Chapter 60


Him that I love, I wish to be free -- even from me.

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

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"This is different," said Justin, as he braked for the red light at Finley Avenue. "How often do you let me drive you around?" He didn't really expect an answer and didn't wait for one. Instead, he leaned over and touched his fingertips to Brian's face, noting that the bruises obscuring the perfect skin of that perfect jaw were beginning to fade, although Brian was still pale. It was not unattractive; it would take a lot more than a bit of discoloration and an ashy pallor to accomplish that. But it was just not Brian.

Like so much else these days.

"I kinda like it," he continued, wishing for a moment that his beautiful lover would remove the mirrored aviators that he'd taken to wearing of late, to allow him to gaze into those deep, liquid hazel eyes - even if it could only be for a moment, until the cars behind him got impatient enough to start blowing their horns.

Since the dark SUV riding on their bumper was an FBI vehicle, he figured he could even get away with ignoring the horn blasts for a minute or two.

But it was not to be. Brian seemed hyper-sensitive to sunlight these days, even when the brightness of midday softened into the golden haze of sunset or when, as now, it was filtered through layers of altostratus clouds, glowing scarlet and amber in the west as the sun sank toward the misted horizon.

Brian's smile was of the droll, lips-folded variety. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it."

Justin grinned. "Just like everything else, huh? It always has to be the mighty Kinney in charge."

When Brian did not offer a typically snarky response, Justin frowned. "Are you really all right, Brian? I mean, I know you hate being in the hospital, so you tend to, uh, exaggerate your recovery, but if you're really not . . ."

"Will you please stop doing your cute little fag impersonation of Debbie Novotny and drive. I need a drink."

That brought a bright, sunshine smile. "No, you don't. You're on Vicodin - remember? But maybe - just maybe - I might have something else that will, um, serve to distract you from your little ouchie."

Brian went very still. "Ouchie?" he repeated coldly, as if the word itself were an offense to his senses.

"Yeah. You know. Your boo-boo."

"One more word," snapped Brian, "and you're walking."

"You are such a diva!" Justin retorted, patience on the verge of exhaustion as he depressed the gas pedal a little too abruptly so that the car jerked forward as the light flashed green, thus almost catching the rear fender of a dark BMW sedan as it sped through the yellow light.

The pallor of Brian's face was suddenly gone, replaced by a bright flush of anger. "And you're the perpetual version of little Mary Sunshine, living in a world where everything's coming up roses and rainbows and lollipops. So - just for the sake of a little reality check, Spanky - it wasn't a fairy bite or one of Cupid's arrows that plowed through my body. It was a 45 slug - a big, ugly motherfucker that's designed to kill and to do as much damage as possible in the process. So just . . . shut the fuck up."

Justin felt his breath catch in his throat as he caught a glimpse - just a fleeting, barely-there glimpse - of what Brian had been holding inside himself since the beginning of this whole, traumatic ordeal: a dark twisted maelstrom of anger and frustration and desperation, wrapped around a core of hatred of his own vulnerability, threaded through with molten streaks of guilt at having endangered those he loved more than life itself, all roped and banded within steely bands of determination that kept it all contained and controlled - but only barely. At the same time, Justin knew instinctively that anyone who strayed too close or tested those bands too carelessly would regret his folly. It gave him a tiny sense of satisfaction to believe he was the only one who'd ever been allowed to see it, but . . . oh, but wait. That wasn't right. Someone else had seen it; of course, he had. McClaren had undoubtedly been first to see it and recognize it. And he had sure as hell not been stupid enough to minimize the damage or the pain by referring to it as if it were a skinned knee or a paper cut.

"You think I don't know that?" he said softly, struggling to suppress his own surge of the bitter, sour-tasting rage which gripped him every time he stopped to consider what might have happened - what he might have lost. "You think I don't see it - in vivid living color - every time I close my eyes? Every time I try to go to sleep. You think I don't visualize that moment, about what it did to your body, about what it did - to you? And the fact that I wasn't actually there to see it - that doesn't make it better, Brian. It makes it worse, because I can't stop thinking about it. I"ve never been able to stop picturing what those bastards did to you the first time. When I remember your wounds, when I read the police reports . . . it was all right there, like a fucking slash movie playing out in my head. And now, just when I was beginning to be able to shut it off and push it into the past, it happens again, and I almost . . . almost lost the only . . ."

"Hush!" Brian interrupted suddenly, sitting back and closing his eyes, not quite successful in his attempt to conceal the grimace of pain that touched his face, and they both knew it was much more than a simple, physical ache. "You need to stop . . . You need to think of something else - something beautiful. For you, there should always be something beau . . ."

Justin braked abruptly and pulled over in front of a tiny kosher deli, slamming the transmission into park while simultaneously unbuckling his seatbelt and twisting to allow him to crawl into Brian's lap. He moved quickly but very carefully, making sure to avoid the areas of his lover's body which were still not recovered from his injury.

"There's only one beautiful thing I want to think about," he murmured, "and one thing I want to see. I - I just . . . I want to make you smile. That's all. I miss that smile - the one that's only meant for me; the one that tells me I'm trying your patience and you can't believe how stupid I am and you sometimes want to paddle my ass and you don't know why you put up with me, but . . . but you can't stop loving me anyway."

