The Average Color of the Universe

** 

Something was wrong.

I stared down at the bubbling mass in the saucepan and wondered at what point I should start worrying about spontaneous combustion. The candy thermometer I’d clipped to the side of the saucepan now suggested the syrup was rapidly approaching the temperature of molten lava. 

I glanced again at the perplexing instructions in Emmett’s cookbook: “…at the ‘hard crack stage’ (295 to 309 °F), the color of the syrup will change rapidly from pale yellow to deep gold. The saucepan must be removed from the heat when this occurs, or the sugar will burn.”

I reflected that they really shouldn’t use such relative terms in a cookbook. From a geologist’s point of view, and event that took place over a hundred thousand years could be considered ‘rapid’. And, while we were on the subject of relativity, what color was ‘pale yellow’ supposed to be?

My sugar syrup was an uninspiring shade of pale khaki. I decided it could even pass for Cosmic Latté - an exotic name for the apathetic shade of beige Johns Hopkins’ astronomers had recently described as ‘the average color of the universe’.

At least ‘Justin’s Cosmic Latté Praline’ had a cool ring to it, even if it did give the misleading impression that the candy was supposed to be coffee flavored.

Of course, all of this speculation would be rendered moot if the syrup hardened into a solid mass in the bottom of the saucepan, like the last batch had. I was a decent cook (I did most of the cooking for Brian and myself at Britin), but the ins-and-outs of candy making completely eluded me. The need for precise measurements and exact cooking times reminded me of the titration experiments I’d done in high school chemistry class, for which I’d received the atrocious grade of C-.  Chemistry was decidedly not for me.

Daring to take my eyes off the sucrose-laden molten lava congealing in the saucepan, I glanced over to where Emmett was doing something mysterious with almond paste, a piping bag, and the concentration of a neurosurgeon. Was this a bad time to ask for help? 

He was there to help, after all. I maintained he was there to help with my candy making. Brian maintained he was there to help maintain my sanity.  

A week earlier, the thundering crash of two cookie sheets hitting the floor had brought a bleary-eyed Brian skittering into the kitchen, convinced that a home intruder was attempting to steal our Austin Platinum Noritake dinnerware collection. I had to grudgingly admit his response was understandable, given that it was two forty-five in the morning. I had stayed up late to finish a batch of browned butter hazelnut shortbread, which were due to be taken to my teaching assistants at PIFA the next day.

Brian had not been thrilled to be unceremoniously summoned from Dreamland by my culinary exploits. December was the busiest time of the year for Kinnetic, and he’d been getting three or four hours’ sleep a night for the previous three weeks.

After a brief (and vaguely rhetorical) argument, Brian had persuaded me to admit that my determination to give only handmade holiday gifts was ridiculously ambitious, given the number of colleagues, acquaintances, assistants, supervisors, friends and family that had to be accounted for.

“Every Food Network diva is opening a confectionary or a cupcake shop these days,” Brian had pointed out, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “Why slave over a hot stove when there are people practically falling over themselves to do it for you? At least their cookies would all be the same shape.”

“Fuck off!” I’d retorted angrily. “My cookies are supposed to look rustic. They’re homemade.” 

“What, by a two-year-old?”

“Why are you being so negative about my baking?”

“It’s three in the fucking morning.”

“You just have no imagination!” 

Brian had given a ‘humph’ of amusement, and had snagged a shortbread off the nearest cookie sheet. (Like Cinderella’s enchanted pumpkin, the ‘no carbs after nine’ rule wore off at midnight).

“It’d be hard to be the CEO of an advertizing agency and completely lack imagination, Sunshine.” He took a bite of the still-warm cookie and chewed for a moment. “Fuck, these are good. What did you put in these? Cocaine?”

In the end, Brian had convinced me to enlist Emmett’s help in tackling the rest of my holiday baking. Emmett’s catering company, ‘A (Honey)Cutt Above’, was also swamped in December. However, he said he’d be thrilled to come out on his next evening off for, what he called, ‘gastronomic monkeyshines’.  

So here we were. Emmett, Domestic Goddess, putting the finish touches on elaborate marzipan figurines, and Justin, Should-Have-Stopped-At-Shortbread, staring down into a pot of molten Cosmic Latté Praline fail.

