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.


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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.

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