His kiss was incredibly gentle - at first. But then Brian began to kiss back, and it was not so gentle any more.

Finally, realizing that the horns blowing from the street were directed toward the FBI vehicle blocking traffic as its driver waited - not so patiently - for Justin and Brian to resume their journey, Brian sat back and regarded his young lover with a lopsided grin.

"There!" laughed Justin. "That's the smile I wanted to see."

The smile morphed into a smirk. "You get all that, from a smile?"

"Yeah. You get downright chatty when you're feeling romantic."

The smile changed again, taking on an element of something Justin could not quite identify, something he didn't think he liked at all but chose not to explore. "Are you?" he asked quickly, swallowing around an unexpected lump in his throat.

"Am I what?"

"Feeling romantic?"

Now the smile was that of a hungry wolf. "Depends on what you have in mind."

Justin grinned, moving back to his place behind the wheel while dismissing the momentary shadows that had gripped him as he took his cell phone from his pocket and entered a quick text message before pressing 'send'.

"What was that?" Brian asked, eyes closed once more against the last hard glitter of the sun as it clung to the western horizon.

"What?"

Brian shifted in his seat, not quite able to hide a grimace of discomfort. "Don't tell me you've taken up tweeting."

Justin's grin was just slightly venal. "Why not? It's the latest thing, you know. Don't tell me you're getting too old to keep up with the younger generation, Geezer."

Brian turned his head and stared at his young lover, and, once more, Justin had an urge to yank those aviators off that not-quite-perfect-yet face, to figure out what emotion might be lurking in those beautiful dark eyes, but - again - the moment passed too quickly, and he had to accept that he would never know what Brian might have been feeling in that moment, because Brian was never going to tell him.

"Stop being so nosy," he said firmly as he pulled out of their makeshift parking spot. "Sometimes, it's good to be surprised."

Brian - who was definitely not a huge fan of surprises - settled once more against the soft leather headrest and confined his response to a semi-snort, eyes once more closed to indicate his indifference, and Justin - with a slightly wolfish grin of his own - pushed down on the accelerator, suddenly out of patience with the rush hour traffic around them.

It was definitely past time for them to be home - together - alone, free from prying eyes and listening ears. Despite his fondness for PDA's - a propensity he shared enthusiastically with his gorgeous lover - he knew that there were some things - things only shared with one particular individual - which should remain intensely and forever private, and he was hoping that this night would prove to be one of them.

He had made his preparations, set the stage perfectly, engaged his accomplices, and paid attention to every detail.

Now - if fate would just smile on his efforts - maybe, just this once, dreams might actually come true.

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

It was a fact that inspired no discussion, no arguments. Any individual - on meeting Brian Kinney for the first time - would be confronted with two undeniable truths: that he was the walking definition of 'smoking hot' - no matter which side of the plate one happened to bat from - and that, even when standing absolutely still or drifting on a pot-induced high or lounging poolside to redefine a perfect tan, he was always a barely-controlled physical force, constantly on the verge of an eruption of energy.

Always.

Only - not now, and Justin Taylor was finally being forced to come face to face with a bizarre distortion of reality that he did not want to confront. Brian felt . . . absent - almost empty, and that was at least as scary as the vulnerability that was so totally foreign to his nature.

It was time to come to terms with all that had gone wrong and put it right.

When they arrived home, Justin literally bounded from behind the wheel and raced around to the other side of the car to be there when Brian opened the door and pushed himself to his feet. Though he managed it smoothly, it was lacking in his customary easy grace, and he did not refuse Justin's arm when it was offered. Seconds later, Jared Hilliard emerged from the building entry and rushed over to offer another hand to guarantee stability, and the driver of the FBI cruiser pulled back into traffic, after getting visual confirmation that private security staff was on the job.

By this time, Brian's patience was at an end, and he was not loath to express it. "What the fuck are you doing here?' he demanded of the security guard. "Since I know - for a fact - that you've got better things to do. Matt should be waiting for . . ."

"Matt knows exactly where I am and why I'm here. Like it or not, my number one job is still protecting you."

"Was," Brian retorted. "Your number one job wasprotecting me. But that's all changed now."

"Not until my boss tells me so," Hilliard replied, the spark of laughter in his incredibly blue eyes belying the sharpness of his words as he steadied Brian with a casual grip that was a lot stronger than it looked.

"That would be me," said Brian, his voice almost as firm as he wanted it to be, as he pushed away from his determined helpers, "and I'm . . ."

"Wrong," Hilliard answered. "You may sign my paycheck, but Mathis is my boss, and he says you're still my first priority - until you're not."

"I could fire you," Brian pointed out, obviously annoyed and trying to ignore the steady ache in his side that reminded him of Matt Keller's suggestion that he consider using a cane for a while, just to brace him against the discomfort and any lingering weakness. He, of course, had refused, as if the very suggestion was a monstrous insult. But Hilliard was accustomed to dealing with Brian in high dudgeon, so his only response to the snarky comment was a smile which held just a tiny trace of seduction - which caused Brian to respond in kind, only slightly annoyed that an employee should know him well enough to employ such a tactic.

Nevertheless, sensing his growing impatience, both boy friend and bodyguard stepped back, allowing him room to maneuver and maintain his dignity, but staying close enough to catch him if he should falter.

He didn't, but it was more a matter of mental determination than physical strength that made it possible for him to walk unassisted to the doorway.

