got time for it or not."

"I know what you're going to say," Michael answered.

"Do you? Somehow I doubt that," she replied. "Because, if you did, you probably would have run out of here screaming before coming anywhere near me."

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean," she said, her voice steady and flat, "is that you should have been the one to stand up and tell your so-called friends and family where to stick their fucking attitudes. Instead, Emmett had to do it, while you sat there with your thumb up your ass, letting them do what they always do - vent their anger and petty jealousy at Brian's expense. Would it interest you in the least to know that he heard it all? He was awake the whole time. Doesn't that make you want to run out and tell them? It'll probably make their day - and yours."

He sat heavily, dropping into the nearest chair and rubbing his face with his hands. "Shit!"

"I'm always amazed that you guys never seem to figure it out," she observed, "that you always get caught. Do you really think he doesn't know what all of you think of him?"

"But I always speak up for him. You should know that."

"I know you make a token attempt," she retorted. "Occasionally. But I also know something else - something no one else knows - but you. Which makes it even harder to understand how you can just stand by and let it happen. He trusts you, Michael. And he loves you. The only person he ever loved more was Justin, but that was a different kind of love. Which might explain everything, I guess, if you're like your mother, and can't forgive the fact that he was never able to give you the kind of love you wanted from him. He loves you like a brother - like you were blood - but maybe that wasn't good enough. It certainly wasn't good enough for your mom. But . . . Christ, Michael! How could you have turned your back on him the way you did? How could you forget all the times he was there for you? Even when Ben wound up in the hospital, and you were scared shitless that he might die, who came through for you? Who bolstered you up and gave you the strength to face it? Who dropped everything to be there when you needed him? He spent years and years taking care of you, and when I think about how you betrayed him, how it was more important to you to impress your cunty new neighbors than return the loyalty he showed you every day of his life, I wish . . . Shit! I wish I was big enough to punch your lights out. And it's pretty obvious to me - hell, to everybody if they only had the balls to admit it - that you only decided to treat him like shit when you'd found somebody else to watch out for you.  When you thought you didn't need him any more. So you figured you'd get even, since he wouldn't lie and pretend to feel something he didn't. You decided you'd do everything you could to pay him back for not giving you the one thing you wanted from him - the lie that he wouldn't tell."

"No, I . . ."

"Do you have any idea," she said coldly, "how many people have ever - ever - seen Brian Kinney cry? No, I can see that you don't, so let me enlighten you, dear, sweet, innocent Michael. There are exactly two of us. That's how much he trusted you, how much he believed in you. You and I know things about him no one else knows. Not even Justin. We know what his parents, his family did to him, how much they hurt him, how strong he had to be to survive. Things he's never said to anyone else, things no one else would even believe. So how do we come to this - this unbelievable bullshit, which is just another example of how you repay him? And now . . . what? You want me to run interference - to clear the way for you to take your place at his side again? Until the next time it's not convenient for you to remember what he should mean to you?"

"He told you all this?" he asked, appalled at how much she knew . . . and just slightly angry, although he couldn't have said exactly why.

She stared at him. "What? You're insulted because he talked to me? Well, let me remind you of something, Michael. Everybody - even the mighty Brian Kinney - needs someone to talk to, sometimes. Although, in my case, it was usually when he was drunk as a lord or high as a kite, or so Goddamned hurt that he just couldn't manage to keep it to himself."

He flushed and looked down, flinching away from the contempt he read in her eyes.

"Jesus! Don't you people ever think beyond the end of your noses? Don't any of you ever try to understand how he feels or why he does the things he does? Or is it just easier, not to mention more comfortable, to assume the worst? Even when you should know better."

He continued to stare down at his hands, hardly daring to look up to meet her gaze. She was right, and he knew it, but it was something he didn't want to think about. He had never wanted to think about it, because it was easier not to know. "So . . . are you going to help me? Or not?"

She sighed, obviously considering her options. "If I do," she said finally, "it's not for you. Whether you deserve it or not, Brian loves you."

"So you'll talk to him for me?"

"I'll talk to him," she replied, "but not for you. The choice is his, and I'll expect you to abide by it."

He nodded and leaned forward impulsively to give her a hug, assuming immediately that everything would work out as he wanted, since Lindsey had been completely right in one of her observations: Brian really did always forgive them. It was only logical to expect him to do so again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After Cynthia's departure, Lance Mathis moved to the window to gaze down into the park across the street, watching a group of elderly men sitting on park benches, enjoying the growing warmth of the spring morning. He was careful not to look directly at his boss, sensing that Brian needed a few moments to organize his thoughts and figure out how to express them most efficiently. Mathis understood that there weren't many people who would go to such lengths to make sure their words would be understood so completely, and he admired both the ability and the determination.

But he knew, instinctively, that he was not going to enjoy this discussion. Kinney was entirely too perceptive - too bright to have failed to ferret out the truth of the situation.

When the first comment came, it was exactly as he had foreseen - straightforward, to the point, and undebatable.

"This was no random act of violence." It was not a question. "This was personal."

Mathis confined his response to a nod, knowing Brian had more to say.

"If you're as smart as you think you are, you've already figured that out. So where's Horvath?"

"He'll be here later," Mathis answered. "He's waiting for the big boys to make an appearance."

Brian nodded. "FBI?"

"Yes."

"A hate crime then."

"Yes. And these people are extremely good at their jobs. Just so you know. I've worked with them before."

Brian nodded, but did not appear overly impressed. "And have you - or they - come up with a theory about how far it goes, or what it means?"

Mathis moved forward and stood looking down at his boss, trying - without much success - to read the expression in those shadowed eyes. "Only the obvious. That you were the primary target. You've made a lot of enemies, Brian. Possibly very powerful enemies. It might have started out as a political issue, but . . . you said it yourself. At the end, it was personal."

Brian was silent for a while, his eyes turning toward the light streaming in through the window, but Mathis was certain that whatever he was seeing had nothing to do with what was really there. "It's not over. Is it?"

The security chief could not quite suppress a sigh. "No way to know. But you've already figured that out."

"Yeah. I have."

Mathis was surprised to realize that he didn't want to hear the rest, although he knew he had no choice. "So . . . what have you decided to do?"

The answer was little more than a whisper. "What I have to."

"Brian, I'm very good at what I do, and I can . . ."

"Can what? " Brian's voice was suddenly strong and steady, without a nuance of uncertainty. "Guarantee that nothing else will happen, that no one else will get hurt?"

Mathis hesitated, and while it was obvious he wanted to give the reassurance Brian was asking for; it was equally obvious that he couldn't, in good conscience.

Instead, he settled for taking Brian's hand, as if to shake it. "So . . . tell me what you want me to do."

"Whatever you can to repair what's broken," Brian answered. "But this is my fuck up. Mine to fix. Just . . . try to be in the right place to pick up the pieces, if I screw it up."

"All right, but . . ."

"And one more thing. The main thing, which has two parts."

Mathis understood, somehow, that this was the crucial moment - the point of this entire conversation - as he watched Brian awkwardly shift his arm, cast and all, to allow him to touch the fingers of his left hand to the bracelet that circled his right wrist; the meaning of the gesture was not lost on the security chief. Then the young father turned his head slightly, just enough to be able to see the photograph of Gus that Lindsey had left on the table beside his bed . "You work for me," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, "and I'm telling you that you have one job that supercedes everything else. You use whatever resources you might need to try to prevent further trouble. Money is no object; you do what's necessary. But this one thing is your personal responsibility, and I want your word on it."

Mathis nodded. "You have it."

"Then you understand what I'm saying? If it comes down to a choice . . ." Brian's eyes were suddenly filled with a terrible, steely resolve. "There is no choice. And no bullshit excuses. Got it?"

The security chief wanted to pretend he did not comprehend, that he could hedge his bets and claim a simple misunderstanding should the need arise. But he couldn't. One did not play word games with such a request. It meant too much; it asked too much. He would follow Brian's orders if there were no alternative, even though he wasn't entirely sure how he would ever learn to live with it.

"Got it," he answered finally.

But Brian was not quite ready to let it go. "You understand that this is the only thing that matters to me. If anything happens to . . ."