Still concerned about the potential for spontaneous combustion, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

“Em…” I called forlornly. “I did something wrong. Why isn’t this doing what it’s supposed to be doing?”

Emmett continued to work for a few seconds, and then carefully laid aside the piping bag. The tip he’d been using on his marzipan creations was so fine it could have passed for a micropipette. He wiped it carefully before making his way over to me.

“What’s up?”

“This,” I sighed, pointing my spoon at the Cosmic Latte magma, which had started to clump at the edges of the saucepan. “I think I ruined it. Was I supposed to stir it? It didn’t say to stir it…”

Emmett reached aross and turned off the heat before taking the spoon from me. He was wearing a fuchsia pink apron that I’d made for him two years ago. The words ‘Kiss the Cook’ were printed across it in white letters, but with the second ‘o’ of ‘cook’ crossed out and replaced with a ‘c’. It was Emmett’s favorite.

“You probably forgot to brush the sides of the saucepan with water,” he patiently explained, picking up the pastry brush I’d neglected to use. He pointed into the saucepan. “The sugar crystallizes on the sides of the pan when the syrup starts to boil. You need to dissolve it by brushing the sides with water, or the syrup won’t reach the right temperature.”

Fuck. Good job, Justin. Way to be a painter and forget to use a brush. 

“Can I fix it,” I asked, “or is this batch ruined, too?”

“Oh, it’ll be fine!” Emmet told me, seeing my crestfallen expression. (I’m sure he wasn’t counting, but this would make the third batch of praline I’d wrecked). “It’ll be a little more lumpy than usual, but that won’t matter once you break it up. It’ll still taste delicious. Maybe it’ll be even better than usual!”

I seriously doubted it. 

Nonetheless, I poured the mixture out of the pan and onto a greased baking sheet laden with toasted nuts. It oozed and bubbled; a Cosmic Latte version of the Waiotapu mud pools in New Zealand that I constantly begged Brian to take me to see.

Next year, I decided, no candy. I would learn to knit instead. 

“So, where is His Majesty this evening?” Emmett asked conversationally, turning and leaning back against the counter. He was so tall he could almost sit on the countertop without his feet leaving the ground.  “Does he usually come home this late?”

“He usually calls if he’s going to be later than eight,” I replied, distracted as I attempted to spread the syrup evenly before it hardened into a solid mass. “He’s sometimes not home until ten, though. Why? What time is it?” 

I glanced up at the digital clock above the stove, which indicated it was quarter to nine. 

“Jesus, is that the time?” I realized with a shock that we’d been at the candy making for four hours. “Sorry, Em. I should’ve offered you something for dinner. You must be starving!”

I brushed my hands on my apron and pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket. 

“Brian was going to pick up take-out for us tonight,” I explained.  “He knew I’d be in the kitchen all afternoon. If he’s still in the city, I can ask him to pick up something for you, if you want.”

There were no messages and no missed calls on my phone, and that worried me. Brian very seldom forgot to let me know he’d be late back. He knew I liked to have our dinner ready when he returned, as neither of us liked eating late.

Emmett, who had always been good at picking up on suppressed emotion, seemed to sense my apprehension. 

“That’s real nice of you, Sweetie,” he said, in reply to my offer for dinner. “But a good confectionarian always samples his goods as he goes.” He gave his flat stomach an affectionate pat.  “If I added regular meals during Christmas baking time, I’d be fat enough to start putting on a fake beard and a red suit!”

I sighed and shook my head. Emmett and Brian were probably the last two people on Earth who had to worry about getting fat, yet both seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time fretting about it. 

“You know,” I told Emmett diplomatically, “for the partner of an elite athlete, you have some weird ideas about nutrition. You and Brian both. He considers gingerbread lattes a food group unto themselves, and thinks a bag of baby carrots is an adequate dinner for a full-grown adult. I sometimes swear he forgets he’s heterotrophic.”

“Hetero- what?” Emmett repeated. “I can’t imagine Brian being hetero anything.”

That made me laugh.

“Heterotrophic,” I explained. “Organisms that use organic carbon – like food – as an energy source are heterotrophs. We’re heterotrophs. Well, technically, we’re chemoorganoheterotrophs, because we use organic compounds for energy. As opposed to chemolithoheterotrophs that use inorganic compounds, like sulfur.”  