Once there, he paused to take a deep breath while Hilliard turned to Justin and used his best casual tone to ask, "Need any help?"

"No. I got him."

The look in the bodyguard's eyes said that he wasn't so sure about that, while the expression on Brian's face revealed his growing dislike of being treated like an invalid.

"Tell Matt I made it home just fine," he said sternly, "and that I hope not to see him again any time soon."

"I'll do that," Hilliard replied with that same sexy smile, seeing absolutely no reason to inform the man, who was poised on the brink of a major temper tantrum, that he wasn't going anywhere, having been charged with standing guard for the duration, until his relief arrived.

Brian was already intensely irritated; no point in making it worse. With the culmination of the investigation and the arrest of the principals involved, he had assumed that he was no longer at risk, and it was even possible that he was right, but that was an assumption no one else was willing to make. The final ruling on that would not come from Brian Kinney, nor from any member of his staff or family.

In fact, it would come from the only source that every one of them had found worthy of the trust needed to make that call.

It would be up to Chris McClaren to determine when it was safe to lower the guard and let Brian walk free - and he alone would have to live with the consequences.

Hilliard found that he did not envy the man his task.

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

In the dull gray of twilight, the room was mostly unremarkable, almost cavernous, and the details that made it such a sensual delight when infused with golden light were only formless blobs now, undistinguishable within the growing darkness. Even the paintings on the walls - so vibrant when sunlight was pouring through the skylight - were just rectangles of variegated shadow at this point, their artistry lost in the gloom.

The crime scene had been diligently preserved; he had made sure of that. No one except police, FBI and CSI staffers had been allowed inside since the attack that had almost succeeded in killing Brian Kinney; garish yellow crime scene tape still blocked the doorways. Murder had been attempted here;
a man had died here.

Not a good man, of course; that would have made everything worse. But a death was a death, and there was no way to erase the bitterness of that truth.

It was not the first death for which the FBI agent had been responsible. He had killed before - twice; once during the rescue of a ten-year-old kidnap victim and once in defense of a federal judge targeted for assassination. Both shootings had been justified, and he had been exonerated of any charges after the compulsory investigation required in all agent-involved killings. Just as he would be in this one.

But this one was different; he knew it, even if no one else did. This one had been personal, and it had not been Christopher McClaren, consummately professional FBI agent, who had fired that lethal shot; it had been Chris McClaren, a man much too involved with the potential victim to be able to maintain any professional distance from the situation.

He was not even certain why he had come here again except . . . he felt a compelling need to think things through and - somehow - this had seemed like the perfect place to indulge himself.

He had killed the infamous, multi-named-and-thus-almost-nameless Jackson in self-defense and in defense of the man who he was charged to protect, but - most of all - he had killed the son of a bitch who had tried to murder Brian. Brian - specifically. He wanted to believe that he would have done the same for anyone under his protection; he was pretty sure of that much. But he was also sure that he would not have been consumed by the towering rage that had raced through him when he'd seen Brian thrown against the wall by the force of the bullet that tore through him.

He had never felt that way before.

He had never . . . God, could he really admit that? He had never loved that way before.

Jesus! He was in love with Brian Fucking Kinney.

What the hell was wrong with him? He knew what Kinney was - knew him for an arrogant, stubborn, promiscuous, self-centered rogue; he was all those things and more. The problem was that he also knew what lay beneath that glittering persona; knew the man who almost never allowed anyone to glimpse what existed under the surface of that glossy veneer.

He would not tell anyone; he knew that Brian had his reasons for maintaining the identity that obscured the vulnerable individual living beneath that brash exterior. He also knew that almost no one would believe the truth anyway, even if he told them. A small, rueful smile touched his face as he realized that he was presuming a little too much. Those who knew the real Brian Kinney were remarkably few - but he was not the only one. He could not lay claim to that singular achievement.

He sighed and clasped his hands against the back of his neck, noticing the tightness in his upper body that felt as if it had been with him forever. He couldn't pretend not to know why.

Claiming, of course; that was the true issue. He could not lay claim to any exclusive knowledge - or anything else. He knew that - with his mind, but other parts of his body remained unconvinced.

Chris McClaren sat in Brian's obscenely comfortable executive chair and debated whether or not to turn on some lights or to just sit here and absorb what was left of Brian's essence from the atmosphere. Surprisingly, there was quite a bit of it that remained, despite the conflicting physical residue of the crime scene. There was even a trace of his scent lingering beneath the chemical smells of forensic substances and the faint coppery stench of blood. But it was more than that; the room was a physical expression of the man himself - elegant, confidant, classy, sassy, brilliant, roguish. Seductive.

The FBI agent was more than a little annoyed to note the stirring in his groin.

Shit!

He leaned forward abruptly and switched on the sleek floor lamp that stood at the corner of the desk; then, suddenly impatient with silence that seemed to be growing heavier by the moment, he turned to the sound system control panel and hit a button at random. Music - any music - had to be better than this.

Moments later he wasn't so sure.