"It won't." Mathis met Brian's gaze squarely, his eyes clear and filled with resolve. "I swear it."

Brian spent a moment studying the man's face. "Fuck this up - either part of it," he said finally, "and you're a dead man. That's a promise."

Mathis did not smile, for, in truth, he wasn't entirely sure the man wasn't dead serious.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometimes, she thought, you learned more from what a person didn't say. Like now.

Cynthia did not allow herself the luxury of a sigh. She had been playing this role for many years, and now was certainly not the time to start regretting it. It was what she was expected to do. She was Brian Kinney's good right hand, and if that sometimes meant acting as the palace guard, then it was just another part of the job description. Even when it went against the grain.

He had not explained his reasoning; he frequently didn't.

But she knew the whys and wherefores. She only wished she didn't, as she walked into the waiting room, knowing that the next few minutes would not be pleasant. But it wasn't really the next few minutes that concerned her. After all, she didn't get paid (and paid extremely well, incidentally) to waste time worrying about Michael Novotny or any of the members of his pseudo-family.

But there was very little she could do for the man to whom she did owe her loyalty, and that was the really hard part of all of this. She knew, better than anyone, what this day would cost him, even as she realized that, this time, he would never speak of it. There were still some things too personal, too intimate, to be put into words. He had told her what he needed her to do, expecting her to follow his instructions and ask no questions, but that didn't mean he didn't understand how difficult her tasks would be, or appreciate the fact that she would do them, no matter how much she might prefer not to. The day wouldn't be easy for her either.

Michael was no longer alone when she found him. Ben and Hunter were with him, and Debbie had obviously had time to regroup and reassess and make up her mind to reassert her place in the ensemble of Kinney manipulators.

Cynthia felt a twinge of sympathy as she recognized the flare of joy in Michael's eyes when he saw her coming toward him. It was obvious he'd already leapt to a conclusion about how he expected things to go.

"So," he said by way of greeting, "is it safe to go in?"

She took a deep breath and put on her most professional demeanor. "I'm sorry, Michael. He's not seeing anyone today."

It was truly amazing, she thought, how quickly that boyish countenance could morph into crushed martyrdom, complete with puppy-dog eyes and trembling lower lip.

It was Debbie, of course, who stepped forward to speak for them all.

"Now just wait a minute here. You have no right to keep him from us. We're family, after all. His only real family, and . . ."

"Mrs. Novotny." The voice was firm and unyielding, and Debbie faltered, unaccustomed to being addressed so sternly. "Please don't make this any harder than it has to be. Cynthia is simply following Mr. Kinney's instructions. It would be a shame if hospital security had to be called in to reinforce them."

But Debbie was not one to give up without a fight. "And just who the fuck do you think you are?" she demanded.

Lance Mathis smiled, and the entire group who had turned to stare at him felt a distinct chill as they noted the ice in his eyes. "I'm the man who gets paid to see that he gets what he wants. And what he wants, right now, is to not have to deal with his . . . 'friends'." Though the inflection on the final word was slight, they all heard it . . . and knew exactly what it meant.

Ben shifted slightly, and, for a moment, seemed to debate the wisdom of challenging Mathis on Michael's behalf. But he quickly abandoned that notion as he saw the security chief turn to study him, dark eyes filled with steely resolve. The professor immediately relaxed his posture as he realized that his size advantage would mean nothing in a confrontation with someone with advanced combat skills and the will to use them.

Finally, reluctantly accepting the futility of further protest, the group gathered their things and headed for the elevators, as Cynthia and Mathis turned away. But Hunter had lingered for a moment after the rest of them departed, and laid his hand on Cynthia's arm to delay her.

"Just do me a favor," he said quickly. "Just tell him . . . he's still Brian Kinney - to me."

Then he was gone, and Cynthia busied herself with digging for something in her handbag, refusing to meet the solemn gaze Mathis turned on her. He was not, of course, the least bit fooled, but he decided to let her think she'd managed to conceal the shimmer in her eyes. She was a spunky, resourceful woman, with the tenacity of a bulldog, and he admired her tremendously, and had no desire to embarrass her.

"Nice kid," he observed, deliberately walking away to return to Brian's room and prepare for the next task at hand - the one he would rather have avoided if he could.

Cynthia, with exactly the same thought in mind, followed reluctantly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Britin! Perhaps the name had not - quite - been brilliant, but it had grown on him. Briefly, anyway. For as long as the dream had lasted.

The last night there had been magical, although he had been the only one to understand that it would be the last night. He had chosen not to mention it to Justin, realizing there was no point in underscoring the inevitability of the truth he had discovered.

He would allow Justin to hold on to his fantasy, for as long as he could, knowing he would awaken to the starkness of reality soon enough.

And now, it was only a memory, fading slowly into the tapestry of his life.

But he could still go back, still recall enough details to bring it vividly to life.

The crackle of the fire generating showers of sparks to rise into the darkness of the chimney and dropping reflections of brilliance on the hardwood floors; the velvety crimson of the duvet and the way it provided perfect contrast for the pale luster of Justin's hair, and the luxurious texture of silk sheets against warm skin; a tray of appetizers sitting on a low table by the bed, offering foie gras, turkey Galantine with truffles, mousse de Saumon Fumé, and mushroom quiches, along with a fine bottle of cognac, and a separate platter of the tiramisu that was Justin's favorite; the soft glow spreading out from clusters of candles scattered around the room, painting the shadows with traces of golden radiance; the blended fragrance of the gardenias, rubrium lilies, and eucalyptus that filled the huge porcelain vases flanking the full windows; the mellow drift of soft romantic voices from the speakers - Melissa Manchester and la Streisand and the Isley Brothers; the sound track from "Moulin Rouge".

And, if he concentrated, he could still call up the lyrics rendered in Patti LaBelle's dulcet contralto:

"Give me the world,
And I'll give you heaven.
Love will set us free
As long as we believe
The best is yet to come."*

He had tried not to listen, not to recognize the irony of hearing that song in those circumstances.

Most of all, he could remember Justin, in all his perfection: skin like pale satin, face flushed with need, exquisite lips rough and swollen with passion, pupils dilated and rimmed with sapphire, warm breath tasting uniquely Justin, body trembling with anticipation.

He had knelt at the foot of the bed and found it almost impossible to catch his breath as he surveyed the feast laid out before him, his cock steel-hard and twitching as he tried to resist an overwhelming urge to simply leap forward and plunder that soft, yielding body. Justin had smiled, knowing exactly what was in store for him, reading Brian as easily as a printed page, and biting his lip, barely able to contain his desire.

Brian had crawled forward, and draped himself over that supple body, easing himself down and fitting himself into the v between his lover's legs, hardness meeting hardness. He had closed his eyes then, indulging a need to memorize the sensation, to store it up so that he would be able to call it up. When it was gone.

For he had known the truth, even then, even when he'd determined that he would not speak of it. In just two days, Justin would be gone, and the 'For Sale' signs would go up in front of the house. 'Britin' would revert to what it had been before - just another big country house, with a tennis court and swimming pool and stables - and no one would ever realize what it might have become.

For a while, they had simply gazed into each other's eyes, neither quite sure what to say. After a time, Brian had leaned in and begun exploring the face, the mouth, the body that he loved so well, saying with actions what he chose not to say with words. Then Justin had turned the tables, and pushed Brian over onto his back so that he could proceed to initiate his own exploration of the exquisite body beneath him.

They had taken their time, stretching out the experience until finally, unable to hold off any longer, Justin had slipped a condom over Brian's leaking cock, greased it with a liberal portion of lube, and then lifted his body until he was in position to push down and impale himself, gasping as he felt the rigid hardness breach the first ring of muscle. Then he had pressed down, until he was filled, ignoring the initial pain until it gave way before the first wave of euphoria, when he began to ride, leaning forward periodically to explore Brian's mouth with lips and tongue, until desperate need compelled him to move faster and push harder. At that point, Brian had gripped him with bruising hands and held him firm while he thrust up into molten tightness, thrusting harder and harder still until they had both fallen over the edge of rapture, into a star-struck landscape of mindless oblivion.

