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: "Chapter 4"

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"I didn't do it for you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're disgusting," snapped Michael.

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

"Why do you want to go to London?"

"Because it's there?"

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

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

"I think . . ." said Ben.

"Nobody asked you," Brian interrupted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even Ben had to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And for you, Mr. Kinney?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Later, Mikey."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what would it mean without . . .

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

Never fit in to the world he wished to conquer.

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

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

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

Shit!

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

Brian - always.

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

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

Steven was perfect, except for one small fact.

He wasn't Brian.

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

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

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

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

He did love Steven. He really did.

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

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

Exquisitely romantic - and everything Brian Kinney would never be.

Maybe it was time.

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