Love me like there's no tomorrow.
Hold me in your arms; tell me you mean it.
This is our last good-bye, and very soon it will be over,
But today just love me like there's no tomorrow.*

Of course. It was unavoidable that Brian would be a Freddie Mercury devotee; given his appreciation for beauty, he would have realized that the man's voice was so incredibly rare that it should have been identified as an eighth wonder of the world, not to mention the fact that the rock star's glamorous, deliberately flamboyant public persona constituted a perfect contrast to the carefully preserved mystery of his private life, presenting a meticulously balanced, yin/yang paradigm that Brian would have been tempted to take as his personal sigil

"Tomorrow God knows just where I'll be.
Tomorrow who knows just what's in store for me,
Anything can happen, but . . .*"

And that was enough of that, he thought, as he quickly killed the music.

But as he turned, he caught a glimpse of the Pollock-style spray of splashes and droplets on the wall and the floor behind him; Brian's blood, which could have cost Brian's life. And now . . . now he was approaching a moment of truth that he was not sure he could handle.

Soon - very soon - it would be time to take a deep breath, take one last look at that face that would exist forever fresh and beautiful in his memories . . . and walk away. Within him, he felt a huge flare of hot anger, as something shouted against the unfairness of it all. He loved Brian Kinney in a way that he was pretty sure no one else ever would, but . . . He sighed and lit a cigarette, reluctant to follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

He loved Brian - would give up his life for Brian without a second thought - and Brian loved Justin Taylor. He didn't even try to deny that cold hard fact even though he knew that plenty of other people would argue the point, would scoff at the possibility of Brian being in love with anybody. But he knew, just as he knew that Brian would sacrifice anything - everything - to protect the love of his life - another thing that most would refuse to believe.

How the hell had he let himself get caught up in this bloody mess?

He understood that it was time to make his exit, in more ways than one. If he asked to be reassigned, to have someone else step in as Brian's protector until protection was no longer deemed necessary, Alex Corey would not question the wisdom of his choice - not out loud anyway. In point of fact, he was pretty sure she'd already figured it out.

Yes. Within a matter of days, Brian would be off to Colorado, seeking treatment for the deteriorating condition of his eyes, and that would be the logical time, a perfect opportunity for bringing in someone new - someone who would be able to treat the assignment with professional detachment and ignore the charms of the subject in need of protection.

He had no doubt that such an action would be best for everyone. Everyone, except you . . . and Brian. He tried to ignore the snide little voice, tried to put aside his certainty that no one else would ever be able to give Brian what he could give him, because, in the end . . . it didn't matter. Brian Kinney loved Justin Taylor - loved him so much that he was determined to set him free, to allow him to choose his own path even if that choice should be to build a life with someone else. If Brian could love like that - so selflessly - could anyone who loved Brian in turn grant him less than the same privilege?

So . . . it was time.

He stubbed out his cigarette, consoling himself with the thought that he could, at least, actually stop smoking once he was no longer part of Brian's life. He pressed his hands against the surface of the sleek, designer desk, allowing himself a single moment to enjoy the mental vision of Brian in the same place - the king of his own variety of castle, master of his own realm. Then he stood and walked away, retrieving his jacket from the brass coat rack and moving into the dressing room to straighten his tie and reassume his professional demeanor.

He was heading for the exit, trying not to take notice of the garish display of blood spray on the wall, when the door opened and a new arrival looked in.

"Mr. Lasseigne," said the FBI agent. "You're not supposed to be in here."

Cedric Lasseigne nodded but did not withdraw. "I know that's what we were told, but Miss Cynthia also told us that Brian should be back here tomorrow - for a little while, at least - and I'm thinking he's not going to be happy if he finds the place still looking like this."

McClaren smiled. "I think you're right, but I'm pretty sure arrangements were made to get a cleaning crew in here first thing in the morning, so you don't have to bother."

The elderly Cajun regarded the younger man with a stern frown. "It's no bother, Sir. In fact, it's my job, and frankly, Brian likes things done a certain way, and no part-time cleaning crew is going to know that, so . . ."

McClaren lifted one hand to fend off a pending tirade. "I understand, but . . . sorry, Mr. Lasseigne, but are you well enough to tackle a job like this? You were pretty well shook up last time I saw you, so . . ."

"I'm perfectly fine, Agent McClaren. What - you think a man my age can't handle a little blood on the walls?"

McClarren shuddered. "I think you'll find there's more than a lit . . ."

"I know. I was there - remember?"

The FBI agent was suddenly ashamed of himself. "Of course I do. And I should've sought you out sooner, to tell you how much I appreciate what you did. If it hadn't been for you, he would have . . ." He paused, unable to verbalize the rest of that thought.

"You can say it, you know." The old man's voice was curiously gentle. "The man you love would have died."

McClaren looked up quickly, a spark of bright resentment flaring in his eyes. "What do you . . ."

"Oh, please don't insult me, young man. I've been around the block more than a few times, and I can tell when a man's in love. Even when he doesn't want to admit it to himself."

To his own surprise, McClaren decided not to argue. "Are you offended?" he asked instead, genuinely curious.

Lasseigne chuckled. "I'm from New Orleans, Cher. It would take a hell of a lot more than two beautiful men making love to each other to offend me. But it's not my place to comment on something you obviously don't care to share."

The FBI agent took a moment to consider his response, feeling slightly pleased at being referred to as 'beautiful' in conjunction with Brian Kinney. "Don't you think it's smarter to let it remain unspoken - especially when there's no point in bringing it up?"

"Meaning?" Lasseigne's voice was gentle, as if he already knew the answer.