Afterwards, they had lain together in silence, neither knowing what to say, both sensing that it was a good-bye of one sort or another.

The house would survive perfectly well without them. The only question - unasked - was whether they would survive without the house.

In the end, it had been Brian who extinguished the fire and doused the lights and locked the door behind them as they walked out of the house for the last time.

It had been Brian who never looked back. Not even once.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Brian wasn't sleeping - exactly. Instead, he was drifting between planes of existence, floating on a layer of intravenous painkiller and exploring a painfully reconstructed memory. It was preferable, for the moment, to inhabiting reality, but he knew it couldn't last.

When he gradually became aware of muted words and whispered exchanges in the room around him, he felt a momentary urge to sink deeper within himself and allow sleep to take him, to avoid the necessity of re-entering the moment.

Only he couldn't quite convince himself. It was a matter of taking the coward's way out and postponing the inevitable, so he took a moment to reinforce his resolve before reaching for full consciousness, bracing for what lay ahead.

But he would allow himself one tiny indulgence, one infinite moment of time suspended before stepping into the next phase of his life. He was careful not to move a single muscle, to allow his eyes to open only slightly. Just enough to see the face of the individual who was standing at his bedside, eyes moving down the length of his body. Just enough to revel in the gentle stroke of fingers trailing across a patch of bare skin on his bicep - a touch he was pretty sure he would never experience again.

God! Why must the little twat always be so beautiful? Why couldn't that beauty at least begin to fade, so that it would not be quite so painful to behold? He was frowning, of course, blue eyes dark with concern, undoubtedly distressed by what he saw, but there was no mistaking the faint smile just touching those perfect lips. A smile that said he was glad to be home, glad to be in this place, glad to be at the side of the man he still loved, regardless of the circumstances.

Brian knew that Justin did love him, only not - quite - enough. Not even close to enough to compensate for everything it would cost to indulge it. That was what had sent him to New York, and to Hollywood before that, and to his twink fiddler even before that. The love was real. But it had never been enough, and it sure as hell wasn't enough now to justify risking life and limb.

It was time, he knew; the only course of action open to him was to close the door on the past and lock it tight enough to assure that it could never be re-opened.

He opened his eyes and waited to see how long it would take before anyone noticed; he took advantage of the short-lived chance to look his fill.

It didn't take long at all.

"You're awake." There wasn't a trace of uncertainty in Justin's comment. "Are you . . ."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice was scratchy, slightly hoarse, but steady enough.

"Nice to see you too," the blond replied with a smirk, leaning forward as if to drop a kiss on the patient's forehead.

But Brian managed to flinch away from contact, and spoke again, voice cold and distant. "Why aren't you in Pago Pago, or wherever the fuck you're supposed to be?"

Justin's smirk morphed into a smile that spoke volumes, that said he didn't give a shit how annoyed Brian might be that he'd ignored the warnings and the prohibition and come anyway. "This is where I'm supposed to be."

Brian moved his head slightly, his eyes sweeping once around the room to see who was present, stopping briefly on the faces of Justin's mother and his best friend, before moving on to read the sadness in Cynthia's eyes. She appeared to be the only one who had any idea what lay ahead, and he was briefly sorry he'd felt compelled to make her a part of this.

"Why?" he snapped.

"Why what?" Justin was still smiling.

"Why do you think you should be here?"

"Because we're . . ."

"What? Committed?" Cold, clipped, sneering. "You've said that to me before, you know. Only, it didn't last very long, did it? It was only a couple of months before you were jetting off to Hollywood to grab your share of the good life there. And then, when they tossed you out on your ass, you came crawling back . . . for a while. But that didn't last either, because you got your little heart broken again, so you decided to run off to live with the Stepford fags. And then, after I went temporarily insane and let myself be suckered into offering to marry you, you had to go chase your dream to seek fame and fortune in New York. Did it ever occur to you that I might eventually get tired of your shit and find myself a new blond boy-ass to fill my bed and suck my cock?" He paused and closed his eyes, knowing it was a cowardly thing to do, but unable to stop himself. "It wasn't all that hard to do, you know."

"I know what you're doing," Justin said quickly. "We go through this every time something happens to you, when you don't want me to . . ."

"How about if I just don't want you . . . period. Fuck you, you little shit. I don't need you. I never did. The only reason I kept you around was because you were a hell of a fuck. That's all."

"Brian," said Jennifer Taylor, obviously confused and reluctant to interfere, but unwilling to see her son treated so, "stop this. You don't mean this, and . . ."

"Why does everyone assume I'm incapable of speaking for myself? I'm tired of this shit. I was right from the very beginning. I never should have let myself buy into the whole 'love and marriage' bullshit." He turned and looked straight into Justin's eyes, steeling himself against the misery rising there. "I don't love you, and I don't want you here. I decided to cut you loose the last time you turned tail and ran. Now get out. Go back to your rich, sugar-daddy, Wall Street banker and your Greenwich Village-Boho lifestyle. You should never have come back."

But it still wasn't enough. Even though there were tears in his eyes, Justin was still shaking his head. "Being mean to me has never worked," he whispered. "You're not getting rid of me."

"I already did. Yesterday's fuck. Does that ring a bell for you at all?"

"You're just saying this," Justin said slowly, fighting hard to hold on to his composure, "because you're scared for me. And you don't want to be a burden for me. It's what you always do. I know you too well."

"You don't know me at all." There wasn't a single nuance of warmth in Brian's tone. "I've moved on, Justin. I've done what I should have done a long time ago. You should have done the same."

"I don't believe you."

Brian was momentarily grateful that his face was swathed in bandages, for he wasn't sure he could have managed to conceal how much it hurt to proceed to the next step. He lifted his hand and beckoned Cynthia to come forward. "Tell him," he snapped.

Cynthia had watched the exchange between the two former lovers with growing dread, hoping against hope that her participation would not be required, that Brian would be proven wrong in his assumption that he knew how Justin would react in this situation. But she sighed as she prepared to recite the lines she'd been given, realizing that she should have known better. Nobody knew Justin better than Brian, and if he hadn't been completely sure, he never would have asked her in the first place.

"Justin," she said slowly, looking down at her hands and obviously unwilling to meet his eyes.

"I said, 'tell him'," Brian snapped.

Cynthia nodded. "He . . . found someone new. After you left."

"So?" Justin retorted, his jaw set in stubborn resistance. "Isn't there always someone new? Every fucking day?"

"Not like this one," she answered gently. "This one . . . he keeps this one around."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Jesus Christ!" Brian snapped. "What did you expect? That I'd spend the rest of my life grieving over you? That I'd go into mourning and wind up alone and heartbroken? Don't fucking flatter yourself. I'm Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. I don't do heartbroken. I picked myself up, dusted myself off . . . and went out and found the perfect man for me - the perfect fuck who knows how lucky he is to have me. That's something you never managed to learn. Now - for the last time - get the fuck out of my sight."

"So where is he?" Even now, even reeling under the emotional assault, the young man still had the courage to fight back, to demand, and Brian could barely breathe around the pain in his heart. "If he loves you so much, where is he?"

"Where I want him to be. Where he's safe," he snapped. "Where nobody can get to him. Unlike you. So, if you're smart, you'll haul ass out of here, before you get mistaken for somebody who matters to me."

It was at that moment that Matt Keller walked into the room, just in time to hear the end of the conversation. His eyes, very green and glinting with understanding, locked with those of his patient and conveyed that Brian was going to owe him - big time - for his timely intervention.

"What's going on here?" he asked sternly. "He doesn't need anyone upsetting him, you know. So I suggest you all leave."

Brian deliberately turned his head toward the window, away from the young man who was still staring down at him. He didn't want to see any more, didn't want to say any more. Didn't want to be any more. But there was no avoiding hearing the last thing Justin would say before accepting defeat and turning to walk away.

"I love you, Brian," said the young blond, barely audible voice thick with unshed tears. "I'll always love you."

That was all, except for the flurry of footsteps and a quick whisper from Daphne. "Fuck you, Brian!"