Emmett stared at me like I’d just spoken in the long-lost language of rainbow unicorn.   

“Sweetie,” he said with a sigh, “those words are way too big for me. You know I don’t speak Justin.”

I smirked.

“Well, you’d do well to remember those definitions for the next time we play Scrabble. Maybe I won’t kick your ass quite so epically.”

Emmett grinned and pushed away from the counter. He came to stand beside me and slung an arm across my shoulder. 

“You’re just the cutest little walking textbook,” he murmured affectionately, planting a kiss on the side of my head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we secretly took a vote and decided unanimously that you’re unconquerable at Scrabble. We only keep playing to humor you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said a familiar voice from the doorway. Emmett and I turned to see Brian standing in the kitchen doorway, unwinding a scarf from around his neck, his car keys jangling from his finger.

“If we got Sunshine here stumbling drunk while the rest of us remained sober, we might have a hope of victory. He can’t spell to save his fucking life when he’s sloshed.”

“I can, too!” I protested, feigning defensiveness as I moved towards him. “So what if I start throwing in extra letters here and there? I’m sure that’s how lots of Latin words were invented. After a certain number of adult beverages, the Romans just started start adding silent letters for fun. How do you think we ended up with words like ‘ptarmigan’ and ‘pterodactyl’?”

I put out my arms to embrace him, but Brian gently caught my wrists and held me back.

“Flour,” he pointed out, indicating the white powder liberally coating the front of my apron. “Expensive suit. Bad combination.”

“It’s not flour,” I protested, somewhat pointlessly. “It’s icing sugar.”

“Oh well, in that case, please feel free to get it all over my best Armani.”

I noticed then that he was wearing one of his best suits. It wasn’t the best one he owned, but it was one he generally reserved for impressing high-end clients. Had he mentioned meeting such a client today?

I twisted my wrists slightly and caught hold of his hands, twining my fingers into his. I nearly let go in surprise. Brian’s hands were usually pleasantly cool to the touch (no sweaty palms here!), but today they were so cold there seemed to be no warmth in them at all. 

“Your hands are like ice!” I exclaimed in concern. I brought his hand to my mouth and breathed on his fingers in an attempt to warm them up. “Didn’t you have gloves? Were you doing something outside before you came in?”

That day had been very cold. It had been so cold that morning that tiny ice crystals had danced in the still air when I’d gone to work. It was the kind of cold when you had to wear gloves to avoid losing dexterity in your fingers, the kind of cold when you had to start worrying about frostbite.

“I was just… having a smoke,” Brian murmured vaguely. 

I could tell by the tiny pause in his explanation that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Peering at him more closely, I noticed that his eyes were a little bloodshot, making the gold flecks in his irises more pronounced than usual. He looked like he was weighed down by a kind of weariness that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. 

“Are you okay?” I asked, looking at him closely. “You look tired.”

Brian shrugged noncommittally and avoided answering the question by leaning forward to kiss me. He touched me only with his mouth, and then gently disengaged his hands from my grip. I resisted the urge to take hold of them again, if only to warm them up. Brian hated being cold.

At least had certainly had been smoking; I could taste it on his lips. But why smoke outside in the freezing cold? We had a smoking room in the house, which both of used.

Emmett had come up behind me, brushing his hands on his apron and watching us. Something in his face told me that he’d picked up on the subtle strangeness of Brian’s greeting. If Brian noticed Emmett’s expression, he gave no sign of it.

“Nice apron, Honeycutt,” he commented, nodding at Emmett’s baking attrite. He inspected his hands for icing sugar before curling his fingers into his palms and sliding them into his coat pockets, warming them.

“Don’t call me that,” Emmett replied automatically, though he smiled. He put his arm across my shoulders. “I actually owe this particular apron to Justin here. We’ve been baking up a storm this afternoon, haven’t we, Sweetie?”

I nodded. 

“Veritable… what was it? Gastronomic monkeyshines?”

This statement was confirmed by the state of the kitchen, which Brian surveyed circumspectly over my shoulder. It didn’t quite look as bad as the aftermath of Gus’ gingerbread house decorating marathon, which had rendered the entire house a disaster area. But there was enough mess and clutter, not to mentioned edible gold flakes, strewed across the counters to demonstrate that culinary shenanigans had indeed been underway. 