"Meaning that it's never going to matter. Brian has made his choice."

The old man moved further into the room and stood for a moment looking down at the chiaroscuro blood smears that were more black than crimson in the lamplight. "And that makes you angry, doesn't it?"

"No. It makes me sad, but it's . . ."

"Why sad?"

"Because . . . never mind. It doesn't matter."

Lasseigne looked up then and turned to study the FBI agent's face, his dark eyes strangely conflicted. "Shall I tell you why?" he asked and then continued without waiting for an answer. "Because you think that you love him in a way that no one else ever could. Because you believe that the man he loves doesn't love him in return, and it's not fair. You offered up your life to save him and now . . . now you just have to let him go. Is that a fair assessment?"

McClaren turned and walked to the window to watch street lights flare to brightness against the growing gloom. "You know what I've learned in all this? With this group, you don't have to ask questions, you know. If you just listen, they'll tell you everything, including a lot of details you'd just as soon not hear. Let's face it; if nobody talked but Debbie Novotny, you'd still get the skinny on everybody who ever had an impact on little Mikey's life. But she's not the only one; there's Michael himself, and Justin and Emmett and Ted and Lindsey and Melanie - not to mention every gossip on Liberty Avenue. Virtually the only one who doesn't talk is Brian. And they all tell the same story. They all talk about how Brian repeatedly broke Justin's heart. About how he cheated on him and hurt him and refused to commit to him and treated him like shit and ultimately drove him away. But what they never seem to mention is how easily Justin allowed himself to be persuaded - how eager he was to play the victim and take advantage of opportunities to venture out into the big bad world and explore everything it offered him - the fiddler and the art world and his pink posse and Hollywood and New York and . . . well, you get my drift. And Brian always let him go - refused to try to hold him in a place he obviously didn't want to be. So Justin got to experiment - with the whole 'Brian-is-a-bastard' mutual admiration society cheering him on - while Brian wound up alone, with everyone assuming that he deserved it and taking every opportunity to say so. And besides, it didn't matter anyway, because they all knew that Justin didn't have the power to hurt Brian; indeed, in their estimation, nobody had the power to hurt Brian. So every time it happened, Brian just pulled a little more into the protective shell that he built for himself when he was still a kid and first realized that he should never rely on anybody to be loyal to him. And all of his so-called 'friends' just stood back and watched it happen and congratulated themselves on being so much more enlightened. So much nobler and better, which was some consolation for the fact that none of them could ever hope to be as smart or talented or desirable."

"Wow!"

McClaren jerked around at the sound of the new voice, a distinctly female voice.

"You really have been paying attention, haven't you?" said Cynthia, exchanging smiles with Cedric Lasseigne.

The FBI agent cleared his throat, hoping against hope that the heat he was feeling in his face did not indicate a bright red blush of embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Time for me to go."

"No!" Cynthia's response was sharp and definitive, even though something in her eyes suggested that she was struggling to justify a decision she'd only just reached. "You need to come with me," she continued, "and leave Sir Cedric here to get on with his job."

"Sir . . . Cedric?" McClaren echoed.

"Royalty," she replied, "according to Brian. A title given to anyone who puts himself in harm's way to save a man's life. So if Cedric is a knight, what does that make you?"

The FBI agent smiled. "A blithering idiot?"

Cynthia chuckled, reaching out to touch his face with a gentle finger. "Or king of the world, perhaps."

The old man nodded his approval, as McClaren turned to face him. "A little recognition is nice," he observed, "but I hope he thanked you properly."

Cedric grinned, visualizing the stylish new furniture and the huge flat-screen television and the new library of books upstairs in his apartment and the sleek, silver BMW Z4 convertible tucked away in its private berth in the parking garage across the street. "Trust me when I tell you that Brian Kinney's gratitude is a very good thing to have."

"And Justin Taylor's," replied the FBI agent. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," said the old man firmly. "And Justin Taylor's. He does love Brian, you know. I hope that you can take some comfort from that."

"He's right," said Cynthia, regarding the FBI agent with an enigmatic look in her eyes. "And if you come with me, I'll show you."

McClaren suppressed a sudden urge to sigh and confined his response to a nod, before following Cynthia into the hallway, leaving Lasseigne to set about his tasks. He would need several hours, at least, since dried blood was a bitch to clean. Even so, he thought, his job might be messy and difficult and time-consuming, but it was nothing compared to the ordeal the young FBI agent was going to face.

How did one go about re-closing a heart that had only recently been opened for the first time after a lifetime of existing under lock and key?

The old Cajun didn't know and found that he had no particular interest in learning.

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

When the elevator arrived at the top floor, Brian moved toward the door of the loft, only to pause when Justin reached out and grabbed him to pull him close, fitting his smaller curvy body against his lover's taller frame, leaving very little room to maneuver.

"Patience, Sunshine," Brian laughed, dropping a quick kiss at the corner of Justin's voluptuous lips. "We're almost there."

"Yeah, I know, but . . . " Justin moved slightly to retrieve something from his jeans pocket - something very soft and very red, even in the dim lighting of the corridor. "I told you I had a surprise, so I need to get you ready."

"You expect me to strip - in the elevator?"

It was Justin's turn to laugh. "If I recall correctly, it wouldn't be the first time - but no, that's not part of the plan today. But this is." He held up the bright scrap of fabric and simultaneously pulled the aviators off Brian's face.