Then they were gone, and the silence in the room after their departure was profound and heavy. Matt Keller busied himself for a moment with studying the patient's chart, while Lance Mathis made a quick call on his cell phone, before taking up his post at the doorway to make sure no one else could gain entrance.

Only Cynthia dared to approach the bed and stare down at her boss, saying nothing, but waiting until he decided to acknowledge her presence. When he did, with nothing more than a shift to allow him to meet her eyes, she did not flinch away from the misery she read in his gaze.

"Sometimes," she said softly, "I really, really hate you."

He could only sigh and touch her hand with trembling fingers, knowing exactly how she felt. "Yeah. Me too."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*"The Best Is Yet to Come" - Cynthia Di Mari Biggs, Dexter Wansel

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was not yet noon, but the diner was already filling up with the early lunch crowd, and all the usual suspects were ensconced in all the usual places.

As usual.

Emmett was struck with a not-so-silly notion that this tacky little diner with its ever-changing array of tacky little seasonal decorations was more home to 'the gang' than any residence would ever be.

Debbie was behind the counter, dishing out pea soup and lemon bars and cheeky, down-and-dirty wisdom in equal portions between bouts of an ongoing gossip session with her friend Ida and one of the diner regulars, a beat cop who was studying the lunch menu scrawled on the chalk board near the serving window.

In their regular booth, Ben, Michael, and Hunter were seated across from Lindsey and Melanie, with the professor and the lawyer exchanging enthusiastic comments about the latest pro-gay legislation in Canada while lamenting the newest efforts by anti-gay fundamentalist Christians in Pennsylvania to compel inclusion of a rewritten Prop 14 on the next election ballot. The back-and-forth between the two was almost - but not quite - enough to compensate for the brooding silence of the remaining three, and the hard glint in Melanie's eyes suggested that she was close to reaching the end of her emotional rope and erupting into one of her customary take-no-prisoners assaults.

Nevertheless, neither Michael nor Lindsey seemed to be paying much attention, and Hunter appeared lost in thoughts of his own.

In the next booth, Blake was regarding Ted with an indulgent semi-smile, schooling himself to overlook the faint but undeniable notes of cattiness threading through the accountant's current rant about his employer. The abuse counselor knew it was just Ted's method for coping with things he could not yet comprehend or accept - a self-defense mechanism that would subside once the current crisis was past - but he hoped the passing would come sooner rather than later as the refrain had become increasingly abrasive throughout the morning. Still, he assumed the tirade would end quickly, once Ted worked his way through his resentment of feeling relegated to secondary status while Cynthia had been Brian's primary spokesperson throughout this entire debacle.

Meanwhile, across the table, hunched into the corner of the booth, Emmett was stirring his coffee and savoring its warmth. It might be spring outside, but there was still a chunk of raw ice residing in his chest that showed no signs of thawing. He would have preferred to pretend it was nothing more than a facet of the climate - but he knew better.

And so did Calvin, who was concentrating on ignoring Ted's continuous monolog and regarding his old friend with a sweet, tentative smile.

"You look tired, Honey."

Emmett frowned. "I am, I guess. A little bit, anyway."

Calvin nodded, but continued to study Emmett's face, trying without success to read the expression lurking in those dark, hooded eyes. "But that's not what's bothering you. Is it?"

Emmett dredged up a smile. "Of course, it is. What else would it be?"

That was a cue for Ted to pause in mid-tirade and turn his attention to the individual he would always consider his best friend. "Why don't you tell us?" he asked, not bothering to try to conceal his testy attitude. "You've been moping over something, ever since you got ... "

"Bashed?" Emmett provided the word that Ted apparently could not say. "You call it moping; I call it something else."

"Such as?" There was only a faint nuance of a sneer in Ted's tone, but Emmett heard it as clearly as a clarion call.

His eyes darkened, shadows reforming and growing denser. "Re-thinking things," he replied evenly. "It's amazing what a little near-death experience can do to a person's perspective."

Ted did not - quite - resort to rolling his eyes. "Very profound. Don't think too hard or you might strain something."

Emmett blinked, as both Michael and Ben turned around to listen and to check out the look on Emmett's face, in response to Ted's snarky remark. It was immediately obvious that the young man understood the motivations behind Ted's caustic commentary, and was striving to retain his composure. He knew Ted - better than almost anyone else did - and he realized that the snarkiness was just a means to avoid a loss of control and an emotional meltdown. But that didn't make putting up with it any easier.

"Hey!" said Ben, raising his voice to be heard over the babble in the diner while Emmett remained silent. "Something like this should give us all cause to think twice."

"About what?" Ted snapped, and only Blake was watching closely enough to note that his hands were trembling. "What's really changed? Homophobes have been around forever, and going after somebody like Brian . . . well, it's just miraculous that nobody ever nailed him before. After all, it could have been any of us."

"Could it?" asked Emmett finally, staring down into ink-black coffee. "I wonder."

"Meaning what?" The conversations around them had begun to fall silent as Ted's level of annoyance - and his volume - had grown, while Blake seemed increasingly distressed.

"Meaning," Emmett said softly, apparently once more intent on defining the exact color of the semi-sludge in his cup, "that he's not like the rest of us. Not really."

"Oh, puh-leeze!" At this point, everyone in the group understood that Ted had lost whatever small degree of patience he'd had left. "Don't tell me you're going to buy into this whole 'Brian Kinney Mystique' crap. You're just getting your knickers in a twist over that fricking photo-shopped bullshit in the tabloids."

Emmett's gaze was steady as he studied Ted's face, and, once more, he fell silent for a while, debating whether or not to point out what he knew to be true - that the images in the tabloid had been accurate and unretouched. Ultimately, he decided to leave that issue unaddressed and allow the group to seek solace in their delusions should they choose to do so. At the same time, he refused to be intimidated by Ted's petty malice. "Did you hear the things Cynthia said to us yesterday? Did any of it register, or did everyone just ignore it? Like always?"

"What the fuck . . ."

"She said," Emmett continued, "that none of us knew Brian. I've been wondering . . ."

"Wondering what?" asked Michael, very quietly.

"If she was right. Or if she might . . . become right from this day forward." He took a sip of his coffee.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" demanded Melanie, lips twisted into a sneer. "If anybody was ever more of a fucking open book than Brian Kinney, I can't imagine who it might be."

Emmett and Ben both turned to stare at her, while Michael and Lindsey looked at each other.

"He's different," said Emmett slowly. "I can't explain it exactly. But I know it's true. He's not the same. Something is . . . off."

"What's off?" asked Debbie, delivering a pink plate special to the next table before turning to join in the conversation.

"Brian," answered Ben, worried eyes resting on Michael's face. "Emmett thinks . . ."

"Since when has Brian not been off?" laughed the Liberty Diner diva.

But Michael understood exactly what Emmett meant. "I don't know, Ma," he said softly. "It feels different this time. Everything could . . . change."

Debbie paused for a moment, something pale and formless rising in her eyes, before wading in with her customary determination to dismiss any suggestion that she might not know Brian Kinney as well as she thought she did. She had, after all, made a semi-career of trying to cut him down to size - even if he'd always refused to stay cut - and she had no intention of looking at him from a different perspective now. So she huffed a half-laugh before offering up her rebuttal. "He hasn't changed since he was fourteen years old, and he's not about to ..."

To everyone's surprise, it was Hunter who spoke up, cutting off the observation she'd been repeating, in one form or another, for more than a decade. "You know something? You people really are amazing. Some of you have known him for longer than I've been alive; I've known him for - what, three years max? - and I've seen huge changes in him, just in that short time. But you - you all manage to see exactly what you expect to see, what you've always seen. Makes me wonder if any of you ever really saw him at all. And now - the only one of you who's actually talked to him since all this shit started, is trying to tell you that something's different. And you don't want to hear it."

It was Ben who turned to study the look in his son's eyes, while Michael's gaze shifted out into the brilliance of the midday vista beyond the windows, but it was anybody's guess what he was really seeing. Meanwhile, Ben lifted a gentle hand to touch Hunter's face. "When did you get so smart?" he asked with a smile.

"If Emmett's right," the boy continued, "then it could make a big difference - in all your lives."

