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

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

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

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

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

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

"Justin!" Emmett called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We hated showing you that trash, Baby."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he'd do.

*******

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

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

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

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

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

"Actually, Cynthia, I spoke with an older janitor who'd been employed at Shuman for twenty five years. I pretty much lucked out. He actually remembered a boy whose details fit Brian closely. Mentioned his slipping in and out of identities, claiming to be other people, episodes of being terrified. Fit what we now know like a glove. The only piece of real information he gave me, however, is that Brian said he was incarcerated because he tried to hurt someone. That's all..." Kaz paused and took out his cell phone, excusing himself to take a call.

"Damn, Carl. This gets more and more complicated. Are you sure we can't just find the records of this?"

"Cynthia, juvenile records are sealed. It's actually done to protect the adult from childhood misjudgments. Throws a roadblock up for us sometimes, though. Like now." He stirred another sugar in his coffee and settled back into the comfortable chair.

"You know, Deb called me earlier. Apparently the press is on the thing now. There was an article in one of the... less reputable dailies today."

Cynthia laid her head on her arms, resting them on the desk. Shit.

"He can't get a break, can he? The best man I've ever known and he can't get a fucking break!" She raised her head and met the detective's stare. "What did the article say?"

Carl hesitated. "I don't know. I've not read it. But..." damn that boy "... it looks like Michael had something to do with the press getting wind of things."

Cynthia's jaw dropped open and her eyes grew wide. "Jesus Christ! Brian..."

Before she could say anything further, Cynthia heard the soft snick of the office door opening and saw Kaz returning.

"I'm sorry about the interruption but that call was from George Whitney, the Shuman janitor. He remembered something. You will be interested in this, Cynthia." He nodded toward the woman and gave her a small smile. "George recalled a discussion he had with the boy we think was Brian. He recalled that the boy said he wanted to hurt someone... someone he called ‘Coach'."

"Bingo." Cynthia returned Kaz's smile.

*******

Justin sat in the somewhat comfortable brown armchair he had placed next to Brian's bed, close enough that he could place a hand on, and feel the warmth of his lover's body. He needed to touch him. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just touch him. He needed to be grounded in this man.

It had been thirty-three days since they'd made love, with only a few stolen kisses passing between them since the hospitalization. Both were very tactile men, needing the other's touch in the way others would need to breathe - a hand on the cheek, the resting of one thigh against another, a brush of a hand in hair. It wasn't only about lust, about sex. God, yes, it was about that, too. But it was even more elementary. It was life, connection, air. It was about them.

As he rested his hand on Brian's bare forearm, absently rubbing his thumb in circles just above the wrist, he gazed around at what was, at this moment, Brian's world. Clinical and spartan in its design, of course, it gave off no warmth, no personality. Television bolted down high on the far wall. One small two drawer metal cabinet next to the bed. The one chair on which Justin currently rested. Faded walls, whose starkness was only broken by the occasional bright red electrical outlet or machine connection. All in all, a wholly depressing little world.

Brian wasn't asleep, and Justin knew that. But he let Brian pretend. Hell, he thought, he wasn't even sure it was Brian at the moment. But Justin also let himself pretend. Pretend for a few minutes that they were merely sitting in the loft, relaxing silently as they'd sometimes do on a lazy weekend day. Pretend that they were simply thinking about whether to order Thai or Chinese for dinner. Pretend that tomorrow their hectic schedules would begin again and Justin would groan in mock disapproval as Brian pulled him into the shower. Just pretend. That everything was normal.

But it had never been normal. And for the millionth time in the past week Justin wondered if normal even existed anymore.

Brian could feel the tension throbbing through the skin of his lover's hand. He wanted, craved to hold him, to just fucking touch him! It was the fear that stopped him. Made him avoid touching his partner, his lover - his everything. Made him keep his eyes closed, feigning sleep instead of simply speaking out. It was undiluted, petrifying fear. Intense and palpable. Fear of just fucking forgetting again, of not remembering where or even fucking who he was anymore.

Christ!

Brian Kinney doesn't do fear.

Brian Kinney always did fear.

Get up, little boy. Time to play.

From the fucking moment he was born. Yeah, he did fear. It was a constant companion, a hateful friend. Sometimes his only friend. And he could feel it, encouraging him, building him up like a fucking silk scarf around a ceiling beam. Like a fucking bottle of sleeping pills. Like a fucking razor blade to his wrist. His hateful friend. Crawling beneath his own contaminated skin.

And it kept him from touching his everything. Because... because now he knew. They knew. The contamination. The disease. And they can't unknow. God, they can't unknow!