"What the . . ."

"I need to blindfold you."

Brian looked suspicious. "Have you gone kinky on me?"

The sunshine smile was brilliant and steady. "Like you wouldn't like that. But no - not this time. This time I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

For a moment, a shadow bloomed in dark eyes - eyes that were already too dark to read due to the dimness of the light around them - but in the end, Brian simply smiled and nodded and allowed Justin to tie the blindfold over his eyes, easily identifying the silk of one of the handkerchiefs he sometimes tucked in the pocket of an Armani jacket. Then he remained motionless as Justin moved forward to open the big metal sliding door.

The darkness bothered him - more than he was willing to admit as a nasty little voice in his mind whispered that perhaps he should get used to it. Perhaps he should listen harder and learn to navigate by senses other than his sight - by sound, by scent, by touch. But he shook off the feeling and allowed Justin to lead him forward once the way was clear.

He was a bit surprised, however, when he felt the ambiance of his loft envelop him; perhaps there was some truth to all those urban legends about the loss of one sense heightening the strength of the others. He inhaled deeply and quickly identified the pleasant fragrance of the lemon oil his housekeeper used for polishing wood surfaces and the light ginger smell of the cleanser she used for granite cabinet tops and porcelain; a rich trace of fine brandy - probably perpetual but never before identified - under a fine layer of the Caswell Massey almond body soap that he used in the shower. Covering it all, there was a heady aroma of something sumptuous - paella, maybe - simmering on the stove. A sense of movement then, and another scent - lightly spiced - a signature fragrance that suggested the presence of Emmett Honeycutt, which was confirmed almost immediately by a ghost touch of lips against his temple, and a whispered, "I hope it pleases you,mon amis," followed by the immediate sound of quick footsteps and the door closing behind them. There was a whisper of air, warm and pleasing, against his skin - a product of a ceiling fan, no doubt - and soft, sensual strains of music - Coltrane, melancholy and perfect in his best version of It's Easy to Remember, but so low in volume that it was almost subliminal.

"Stand here, for just a moment," Justin murmured, his lips moving against the softness beneath Brian's jaw-line.

"Smells good," Brian observed. "What are we doing - candlelight dinner?"

"Eventually," came the response, slightly muffled, "But not just yet."

"Then what . . ."

"Just trust me." He was back at Brian's side, whispering in his ear and exerting slight pressure to get him to move forward, but he changed direction several times so that, in the end, Brian had no idea where they were going. No steps up meant no bedroom, and he was pretty sure the delicious food aroma came from somewhere on his left, but beyond that, he couldn't venture an educated guess.

Until Justin pulled him to a halt, stepped close to spend several seconds exploring his mouth with a determined, slightly mint-flavored tongue before finally whisking away the soft fabric mask and stepping back - but not very far.

Brian blinked, adjusting to the light - light from everywhere, provided by dozens, maybe even hundreds, of fat, flickering candles - but it was not garish or brilliant enough to require some readjustment of his vision. He saw perfectly - the room that he had helped to build with his own two hands; hands which - until used to complete this project - he had never believed capable of such manual labor. The room was beautiful; it had always been beautiful in its design and purpose, but now - on this occasion - it was gilded and bathed in an amber glow that seemed perfectly appropriate for the moment.

"So," he said slowly, a note of uncertainty in his voice, "you've redecorated."

"I hope it meets with your approval."

Brian's only response was a diffident smile as Justin stepped closer to speak more softly. "I don't have the words to tell you what it means to me that you did this. That you - the Brian Kinney who never lets anyone get inside his defenses - would do this for me."

"I didn't do it for . . ."

"Oh, just shut the fuck up," Justin interrupted with a characteristic sunshine smile, as Brian looked around, noting both what had changed and what had not.

Most notable was the one significant difference in the ambiance - an alteration in its basic purpose. It had been designed as a gallery to pay homage to the incredible variety of Justin's talents, to present a constant revolution of the beautiful complexity of his art, with the seating unit turning to allow the examination of each painting in a wash of pure light. But tonight, nothing moved, beyond the flickering of the candlelight, and a faint susurration of air from the AC vents. The illumination, which usually highlighted one lovely painting at a time, was expanded now, to illuminate three - three which were perfectly displayed, each in glowing contrast to the next, each existing in a steady, motionless pool of light.

The first was achingly familiar, an explosion of vivid color and form that expressed exuberance and emotional rebirth which Justin had named The Hallelujah Chorus, a surrealistic representation of joy and life regained after the dark months of Justin's affair with his fiddler. Buried within the freeform brilliance, there were fragments of facial features - an eyebrow here, a scrap of profile there - myriad bits and pieces but none recognizable, except for those intimately acquainted with Justin's work, knowledgeable enough to figure out the meaning. It was youth and spirits soaring in infinite flight.

It always made Brian want to laugh.

Unlike the one beside it, which was one that Justin had never planned for Brian to see at all; had, in fact, gone to considerable lengths to conceal, for fear of his lover's reaction. In fact, it had been something of a shock when Brian had come across it, tucked away in the storage area of the loft, wrapped tight in plastic beneath a half dozen worn blankets and tarps. Luckily, he had been alone when he found it; otherwise his initial knee-jerk reaction might have compelled him to read his young lover a riot act of rampant rage.