When the entire group - except Emmett - turned to stare at him, he easily read the denial in their eyes, and he laughed. "Christ! You don't even know, do you? He's the center that holds you all together. Whether you like him, or you love him, or you resent him, or you hate him" - a quick look at Melanie punctuated that observation - "without him, you've lost the tie that binds you all together."

Most of them were instantly ready to dispute his words, to deny the possibility - to disbelieve - and a couple of them, of course, were incensed at the very idea.

Except . . .

Inside, beneath the bravado and the scoffing and the need to deny, every one of them was aware of a tiny core of uncertainty. A tiny little voice that could only whisper two words.

What if . . .

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You don't have to stay." Brian's voice was rough, tremulous, barely audible.

Both Cynthia and Lance Mathis stood at the foot of his bed and regarded him with steady, unflinching eyes. "Maybe she doesn't," Mathis replied calmly, "but I'm not budging."

He carefully avoided noticing the poisonous glance Cynthia directed toward him, while observing that it was amazing that a man swathed almost head to toe in bandages could manage to convey simmering rage through nothing more than the flash of hooded eyes.

"Didn't we just have a detailed discussion about your primary responsibilities?" Brian snapped, voice suddenly full and firm, with only the faintest indication of the pain it cost him to speak so forcefully.

"We did, and I've got it covered. I'm not going anywhere."

Matt Keller looked up from his study of the data displayed on a cardiac monitor array. "Unless," he said, "he says otherwise."

"Doctor," Mathis began, "you can't . . ."

Keller's smile was cold. "Want to bet?" He stepped forward and laid a gentle hand atop Brian's shoulder. "Whatever you may think, Mr. Mathis, in this realm, the patient is the crown prince."

Brian turned slightly to stare up into the face of his old friend. "And what does that make you?"

Keller grinned. "King of the hill - and the only one who can over-rule you."

"I'm not leaving," Mathis repeated, crossing his arms and regarding the doctor with a defiant gaze.

Brian took a deep, painful breath. "It's all right, Matt," he said finally. "In the end, there's no way to hide this mess. Is there?"

Keller hiked himself onto the edge of the bed and promptly forgot about everything and everyone in the room - except his patient.

"How bad?" Faint or not, there was no mistaking the determination underlying those two simple syllables.

"Bad enough. But not irreparable."

Brian sniffed. "Bullshit! You might be the snow-job master, Old Friend, but you've never once managed to snow me. Don't even think about trying now. I want . . ."

"The truth," Matt interrupted. "You think I'd try to give you anything less?"

Brian's eyes were dark, but his gaze was steady. "I think you might, if you weren't sure I could handle it."

Matt sighed. "That's one thing I've never wondered about. Brian Kinney always handles the truth."

Brian closed his eyes. "Even when it's ugly," he said softly. "So just spill it."

Keller nodded. "No point in me giving you chapter and verse of the damage. You can take a look at the chart, if you like. Suffice to say the list is long and complicated: skull fracture with concussion, punctured lung, plenty of broken bones - ribs, clavicle, arm, hand, ankle, jaw, cheekbone. Multiple lacerations to your gallbladder, so we had to remove it. Major blood loss, torn ligaments, severe bruising to internal organs. Any or all of that could be considered major damage, but it's all begun to heal, largely because you were in fantastic physical condition to begin with. If you hadn't been, you'd be dead today. And there is some good news. You have some strained muscles and a dislocated shoulder, but there's no discernible damage to your spine. You're going to need some extensive physical therapy but should regain full motion eventually in your hand and wrist. And, although there's no way to be sure yet, I don't see any indications of major nerve damage. In time, everything can be fixed."

Brian didn't say anything for a while; he just continued to stare at his old college friend . . . and waited. Then he sighed, and phrased his question with utmost efficiency. "Except?"

Keller drew a deep breath. "I won't lie to you, Brian. The bastards did a hell of a number on you. The damage to your face - your body . . . it's extensive. You've got a long road ahead of you."

Brian turned away then, and looked out the window, his eyes caught by a jetstream slowly dissipating across the blue vault of heaven. "A long road," he repeated. "To where? To reach a point where the mother of my child can stand to look at me without flinching? Or where my good friends can congratulate themselves on tolerating my appearance so they can indulge a chance to gloat over - what was the phrase - 'how the mighty have fallen'?"

Keller folded his arms and waited until Brian decided to look up once more and meet his gaze. "You know me better than that," said the doctor. "Do you really think I'm going to let that happen?"

Brian felt the quick twinge of the smile he could not quite muster. "Despite your own inflated opinion of yourself, you're not God! You can't fix this."

The physician frowned. "You're right. I can't."

Brian looked down quickly - but not quite quickly enough to prevent the doctor from noting the shadow of despair forming in his eyes. He was quiet for a while, his breathing jerky and rough. Then he looked up again, and Matt felt a heaviness around his heart as the despair was replaced by grim resolve. "Thanks, Doc. Anyone else would have tried to soften the blow. I appreciate that you didn't. So - now I just have to figure out what to do next. Maybe I can find myself a stylish mask and scout out a basement under the local opera house. But whatever I do, I need some time to think, so, if you don't mind . . ."

"But I do mind," Keller interrupted. "Because I'm not done. I've admitted that I can't fix this. But I didn't say that it can't be fixed. And if you're going to accept this - just sit there and feel sorry for yourself - then I only have one question. Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Brian Kinney?"

"What the hell can I do?" It was not quite a snarl, but close enough to put a smile on the doctor's face.

"You can do what you always do - what you've been doing all your life. You can give 'em all the big 'Fuck you!' You can refuse to quit. You can fight."

Brian closed his eyes. "Matt," he whispered, barely audible, "I'm tired."

"I know," replied the physician, his fingers closing around Brian's hand. "And I'm sorry - because it's not going to get any better, anytime soon. But . . ."

Brian opened his eyes then, and found Matt's face just inches away, beautiful green eyes bright with promise. "But what?"

"You're not going to have to do it alone, this time. And I'm not going to let you give up. I promise you. You're still Brian Kinney, and you will be beautiful again. And, in the process, maybe you'll learn something you should have learned a long time ago."

"Like what?"

Keller smiled; the note of suspicion in the clipped response was very faint, but it was enough to confirm what he'd been hoping to find in his old friend. The body was damaged; the flesh was weak - but the spirit was still there, waiting to resurge.

"Like being 'Brian Kinney' doesn't have a fucking thing to do with how you look."

"Of course." That couldn't possibly be a pale hint of laughter in that hoarse whisper - could it? "It's what's inside that counts. Right?"

After a beat of silence, Matt Keller burst out laughing. "Okay," he admitted, after taking a moment to regain control of himself, "so that's a pretty stupid comment, all things considered. But that's not really what I meant, anyway. I hope you know how hard it was for me to admit that I, personally, can't 'fix you', as you put it. But I do know who can. He's an arrogant bastard, and a first class prick with delusions of godhood, and, if he stepped in front of my car in the express lane on the freeway, I wouldn't even slow down. But . . . he has one saving grace. For this - for what you need - he's the best there is - anywhere - and he can do what I can't." He leaned forward then, and touched his forehead to Brian's shoulder. "He can restore what they took from you. He can make sure the bastards don't win."

Brian turned his head, brushing his brow against his old friend's cheek, before pulling back to regard him steadily, refusing to flinch away from the dark truth reflected in green eyes. "How long?" he asked finally.

The doctor huffed a sigh and managed a tiny, lopsided smile. "I don't really know. I can tell you that you're looking at several months before your injuries are healed. Probably several more before the therapy is completed. But the only one who can make an educated guess about the rest is Rick Turnage. He's flying in tomorrow."

"He's really that good?"

Keller grinned. "He's almost as good as he thinks he is. Reminds me of somebody else I know."

"Does that mean . . ."

The grin became a chuckle. "Yep. You're probably going to hate each other's guts."

"So . . . why should I trust him? And why do you?"

"Because he's a driven man. The only thing that means anything to him - anything at all - is to be the best, the most skilled plastic surgeon in the world, and he's spent his whole life looking for the one challenge that will prove that he is. And I think . . . I really believe . . . it's going to be you."