“Did you get everything finished?” Brian asked me. The casualness of the question sounded forced.

“Mostly,” I replied, matching his tone. “It depends on how my praline turns out. I think I may have botched it, but Em says it might be all right. It won’t be the right color, though. It turned out to be the average color of the universe.”

“The average…” Brian regarded me in confusion for a moment, evidently trying to determine if I was attempting to be funny.  Then he apparently gave up and shook his head. “You are so fucking weird sometimes.”

A soft patter of paws across the hardwood announced the arrival of Brian’s small grey cat, Ophelia. Brian had rescued her as a half-drowned kitten from a stream near Britin when she was only a few weeks old. I’d been away at an art convention at the time, and upon my return, had been more than a little surprised to find my hitherto cat-phobic partner cradling a kitten in his hands. He’d assured me he’d ‘take her to the animal shelter sometime’…

In the event, Brian had kept her. Or, more accurately, she’d kept him. He’d named her Ophelia after the character in ‘Hamlet’, the only evidence I’d ever encountered that Brian had actually taken that course in English classics in college.  Ophelia adored Brian. Other than that, she was the most antisocial creature I’d ever met. She treated most adults with flawless feline content, despised children of all shapes and sizes, and only vaguely tolerated me because she knew I was connected to her lord and master.

She pattered across the floor and stopped a foot from Brian, looking up at him with an adoring gaze. Normally she would have begun winding herself around his ankles, purring like a vintage motorcycle. Today however, at a stern look from Brian, she ignored his ankles, sat down on her haunches and began cleaning herself.

I scowled. Whenever I put on my best dress pants, Ophelia was hell-bent on getting as much cat fur on me as possible. But when Brian showed up in his best suit, she respected him as a cat-hair-free zone. Talk about picking favorites. 

“I’m gonna get changed,” Brian announced, pulling his hands out of his pockets and turning to leave. 

He was halfway out they door when something seemed to occur to him. He turned back to me, looking uncharacteristically upset. 

“Shit! I was supposed to get food tonight, wasn’t I? I totally forgot.”

He’d forgotten? This was strange as well. Brian never forgot to pick up food when I asked him to. It was the one thing I could always rely on. Something had happened during the day that had upset him, throwing him off his game. 

“It’s okay,” I assured him, trying to sound like it was no big deal. I could feel apprehension starting to build inside me. “There’s shepherd’s pie in the freezer. I’ll heat it up and we can have that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brian repeated, unnecessarily. The weariness I’d seen in his face earlier returned, making him look tired and careworn.

I could see Emmett’s face in my peripheral vision. He was watching Brian carefully, trying to read him. Of all our friends, Emmett was perhaps the most astute and looking past Brian’s bullshit and steel-plated exterior. Just as he’d never allowed himself to be cowed or provoked by Brian, so had he always been able to see past that shield of cool bravado.  

“It’s no problem,” I repeated, giving Brian a reassuring smile. “Look, why don’t you get changed? You should have a hot shower, too. You look like you’ve just escaped from the Franklin expedition. Em and I will clean up the kitchen. He has to go right away, anyway. He’s got a breakfast to cater tomorrow morning.”

Brian nodded slowly, then turned and left. A moment later, he reappeared in the doorway yet again.

“See you at the gym tomorrow?” he asked Emmett. He was, I knew, attempting damage control, trying and gloss over the strangeness of his actions. “If you’re going to be encouraging Justin to make baked goods so addictive they could be classified as a street drug, I’m going to need to put in a few extra hours on the Stairmaster.”

I rolled my eyes up as the two men made plans to meet at the gym the following afternoon. At least some things hadn’t changed.

Brian turned and left the kitchen again and we heard him making his way upstairs. Completely ignoring me, Ophelia padded up after him, mewing softly. I turned to Emmett.

“Was that…a little weird?”

Emmett was still looking in the direction that Brian had gone, looking troubled.

“He’s upset and he’s hiding it. That’s Brian to a tee right there.” He reached out and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You may want to brace yourself, Sweetie. Something in his eyes made me think this is about more than a bad day at the office. Did he mention he was meeting anyone today?”

I looked into Emmett’s face and saw  clear concern there. Then I thought of the suit Brian had been wearing and felt a cold trickle of fear seep down my spine.