But it hadn't worked out that way.

Instead, he had carried the painting back into the loft and set it down near the big front windows, in a space filled with filtered sunlight. He had then poured himself a generous portion of Scotch and taken a seat in his favorite Barcelona chair, to examine the work of art at his leisure and decide if he could deal with what it portrayed.

It was an almost full-size portrait of himself and Justin - completely nude and sprawled in the bed they shared. In that, it was not so different from many other works of art that Justin had done. But it was different in one major way.

Brian Kinney was nothing if not the master of any relationship - the top to any lovely bottom. But not in this case. This was Justin making love to Brian; Justin pushing inside Brian's body while simultaneously stroking Brian's massive, dripping erection. And it was something more; it captured a vision of perfect ecstasy on Brian's face and total concentration and triumph on Justin's - triumph and a bottomless, endless love.

The image had somehow penetrated the wall he usually maintained around his emotional center and driven him to a moment of realization - an acceptance of Justin's right to claim him and make him as much owned as owner.

Later, when Justin had come home and found his lover still studying the portrait, the young artist had hesitated to approach too closely, had hung back - waiting to gauge Brian's reaction, liquid blue eyes consumed with shadow.

Until Brian had risen from the chair and moved forward quickly, to wrap his arms around Justin and drag him toward the bedroom.

"Can I name it?" he'd asked, as he was ripping off Justin's shirt sending buttons flying everywhere and simultaneously reaching for his belt.

"You mean . . . you're not mad?"

Brian's grin had been brilliant. "I don't think I'd want it on display at the Met, but - between you and me - it's . . . growing on me."

"So what do you want to name it?" Justin had asked, shivering as Brian's fingers stroked a nipple to hardness.

The grin had grown wider as sparks of mischief flared in hazel eyes. "What else? Fucking Brian Kinney."

Then they had laughed together, and spent the rest of the day making love and smoking pot and experimenting with new positions to find new ways to drive each other into divine madness.

The portrait was still as perfect today as it had ever been, but it was not named "Fucking Brian Kinney".

The name it bore was simpler, more cryptic, but still - somehow - said everything that needed saying. "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing".

In his heart, it had become his favorite of all the portraits Justin had done of the two of them, although he had never admitted that to anyone. Still, it was obvious that Justin had figured it out; otherwise it would not have been a part of this display.

He doubted that any other piece of Justin's art would ever claim its place in his heart, but there was now a new painting - something unlike anything the incredibly talented young artist had ever done before; something not designed to inspire sexual fantasies or warm feelings of security; something touched with frost.

Brian stepped forward to get close enough to read the title of the exquisitely detailed work.

Never Again.

And he knew immediately that it represented a composite of different events that had happened in the course of their relationship, but that the original moment was the primary source of inspiration. It was an image of Brian, standing under a spotlight amid a crowd of shadowed dancers; it was Babylon, with bodies writhing to a thumpa-thumpa beat, all young and strong and beautiful, but without identifiable features. Except for him. His face, his expression was sharp against the anonymity around him.

He remembered the moment; he remembered the emotion coursing through him like acid. He remembered standing there, watching as Justin walked away with his new love.

He remembered the struggle to maintain his strength, to survive the agony that he would never let anyone see.

Yet - obviously - someone had seen, for it was there in his eyes, in the lines of his body and the set of his shoulders.

"Why?" he asked, barely audible. "Why would you . . ."

Justin moved close against his back and wrapped strong, young arms around his waist. "Because I need you to know that there are no secrets between us - to understand that I know what I did to you and what it cost you to stand there and let me go. And that I finally realize - after all these years of acting like a stupid ass - that it was all for me. That you loved me enough to let me go, because you believed it was the best thing for me."

"But . . ."

"No buts. That's what I did to you - what you allowed me to do to you, and it's a promise I need to make. To swear to you that it will never, never happen again. You are my life, Brian. Without you, nothing else matters, and I hate that I let you do that, that I let myself be maneuvered into hurting you like that. Do you understand?"

Brian turned then to gaze down into the perfect sculpture of that perfect face, where he could have drowned himself in those ocean-blue eyes, and forced himself to take a moment, to improvise the perfect answer.

"I do," he said finally, gently. "I understand better than you think."

Justin's smile was brilliant. "I knew you would." Then he reached over to retrieve a remote control device to activate the sound system.

"What now?" Brian managed to conceal the degree of his weariness as music swelled around them.

Justin did not offer a verbal response. Instead he simply placed his hand in Brian's and began to sway to the rhythm as the voices of Peter Cetera and Cher drifted from surround-sound speakers.

Well, here we are again.
I guess it must be fate.**

Brian grinned. "Does the phrase 'ridiculously romantic' mean anything to you?"

"Yeah. It means I love you."

For a moment, Brian remained still, almost rigid; then he lowered his head and claimed Justin's lips in a kiss so gentle, so achingly sweet, that Justin thought he might never need a breath again and wasn't sure he ever could anyway. Then they began to move together, bodies perfectly in sync as the song continued.

After all that we've been through,
It all comes down to me and you,
I guess it's meant to be,
Together you and me, after all.**

With a sudden burst of soft laughter - and a determined effort to ignore the discomfort in his side - Brian tucked Justin against his chest and managed a spin and a dip which might not have been quite as elegant as the dance they'd performed at Justin's infamous prom, but made up for its lack of fluidity with the intensity of the emotion that drove them. The weariness was still with him, but it was yielding before a more powerful physical need.