Brian's eyes were suddenly filled with uncertainty, but he did not verbalize his misgivings. In truth, he wasn't sure he could, because he wasn't sure what it was about the whole scenario of Rick Turnage as savior that bothered him.

Keller lingered for a moment, trying to determine if Brian understood what he'd been told, but, in the end, he just got to his feet and moved off. He had provided all the information he could; the rest would be up to Turnage. And Brian. The physician allowed himself a tiny smile as it occurred to him that the plastic surgeon was about to find out that one never realized one's dearest ambition without paying a hell of a price.

The room was quiet for a while, as Brian pondered what he'd been told. Then he looked up and noticed Cynthia watching him carefully, glints of renewed hope flickering in her eyes. He looked away quickly, but could not quite suppress the surge of anger that engulfed him. False hope was something he would not encourage.

He did manage, however, to conceal his disquiet quickly - to camouflage it as something else. "Cynthia," he said, lifting a hand to summon her closer, "I need you to do something for me. I forgot to ask Lindsey something. Would you see if you can locate her?"

Cynthia frowned, and regarded him with some small degree of suspicion. "Why don't you just call her cell phone?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Because this is something private, something about Gus that we need to discuss, face to face. Please?"

She moved around to the left side of the bed, ignoring Matt Keller, ignoring Lance Mathis, ignoring everyone and everything except the man who was the primary mover and shaker in her world.

"I'm not leaving," she whispered, bending forward so no one else could hear. "Do you really think there is anything - anything - that would make me turn my back on you? Do you think your looks make any difference to me? After what you did for me? Do you really think I'm that shallow, Brian?"

He stared up at her, and knew it was time to concede defeat. It had been almost two years since the event - the 'what you did for me' - had happened, and he could count the number of times either of them had ever referred to it on the fingers of one hand, so he knew this was her way of pulling out the big guns. He might be able to fool the rest of his extended family, to bully them, or manipulate them, or deceive them. But it wouldn't work with her; she knew him too well, knew the man beneath the façade as almost no one else did. Still, he'd give it one more shot. "You don't have anything to prove to me," he said solemnly. "And there's no need for you to have to see . . ."

"Shut - up. And do what you have to."

He hesitated; then he nodded before turning his head to regard Matt Keller with a steady gaze. "Show me."

There was no room for argument in either words or manner, but the doctor did not move to obey.

"Brian, I don't think this is a good idea."

"I know you don't, but do it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I need to see what they did to me. I need to know how much they hated me. So you either take the bandages off now, or I do it myself. Which is it?"

Keller didn't bother trying to conceal his irritation. "Fuck, Brian!"

"In your dreams," replied Brian, and Keller had no trouble visualizing the smirk hidden beneath the bandages. "Now are you going to . . ."

"All right, all right. Keep your pants on."

Lance Mathis grinned. "Bet that's not something you hear too often."

"Fuck!" said Brian. "Everybody's a God-damned comedian."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Woody's - pool hall, barroom, and gay watering hole par excellence - was never really empty, but, in mid-afternoon, it was relatively deserted and a pretty good place for sharing a quiet - or not-so-quiet - conversation. And, in this case, it would allow Emmett to kill two birds with one stone - so to speak. If one could wrap one's mind around the notion of identifying two very different but equally awkward confrontations as 'birds'.

Drew Boyd had called first, requesting a face-to-face sit-down, and Emmett had only hesitated for a moment. Caleb had patients scheduled all afternoon, and Darren had persuaded his cousin to fill in for Emmett for a few days in their party-planning partnership, to allow Emmett time to heal, physically and emotionally. So his time was his own, until the middle of the following week when he would have to climb back on the proverbial horse and finish planning the Berlinger/Rabelais wedding that was to be the social event of the spring season. Weddings by Auntie Em had become the new haute status symbol for Pittsburgh society, but he did not spare the time to reflect on how satisfying it was to have become the premier social event planner of the area. In spite of his success, he never really thought of himself as anything other than a little piece of hick/trash from Hazlehurst, Mississippi.

It was an opinion which would stay with him throughout his life, despite the fact that he would be loved deeply and wholeheartedly by people who knew better.

He had agreed to meet with Drew at mid-afternoon. The quarterback had been diffident during their conversation, requesting rather than demanding, determined but prepared to accept 'no' for an answer, if necessary, which, of course, insured that Emmett could not possibly deny him.

The second call had been far less subdued or polite.

Justin had been . . . loud and abrasive and almost rude. And panic-stricken. He had not said much beyond, "I need to see you. Right now." But what he had not said had conveyed much more than the words he did speak. His voice had been raw and hoarse, as if he'd been screaming. Or crying.

Emmett was no fool; he knew immediately what had happened and why Justin was so devastated. What he didn't know was whether or not he could figure out how to fix the problem, or if, indeed, he should even try. Brian's motives for the actions he was taking were complex and not easily explained, and more was at stake here than protecting someone from the rage and outrage of homophobic monsters.

He thought back to the conversation they'd shared in the waning hours before this current nightmare had begun, and understood that it wasn't only bodies that were at risk; it was hearts. Souls perhaps. Lives - to be lost or gained on the whim of a moment.

Emmett wondered if he could get away with faking a sudden bout of appendicitis. But Drew - damn him - was right on time, and the opportunity died aborning.

When they were seated at one of the tables at the rear of the room, Emmett with his signature Cosmo and the quarterback with a shot glass and a bottle of Chivas, neither seemed to know how to open the conversation. Emmett sipped at his drink, unaccountably nervous, before taking a deep breath and looking directly into sable-dark eyes.

"Not to be a stickler for protocol," he said with a smile, "but you called me, Honey Chile. So what was so urgent?"

For a moment, it appeared that Drew might be content with just gazing into Emmett's eyes, as he was suddenly swept into memories that he had kept under lock and key for over a year. "I wanted you to be the first to know," he said finally, lifting his shot glass as if to propose a toast.

"Know what?"

Drew leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Emmett's mouth. "It's my birthday," he whispered.

Emmett sighed. "Yes, well, unfortunately, we all have one of those every year, you know. So . . ."

"Not like this. If you stop and think, you'll remember that you were the one who told me to call you . . . for this one."

Emmett, in the process of taking a sip from his Cosmo, gulped as he grasped the deeper meaning beneath Drew's supposedly casual announcement, and choked on the sweet liquid, turning rose red, and gasping to catch his breath.

As a diversion from the intensity of the moment, spluttering around a vodka and cranberry juice cocktail left a lot to be desired, thought Emmett, but it had done the trick well enough. When he managed to regain his composure, they were both able to smile and ease back a bit from the brink of emotional overload.

"You mean it?" Emmett asked finally, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. Though entirely focused on whatever answer Drew might provide, he found that he could not - quite - bring himself to look directly into the athlete's eyes.

Drew leaned forward and folded Emmett's left hand into both of his own. "I have never meant anything more," he replied. "You know me, Em. I'm not good with words. I don't have a clue how to make you understand how much it means to me that you were willing to give me the time to get to know myself, as a gay man. To explore and learn about the new world that opened up to me once I was finally able to come out.

"But I have explored it now. I have learned. And I won't lie to you and claim that I didn't enjoy the hell out of the experience. Only . . ."

"Only what?" Emmett was surprised to find that he was almost holding his breath, barely able to contain his need to hear the rest.

"Only, after a while, you begin to understand that all the gorgeous guys in the world don't make up for the one you really want, the one you can't stop thinking about, the one that means more than any fuck." He paused and dropped a quick kiss on the tips of Emmett's fingers. "The one that makes you feel . . . whole."

Emmett closed his eyes, not yet willing to be overwhelmed by the emotional surge rising within him. He could not afford to be swept away, only to find that he had allowed himself to hear what he wanted to hear, rather than what his one-time lover was actually saying. "And that would be . . . who?"

Drew grinned. "You gonna make me say it?"

Emmett tilted his head and put on his very best Lana-Turner arch expression. "I think I've earned the right to hear it."