“He didn’t say he was meeting anyone,” I said slowly. “But he must’ve. Somehow, that worries me more…”

*~*~*~

Later

The house was very quiet. Quiet in a way that only places deep in the country could be.

After helping me return the kitchen to some semblance of order, Emmett and I had carried his assorted baking paraphernalia out to the sleek new SUV Drew had bought him as a birthday gift. Emmett had assured me that he would be fine on the forty-five minute trip back to the city, and promised to text me when he got home. He’d kissed me on the cheek and asked to let him know if there was anything he could do for Brian the next day.

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,” he’d clarified. “Just let me know if I can help.”

I’d hugged him and told him I would keep him in the loop, insofar as I could. I’d stood in the driveway and waved as Emmett had driven away, hugging my down-filled winter jacket about me. It was still very cold, but the night was clear and crisp. Out in the country, away from the city’s light pollution, the stars shone brightly in their multitudes.  I tilted my head back and watched them twinkle, picking out the constellations I knew. As the icy air nipped at my exposed skin, I felt as if I were girding myself for battle against an unknown opponent. Such was life with Brian. 

After a last look at the constellation Orion – my favorite, because it was easy to find – I’d headed back into the house.  I knew where to find Brian. 

The room we called ‘The Den’ wasn’t a ‘den’ in the classical sense; not a cozy, office-like room lined with bookshelves and smelling of cigar smoke. Rather, Brian had christened the lofty, high-ceilinged room just off the kitchen ‘The Den’. It was the first room in Britin we’d made love in, right there on the hardwood in front of the fireplace, lying on dust sheets pulled from the musty old furniture.  

Now an elegant Afghan rug covered the floor, and the room was furnished with leather armchairs, an ornate wooden writing desk, and Brian’s beloved Italian mota sofa. Several paintings by Brian’s favorite artist – and upcoming Pittsburgh painter by the name of Justin Taylor – were framed and hung along two walls. ‘The Naked Guy’ painting had the far wall all to itself.

It was a very masculine room. A very Brian room. 

I saw that Brian had put a match to the fire he’d laid the night before. It crackled and spluttered the way fires do when they’ve been recently lit. It was not yet producing much heat, but Ophelia was already curled up asleep on her blanket close by it, in anticipation of the warmth it would bring.

A log spluttered, sending a shower of sparks onto the marble surround.  I moved to the fireplace and fitted the iron fender into place before turning to look for Brian.

The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp and the flickering firelight.  My eyes had yet to adjust to the dim light, but I could still make out Brian, watching me from one of the leather armchairs. He had changed out of his suit and into jeans and a sweater of some dark material. His hair clung to his brow, still damp from the shower. His feet were bare. 

“Aren’t your feet cold?” I asked in concern. It had taken me three years to convince Brian to start wearing socks in the winter. We hadn’t wanted to cover the original hardwood with carpet and as a result, the expanses of stone and wood flooring acted as an effective heat sink.

Brian shook his head slightly, but made no other response.

There was an empty glass and an open bottle of Glenmorangie whiskey on the Mies van der Rohe coffee table in front of him. He was cradling a second glass of the amber liquid in both hands. Reaching forward, he took the whiskey bottle and poured a measure of the spirit into the empty glass. Wordlessly, he picked up the glass and held it out to me.

The implication was clear. “Here, take this. You might need it.”

Feeling again the shiver of fear and apprehension, I moved over to him and took the glass from his hand. I thought about sitting down, but the two armchairs were arranged side-by-side, not facing each other. I wanted to see Brian’s face. I stood there and waited, resisting the urge to shift my weight nervously from foot to foot.

After a long moment, Brian spoke in a voice so low it was barely more than a murmur. 

“My mother came to see me at the office today.” He was looking, not at me, but at the fire cracking in the grate. “She called yesterday and asked if she could ‘make an appointment’. Said she didn’t want to just walk in.”

That would explain the suit, I thought. It was his amour against his mother. The superior clothing and official demeanor allowed Brian to put up a shield of professional indifference when he needed it.   

“You didn’t mention that,” I replied, careful to keep my tone non-accusatory. Brian was not obliged to tell me everything that went on in his life.

His gaze flickered to my face for a moment. In the dim light, his pupils were dilated, making his eyes seem larger and darker than usual. There was a ghost of an apology in his expression.

