Chapter 6

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

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

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

Priceless - to him, anyway.

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

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

He knew it could not go on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But innocent?

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

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

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

Except one.

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

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

Reaching, touching - lost in anticipation.

Lost, in fear.

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

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

It was just . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least for that moment.

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

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

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

Words remained unspoken, unneeded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hmmm?"

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

"Make love to me."

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

Into the center of Brian Kinney.

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

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

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

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

"You ready, Sunshine?"

"Always."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jesus Christ!"

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

"Jesus Christ!"

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

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

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

"Well?"

"Yes," he whispered.

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

"Yes. Display it."

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about his Mississippi belle?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Your security."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he found he was marginally intrigued.

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

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

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

Brian smiled. "I know."

"It would have been okay."

Again the smile. "I know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Damn!" he breathed.

Emmett grinned. "Like it?"

"I look . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Michael . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But that's not the same."

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

Michael sighed. "So when do you leave?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned then and began to move away.

"Brian . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Drewsie?"

"In the flesh, Baby."

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

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

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

"Will I be . . . scarred?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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