The grin became a rough chuckle. "Yeah. You have. So here goes. After sampling all the joys the gay world has to offer, I've finally come to my senses and realized that all I want . . . is you, Emmett." Then he frowned. "But I understand that you might not feel the same. You gave me the freedom to find out what I really wanted, and I'd be a piss-poor excuse for a man if I didn't do the same for you. I know you're with Calvin now. He seems like a nice guy, even though he's not nearly good enough for you. But then, I don't think anybody is good enough for you. Including me. But I just felt that telling you was the right thing to do. You don't owe me anything. Not even an answer, if you don't want to give one. I just wanted you to know."

And, having said his piece, the big athlete pushed back from the table and stood up.

Emmett looked up at him, at a loss for words, perhaps for the first time in his life. "Wait!" he managed finally, as Drew turned to move away.

The football player froze, but remained silent. He had said everything there was to say; it was up to Emmett to decide if anything more was needed.

"What did Brian tell you?"

Drew couldn't quite conceal his surprise at what he perceived as an off-the-wall change of subject. "What?"

"What-did-Brian-say-to-you?" Each word was distinct and bitten off, crisp and to the point.

"Why does that matter?" The quarterback was obviously uncertain about the meaning of this turn in the conversation, but he did settle back into his chair, intrigued in spite of himself.

"It matters," said Emmett slowly, "because I need to be sure that this declaration isn't just a ruse to allow you to stay close to me and make sure I don't get bashed again. I know Brian blames himself for what happened to me. Hell, I'm beginning to think he always blames himself for everything, all the way back to original sin. So much so that I think it's entirely possible that he threatened your life if you don't take it upon yourself to watch over me."

Drew's smile almost - but not quite - camouflaged the flash of annoyance in night-dark eyes. "Do you really think I'd be scared of anything Brian Kinney might say to me?"

Emmett shrugged, unintimidated. "I don't know. He scares the shit out of me sometimes."

The quarterback was startled into a snort of laughter. "Okay," he admitted. "I see your point."

"So, what did he say to you?"

Drew hesitated, choosing to look down at the hands he was clasping on the table rather than to meet Emmett's questioning gaze. Then he sighed. "He said it was time to get my head out of my ass and reach out for what I really want - before it's too late."

Emmett's initial response was a slow blink. He remained silent for a while, and when he did choose to speak, he was careful to avoid any inflection in tone or voice. "And was he right?"

Drew smiled. "He's a smart little fucker. Too smart, sometimes."

"Sooooo, you're . . ."

"Emmett, do you love Calvin?"

Again, Emmett blinked. "And if I do?"

"Then this conversation is over," Drew replied gently. "I didn't tell you this to hurt you, or to make you feel obligated or guilty. I just wanted you to know how I feel, so . . ."

He rose again, and this time he wasted no time in starting to walk away.

"I don't, you know."

Drew paused in mid-stride, uncertain of whether to stay or go, uncertain of anything except how much depended on what Emmett might say next. "Don't what?"

Emmett stood up and moved around the table, stepping forward and deliberately invading the big man's personal space. "I don't know how you feel, and I don't . . . love Calvin." He paused and was forced to look away for a moment, to pretend he couldn't read the bright flicker of relief in Drew's dark eyes. "And, just to be totally upfront about it, he doesn't love me either. He's a good friend - and a great fuck - but we both knew from the start that this was never meant to be a forever-thing."

Drew smiled, and slowly slipped his arms around Emmett's waist, stifling an impulse to disagree with his lover's assessment of Calvin's feelings. He was pretty sure that Emmett was wrong; he had seen and recognized the emotion in Culpepper's face while watching the two old friends sharing an intimate moment. But he figured it was best to let this particular sleeping dog lie. "So, if you don't love him . . ."

Emmett's smile was slightly coy. "I'm feeling a little unsettled here. Things have been really weird lately, and I'm just a little . . ."

"I love you, Emmett." Drew's voice was steady, filled with certainly. "I think I knew it from the beginning, but I wasn't ready to deal with it. Now, I am. But only if it's what you want." He smiled and lifted a hand to cup Emmett's cheek. "I think I've learned something from a . . ." The smile grew slightly sardonic, "mutual acquaintance, about what love is - and isn't. I know now that it shouldn't be a prison cell. That's not love; that's possession. I love you, and all I want is to make you happy. And safe - and, just incidentally, to fuck you into next week. At your convenience, of course."

Emmett grinned. "Would right now be too soon?"

Drew sobered abruptly, as he gazed into Emmett's eyes, searching for reassurance, for confirmation - for an end to loneliness. "Then . . ."

There was no more uncertainty when Emmett responded. "I think I loved you the moment I first saw you. Even when you pissed me off by acting like a homophobic prick. And I think I always will."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Emmett could not quite suppress a sigh. "That," he replied, looking up to watch as two new arrivals walked through the front door.

The big Nelly-bottom had to fight off an urge to grab his old/new lover and go racing out the rear exit. Judging by the look on the face of the young man who was charging toward him, wide-eyed best friend in tow, it was obvious that his second meeting was not going to be nearly so satisfying as his first.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The silence inside the hospital room was so intense that noises from the street below barely penetrated air that felt as thick as a blanket as Brian stared at his reflection in the large hand mirror Nurse Beck held at the proper angle and distance for him to be able to examine the condition of his face.

To their credit, neither Cynthia nor Lance Mathis had uttered a single sound nor allowed the tiniest flicker of expression to touch their faces when Dr. Keller had removed the last of the bandages and stepped away to allow the nurse access to the patient. Exhibiting an admirable degree of professionalism, Beck had gently and efficiently cleaned the wounds before taking the mirror from Keller's hand and positioning it for Brian's convenience.

The four observers all experienced exactly the same reaction to watching the patient's first glimpse of his own appearance; they all wished to be elsewhere, to not have to see the darkness of despair rising in hazel eyes - the only reaction Brian allowed himself. He did not flinch, did not gasp, did not look away. Did not speak or sigh or weep. He just looked, turning his face slightly, from side to side, to get a better view.

Then he nodded to the nurse and turned away.

"I need to speak to Dr. Keller," he said, his voice very soft but completely steady. "Alone."

"Brian," Cynthia began, the spontaneous clinching of her hands the only indication of the level of her distress, "you don't . . ."

"Alone," he repeated - still softly, but with greater determination.

Though it was obvious that both Mathis and Cynthia wanted to protest, in the end both simply nodded and walked out into the hall, with Nurse Beck bringing up the rear.

Matt Keller closed the door behind them, took a moment to take a deep breath and make sure his demeanor was entirely professional, and only then turned to regard his patient with an appropriate degree of composure.

He didn't have long to wait. "Nobody can fix this." It was not a question; it was a statement of perceived fact.

Keller moved forward slowly, his eyes noting all the damage to a face that had once been perfectly beautiful, but was now only a ruin, a broken reminder of what had been destroyed. Battered, distorted, torn . . . mutilated. "Brian, I . . ."

"No bullshit!" The mangled features contorted into a twisted smile, and, for the first time, Keller could not quite suppress a grimace of pain. "I'm an ad man, Matt - a master of bullshit, so don't waste my time - or yours. This . . ." He lifted a bandaged hand and touched his knuckles to his chin, none too gently. "This isn't going away. It's not going to get better; it's not a temporary condition; it's not a fucking boo-boo that's going to heal." He paused and swallowed hard, not quite successful in dislodging the lump in his throat. "This is who I'm going to be. From now on. And your boy-genius surgeon should find better ways to occupy his time."

When he jerked his hand away from his face and clinched it into a fist, Keller had no choice but to move quickly to grab it; he couldn't be certain of Brian's intentions but he was pretty sure he recognized a deadly anger and desperation in his patient's eyes. He had never doubted that Brian could and would handle whatever shit life might throw at him, but . . . he was struck by a flash of memory, a scrap of conversation between the two of them after Brian's cancer recovery.

"I didn't want to live - diseased and damaged and imperfect. I wanted to die." Brian's voice over the phone was strangely hollow, as if his mind was wandering through a bleak, empty landscape. "To leave everything and everyone behind, and party til I was ready to drop and then . . . just disappear. No good-byes, no grief, no tears, no weeping over might-have-beens. Forever young, forever beautiful."

"So . . . why didn't you?"