“I didn’t think it was important,” he replied. He returned his gaze to the fire, the muscles of his neck and shoulders tense. “I thought it was family business. Family bullshit.” 

Once, I might have been hurt that Brian didn’t think to include me in ‘family business’. Now I knew better. Brian was certainly part of my family. My mother accepted him unconditionally as her son-in-law. To Molly, he wasn’t so much an almost brother-in-law as an uncle-like figure, but she still adored him. Even my maternal grandparents sent Brian birthday cards.

Conversely, I had never been part of Brian’s family, nor did I have any desire to be. They certainly didn’t want me. Brian dealt with them out of filial duty, which, contrary to popular belief, he had a very strong sense of. He didn’t like them much, but he wanted to make sure they were taken care of.

Brian didn’t continue and I didn’t prompt him, although the tension in the air was electric. A muscle jumped in Brian’s jaw, and when he took a sip of whiskey, his hands weren’t quite steady. He still wasn’t looking at me and I bit my tongue to stop from asking him to do so. I wanted to see the emotion in his eyes, but it was clear that he wasn’t ready for me to see it yet.

“How much do you know about Stephen Hawking?” he asked suddenly.

For a moment, I was sure I’d misheard. Had Brian just asked me how much I knew about a Cambridge professor? I was shocked he even knew the name. 

I stared at Brian and his gaze flickered up to my face again. His expression was expectant, inquiring.

“Stephen Hawking, the cosmologist?” I clarified.  “The British scientist?” 

Brian nodded. Confused, I wracked my brains for what I could remember about Stephen Hawking. Theoretical cosmology and applied mathematics were not exactly my forte.  

“He wrote a book called ‘A Brief History of Time’,” I offered finally, remembering an article I’d read in a popular science magazine. “He wrote a bunch of other books, too. I think he does research on black holes and the formation of the universe. Space-time continuum. That kind of thing.”

I looked for some kind of acknowledgement in Brian’s expression, but all I could see – inexplicably – was weariness.   

“I don’t mean his research,” he clarified softly. “I mean, what do you know about him as a person? What’s the most obvious thing about Stephen Hawking?”

In addition to reading the article on him, I’d seen the brilliant Cambridge professor on television multiple times. The most obvious thing about the man, perhaps the one thing that made him the most inspirational, was the one thing people didn’t think it polite to talk about.

“He’s in a wheelchair,” I said slowly. “He uses a voice simulator to speak. He has some kind of motor neuron disease.”  

Brian held my gaze for a moment, and then nodded slowly. He went back to staring into the fire, weariness still evident in his features. 

Again I resisted to urge to tell him to look at me. I resisted the strong desire to reach out and touch him. There was something he needed to tell me, and I needed to let him do it in his own time. I watched as he swirled the whiskey around in the glass tumbler, marshalling his thoughts. He took a deep breath. 

“Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis,” he said. “Also known as ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease. It’s characterized by the gradual degradation and death of the motor neurons that control voluntary muscles. It starts with weakness and muscle wasting and eventually leads to paralysis. Usually within a few years, people with ALS stop being able to breathe on their own, and most die of respiratory failure.”

I could feel the shock of cold dread, a physical tingling sensation, travelling from the top of my head, down through my shoulders and chest and into my gut. I willed Brian to look at me, wanting to see in his eyes why he was telling me this. 

“Your mother has it?” I guessed, when I could stand it no longer. I was taking the most logical stab in the dark. “Is that what she came to tell you? That she has this… this ALS disease?”

Brian looked up at me and his hazel eyes were full of distress. When he spoke, his voice was still low but I could hear a slight waver in it.

“No, not Mom,” he told me. His voice cracked. “Claire.”

The name resounded in my head, as if Brian had just shouted it down a long canyon and it was bouncing off every single rock. Claire, Claire, Claire… Brian’s sister. Claire.

I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to feel. The only encounter I’d ever had with Brian’s sister had been when her son, John, had stolen Brian’s bracelet and falsely accused him of sexual assault.  In that instant, the only image I could conjure up of Claire was her looking regretful and humiliated after Deb had leveled a finger at her and said, “But most of all, shame on you!”.