Matt closed his eyes and visualized Brian's shrug. "Debts to pay. Promises to keep."

The physician had chosen not to express his own sense of relief over what Brian had ultimately decided, or his profound sadness in the realization that his old friend had truly wanted to die, had never realized how much he meant to the people who loved him. Had, in truth, never understood how much he was loved.

Keller sat beside his patient, and regarded him with weary resolve. "Do you trust me?"

"With this?" The scorn in Brian's voice was as sharp as a blade. "You really are having delusions of godhood."

Keller leaned forward until his face was only inches away from his patient's, and braced his hands against the bed on either side of Brian's shoulders. "Shut up - and listen to me. If this had happened just a few years ago, then you'd have been right to doubt. You'd have been fucked - and not in a positive, life-affirming way. But we live in an age of miracles, Brian. Medicine has become an art, as well as a science, and the man who's going to work his magic on you is a fucking Michelangelo. And, by the way, you have no idea how hard it is for me to say that."

"So that's what I'm going to be? His fucking Sistine Chapel?"

"If that's what it takes to fix you," Keller replied with a shrug, "who gives a shit?"

Brian managed, somehow, to narrow his eyes, despite the swelling around them. "I don't know if I like the idea of being somebody's masterpiece. Is he queer?"

Keller shook his head and smirked. "I never cared enough to wonder where he puts his dick, though I do seem to recall an entourage of nubile young things with IQs down to here and boobs out to there. Maybe he's bi. You're the one with the infallible gay-dar, so you can figure it out for yourself."

Brian settled back against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling, focusing on nothing more than the tiny flicker of the fluorescent light fixture and concentrating only on breathing, ignoring everything but the in-and-out process of filling and emptying his lungs. Then he looked down and met Keller's eyes, peering deep into jade green depths to search for intimations of truth. "You really think he can do this? Turning Quasimodo into Casanova would be easier, I think."

"I really do. I wouldn't lie to you."

"But you don't know for sure?"

The fact that Keller's gaze faltered briefly spoke volumes before he had a chance to find the right words to cover up his misgivings. "Brian, you can't just . . ."

"Listen to me, Matt," Brian interrupted, reaching out to wrap his fingers in Keller's lapel. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening, Asshole. When have I ever not listened?"

Brian swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment, searching for the right words, but without much success. "I don't know how... to deal with this. I don't know how to ..."

"You're still Brian Kinney."

The patient could not quite suppress a sigh, and his attempt at a smile was painful to watch. "Brian Kinney," he said softly, "is beautiful. Always was. That's what Michael always said to me, whenever I had doubts about what I should do or . . . whatever. It's the only thing I ever had, to make me different, special. Without that, I don't know who I am."

"Oh, Baby," Keller whispered, "one day, I hope you'll begin to understand how beautiful, how special you really are - and always will be." Then he deliberately leaned forward and kissed Brian's lips, with excruciating gentleness, to offer comfort, without pain.

When he sat back, he was careful to avoid staring at Brian too intently, understanding instinctively that his old friend needed a few moments to regain his composure and rebuild the defensive walls that allowed him to function in spite of the pandemonium around him.

It was a delicate moment, potentially destructive, but the awkwardness was quickly eliminated when the doctor summoned Nurse Beck back into the room to apply fresh bandages to Brian's injuries, and Cynthia and Lance Mathis re-entered together. Cynthia was talking on her cell phone, eyes narrowed in concentration while Mathis was studying a photocopy of a police report, and Brian, in his attempt to ignore what the nurse was doing, found it reassuring, somehow, that both seemed focused on business as usual rather than caught up in the livid trauma of the situation.

Normalcy had never seemed so sweet.

Until, that is, the door opened again, and he knew that any semblance of normalcy within this framework was the illusion rather than the reality - that the drama surrounding this particular situation had only just begun.

Detective Horvath was first through the door, arriving in time to get a detailed look at the damage done to Brian's face. He had, of course, seen extremely graphic photos of what the attackers had done, but it was different, somehow, seeing it in the flesh. He came forward, nevertheless, without hesitating, and reached out to lay a hand on the patient's shoulder, refusing to flinch or allow himself to look away.

Brian took a deep breath, understanding how difficult the detective must find it to bury his natural reaction to such carnage and present a façade of detachment. "Hey, Carl," he said. "If you'll give me a minute - to finish getting my face on, as it were - I'll be right with you."

He was pleased when he noted that Horvath had to struggle to suppress a surprised grin. It seemed that his adoring public - as well as those who were not so adoring - was expecting to see him chastened and wallowing in self-pity and seeking sympathy. Well, fuck that!

His gaze was steady as he regarded the cop, sensing that Horvath might have pertinent information for him. Then he noticed that someone else had entered the room, someone who was standing just inside the door, apparently waiting for permission to come closer - someone whose features were indistinct, backlit by the reflected glare from the hallway.

"Hello, Brian," said the detective. "It's good to see you."

Brian managed a small chuckle. "Yeah. You too. So what can I do for Pittsburgh's finest?"

Nurse Beck finished with her task and ignored the cop as she checked the patient's IV. "How's the pain?" she asked softly.

"Thriving," Brian replied, with typical snark.

She glanced toward Keller who confined his response to a nod, authorizing another dose of narcotic painkiller.

"Could we hold off on that for a bit?" asked Horvath. "I really need to get a statement from him, while he's alert."

Both doctor and nurse looked as if they were going to object, but they were over-ruled by the patient. "It's okay," Brian assured them, before turning to confront Horvath with a level gaze. "If you make it fast."

Hovath nodded. "Short and sweet, I promise. Only there's someone you need to meet first. Someone you're going to get to know very well, before this case is over."

Brian sighed. "The Feds?"

"So far," said the stranger standing in the doorway, "just one Fed."

"So," drawled Brian, "where's the task force?"

A pleasant baritone laugh provided accompaniment as the individual came forward, right hand extended. "You shouldn't believe everything you see on TV. The task force - for now - is me."

Brian looked up and had the strangest sensation - as if the young man coming toward him was someone he had known before, although he was dead certain the two of them had never met. He would have remembered.

"My name is Chris McClaren, Mr. Kinney," said the newcomer, his fingers closing around the hand that Brian had lifted, just as if they'd met in a board room or at a social event, totally discounting the fact that the hand he took was swathed in bandages. "I'd say that it's good to meet you, but I'm sure you wouldn't agree, under the circumstances, so I'll spare you the pleasantries."

As it happened, Cynthia was staring at Brian's face at that moment, and she would always wonder how it was that she was the only one to notice the spontaneous flash of insatiable curiosity - and something even more elemental - that struck him as McClaren took his hand. Then she shifted her focus to the FBI agent, and saw the same exact response reflected in his expression.

Both were masters of self-control - and masks - so the reactions were quickly suppressed, so quickly that no one else even noticed. But Cynthia continued to stare at the two of them for a while - wondering what she had just seen, and then wondering if maybe she had just imagined it all. Especially when Brian immediately demonstrated his customary brass.

"How refreshing!" he replied. "Someone with the guts to mention that I have a right to feel like shit. Now can we get on with this? I need my beauty rest."

Chris McClaren took up a position behind Horvath, apparently willing to let the local constabulary lead the questioning, but Brian wasn't fooled. The man was totally focused, prepared to ignore everything and everyone around them to concentrate on whatever Brian had to say. Of course, the fact that the agent was built like - what was that disgusting expression that Emmett was so fond of? Oh, yes, a brick shithouse - was something of a distraction for the patient. And the rest of the features - Jesus! Ash blonde hair framing a perfect face, featuring sculpted cheekbones, sensual, molded lips, dimpled chin, strong, symmetrical nose, and large beautiful eyes, the color of a summer sky surrounded by a ring of twilight blue, rich as sapphires, and fringed with thick, dark lashes. Shit!

As beautiful as any man he'd ever met, and, being Brian Kinney, he'd met more than his fair share. Only now . . . shit!

"Agent McClaren is a profiler, Brian," said Horvath. "And, coincidentally, a specialist in undercover work. He's going to be your . . . "

Brian did not - quite - roll his eyes as he was struck with the irony of the situation.