I didn’t like her. I didn’t know her. But she was Brian’s sister. They’d shared a childhood, they’d shared parents, and they’d lived under the same roof for years.  Although my relationship with Molly was very different than the one Brian had with Claire, we both understood what it meant to be someone’s brother.

Hardly conscious of what I was doing, I put my whiskey glass on the table, and then took Brian’s glass out of his unresisting fingers. I got down in front of Brian and put my hands on his knees, looking up into his face. I could see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes, saw him blinking rapidly, and realized what he must have been doing outside in the cold before he had come in. 

“Oh, Brian,” I murmured softly. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head against his stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

I felt both of his hands in my hair, his fingers softly carding through it. I could feel his body trembling, though he made no sound beyond a series of small, gasping breaths. I could tell he was trying hard to keep it together, to not fall apart. 

I held him, not speaking, until I felt the trembling subside. I lifted my head, looking up into his face. He moved his hands to my shoulders, exerting a gentle pressure. 

“When did she find out?” I asked gently. I prayed that Brian hadn’t had to find out about this secondhand, weeks or even months after Claire’s diagnosis.

Brian took a deep breath and pressed the cuff of his sleeve to his eyes for a moment. I wish I’d thought to bring Kleenex. 

“I haven’t talked to her,” Brian admitted. His tone had an undertone of guilt and regret to it. “I should, though. I will. Mom said she started experiencing weakness in her left leg about four months ago, and it got so bad she had to start walking with a cane because she couldn’t move her foot. A coworker finally convinced her to see a doctor, who referred to a specialist. She had a series of tests done and… and she got the results last month.”

I was shocked, and it must have showed in my face. 

“Last month?” I repeated. “No one came to told you sooner?”

Brian looked down at me with an expression that was unexpectedly tender. He stroked the hair back from my face with his fingertips.

“I didn’t tell my mother I had cancer,” he reminded me softly. “She found out from Deb, remember? My father was literally dying before he bothered to tell me he had cancer.  My family spends more time hiding things from each other than we do communicating. So, it doesn’t surprise me I’m only finding out now. I’m guessing Mom came to tell me today because they need money for… for whatever Claire needs. I’m glad I found out though, before… before…”

His voice faltered and he stopped speaking abruptly, looking away. The hands on my shoulders grew still. I watched the firelight dance on the surface of his eyes, glassy again with a sheen of tears. 

I thought how strange it was that a person could strongly dislike someone, but love him or her at the same time. I didn’t think Brian liked any of his family. His father had been abusive in more ways than one, his mother had scorned and rejected him because of his sexual orientation, and his sister treated him with indifference at the best of times and outright hostility at the worst. But Brian still loved them. He still cared for and about them. He would still mourn them when they were gone.

I waited for Brian to collect himself, my hands flat against the small of his back and my forearms resting against his thighs. 

“Brian?” I asked slowly, when he failed to continue. “What about… what about Claire’s kids? They’re still teenagers, right?”

It was ridiculous that I had to do mental math to figure out how old Claire’s sons were. They were practically my nephews, after all. Her older son, John, had been twelve when he’d stolen Brian’s bracelet, and that had been six years ago. The younger one, Peter, had been… what? Seven? Eight? 

“Fourteen and eighteen,” Brian supplied, seeming to guess what I was thinking. “And they have a father.”

His response was flat and emotionless. It surprised me into looking up at him, and I saw his expression had hardened. I knew absolutely nothing about the man who had fathered Claire’s children. I’d never even heard his name spoken. I’d always assumed he was persona non grata in the Kinney family. 

“Aren’t they… divorced?” I asked haltingly. I was embarrassed by the fact I had no idea of Claire’s marital state. This woman was pretty close to being my sister-in-law.

“Estranged,” Brian corrected. “Basically divorced, but they never made it official. Claire needed Richard’s money too much to slam the door after him. Now of course, good old Rich has come crawling back. Claims he has seen the errors of his ways. Claims he wants to take care of his family in this time of trouble. Jesus, I hate that sniveling little shit.”

He spoke with a bitterness that stunned me, given the circumstances. The shock must have showed in my face because Brian’s expression softened. He breathed deeply for a moment, and I watched his face settle into lines of weariness again. 

“Come up here.”

He tugged gently on my upper arms and I stood, waited for him to shift over, and then squeezed into the armchair beside him. It was far too small for both of us and I ended up half sitting in Brian’s lap, but he seemed to need the closeness. I put an arm around his shoulders and the other across his stomach, tucking my head in under his chin. He smelt of shampoo and aftershave.

“John and Peter will be all right,” Brian breathed softly. It was the first time I’d ever heard him call his nephews by name. He put one arm around my waist and rested the other on top of mine across his lap.  “At least, they’ll survive. They won’t be alone if… Well, when Claire dies.”

The finality of the statement seemed terrible, especially spoken in that way. I did what it is human nature to do. I immediately turned to hope.

“But…she might not die, right? I mean… not right away. Not soon.” 

Brian took a deep breath and let it out on a long sigh. He moved his head slightly, and I felt the smoothness of the freshly shaven skin along the underside of his jaw.

“There’s no cure for ALS, Justin. They don’t even know what causes it. It’s fatal up to ninety percent of the time. The doctors told Claire she has three, maybe four years.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look up into Brian face. I addressed his collarbone instead, twisting my fingers together where they were clasped around his waist. 

“But Stephen Hawking was diagnosed with motor neuron disease when he was in his twenties. He was told he had two years to live, but he’s in his sixties now. He survived for forty years!” 

Brian exhaled deeply again, his breath warm against my skin. 

“Stephen Hawking had plenty of reasons to fight,” he countered gently. He was now very calm, very rational. It was as if he were resonating with himself, but through me. “He was brilliant, and he knew it. He had ideas that could change the world. He went on fighting and fighting and fighting, even when he couldn’t walk anymore, even when he couldn’t feed himself anymore, even when he couldn’t talk anymore. I’m not… I’m not sure Claire has all those reasons to fight.”

“But you can’t just give up on her!” I protested, not wanting to hear what he was implying.

Brian’s fingers stroked my hair softly. I could hear his heart beating where my ear was pressed against his chest, beating faster and less rhythmically than usual. 

“I’m not giving up on her,” Brian assured me gently. He let a beat of silence pass before continuing, “She’s my sister. I told Mom I would help pay for all her medical needs. I told her I’d pay for palliative care when that becomes necessary, so she won’t have to go to a hospice. I even said I would help take care of John and Peter sometimes.”

He took a deep breath, his chest rising against my cheek.

“But if the time comes when she’s ready to let go, I’ll let her go.” 

He paused for a moment and then I felt his fingers slide under my chin, lifting my face to his. His eyes were bright with emotion, the gold flecks in the hazel sparkling in the firelight.

“That’s what I’d want,” he said softly. “It’s what I’d want you to do for me.”

I hugged him close, burying my face in the side of his neck. My voice when I spoke was muffled.

“I don’t ever want to have to make that kind of a decision.” 

Brian hugged me back, pressing his lips to my forehead. I realized Brian had far more experience in this, in life, than I did. His childhood had been difficult. He’d lost a father he both loved and hated. He’d become a child himself. He’d experienced my bashing and had fought to help me recover He’d lost Vic. He’d had cancer. He’d very nearly lost his best friend. Now he had a sister with a terminal illness. 

“No one wants to have to make those kinds of decisions,” Brian replied gently. His fingers moved across my forehead until they found the scar left by the baseball bat all those years ago. “But sometimes you know when it’s right to cling to hope with your whole being, and when it’s worth fighting tooth-and-nail. I find you also know when it’s time to let go. It’s not… as hard as it seems.”

A log in the fire split with a soft crack, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The firelight danced.

“You never have to be alone in those decisions, Brian,” I told him, hearing the waver in my own voice. “Never again. We’re in this together.”

Brian rubbed his cheek against my forehead and held me. For a long time we remained that way, listening to each other breathing, trying to process everything that had just happened. I felt something warm and wet slide past my cheek and looked up to see that Brian was crying silently. I reached up and brushed the tear away with my fingertips.

“It’s okay,” I told him softly. Silently, I added, “It’s okay to be afraid. It’s all right to be sad. It just means that you’re human and that you care.”

Brian bent his head and kissed me tenderly. I could feel fear and sadness and salty tears on his lips, but there was an eternity of love in that kiss also.

“Together,” he repeated.

We held each other in that quiet room where this chapter of our lives had begun, listening to the crackling of the fire and watching the dancing light. After a long time, we fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

**

THE END

**