The song played on as they went still, lips touching lips, bodies entwined, and neither would ever remember exactly how they wound up sprawled across the luxurious seating unit, clothes strewn across the floor, more soft melodies drifting around them to provide a perfect accompaniment for what would come next. They would remember none of it except the need that drove them, as Justin explored Brian's body with lips and fingers and tongue, suckling at hard nipples before moving down to swallow the massive cock that dripped with pre-cum and throbbed with a violent pulse. At the same time, Brian's hands cupped Justin's perfect butt, hard enough to bruise, before growing gentle and trailing caresses down to the pucker of his most intimate opening, lingering there to explore for a while with tender fingers before moving farther to fondle the velvet softness of testicles and then farther still, stroking and clinching along the length of Justin's beautiful shaft, its head red-purple now, gorged with blood and desperate need. Finally, when neither could stand another second of the sweet torture, Justin pushed Brian to lie flat on his back and positioned himself above Brian's rock-hard manhood, barely able to breathe around the intensity of his desire as he impaled himself, not taking his time, not waiting to adjust, choosing instead to slam his body down and take it all, to feel it claiming him, wondering if he really could feel it all the way up into his throat.

Maybe - or maybe it was just the blood rushing to his head. In the end, it didn't matter; it only mattered that he was invaded by a formidable force of nature and filled completely, that Brian inhabited his entire body, consuming their shared perceptions, by bracing his heels against the surface beneath them and pushing upward, his hands gripping Justin's thighs to anchor them and give him leverage to increase the power of his thrusts.

"Yessss!" Justin groaned. "Fuck me, Brian. Fuck me harder. Fuck me like you've never fucked me before."

"Jesus!" Brian muttered through gritted teeth. "After a thousand times, how can you still be so fucking tight?"

"Only," gasped Justin, "because you're . . . so fucking . . . big."

And then there were no more words, no conscious thought, nothing but the ecstasy burning through them, and then even that was not quite enough, as Brian grabbed him and flipped their bodies over to place Justin on his back with his legs draped over Brian's shoulders in order to create the perfect angle, to allow him to plunge back into the furnace of that dark, tight passage, to revel in the perfect fit of Justin's body around him and pause at the exact second when his shaft surged through the constrictive band around Justin's opening to flare into spontaneous combustion within that molten heat. Sometimes - at that precise stage of their joining - Brian wondered if he might not die from the intensity of the raw sensations that raced through his body like wildfire, knowing that - if he did - it would still be worth it.

He realized that he would pay for his efforts later; his body was not sufficiently healed to allow him to indulge in such intense exertion without incurring a hell of a physical cost, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but Justin and the exquisite grip of that perfect body clinching around his cock, and this moment - this mind-bending, glorious moment - and building it into a memory which just might have to last forever.

Later they would dine on Emmett's fabulous meal, share champagne and more music, shower together, look over sketches that Justin had made of design details for the house he dreamed of building, and make love again - and again. But nothing would compare to that initial moment, that joining that would live in their memories as nothing else ever could.

And Brian would smile down at his young lover, treasuring the moment and trying to forget that it could not possibly last forever.


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

The exterior of the Kinnetik headquarters was never going to win any awards for beauty. It was what it had always been - a structure designed to house a bathhouse catering to gay men. For Brian, that was part of its appeal, and he had done nothing to change it except for hiring professionals to get rid of the grunge factor.

The interior, however, was another matter entirely. A team of designers, working under Brian's very specific instructions, had transformed the suite of offices into a physical expression of the owner's individuality - elegant, sleek, stylish, almost sensual, and designed to inspire a combination of desire, envy, and creativity.

They had succeeded beyond all expectations, and Brian always enjoyed a quick sensation of homecoming whenever he came through his private entrance. It was the same this morning, although it turned out to be less private than usual.

The welcome-back ritual was not unexpected, and he endured the hugs and handshakes and kisses - both platonic and deliberately not - and happy comments with a smile. He declined to make a speech, accepted his glass of Dom Pérignon without a single snarky comment about how much it was costing him to celebrate his own return, and regarded non-employee friends with a lopsided smile without once demanding to know why they were there.

He was, in fact, charming and diffident, maintaining a demeanor that garnered him a whispered word of approval from Cynthia and a sardonic grin from his FBI bodyguard as he spoke briefly to everyone who had come here to participate in his triumphant return, and expressed thanks to the full compliment of employees who all seemed relieved to have him back. He paid special attention to Cedric Lasseigne, making sure that the elderly man was fully recovered from his ordeal and understood the extent of Brian's gratitude for the intervention that had saved his life.

He then looked around the room to find Michael and Debbie and Ben standing together, all beaming down at J.R. as she laughed and twirled around in a bright pink dress; Emmett happily arranging trays of canapés on the conference table while Drew looked on with pride; and Lindsey looking particularly elegant in a teal print Dolce & Gabbana sheath as she, Sharon Briggs, and Liam Quinn stood silhouetted against bars of bright sunlight, deep in conversation, while Gus sat in his father's executive chair, laughing as Justin spun him around while Ron Peterson looked on with a smile.

Brian noticed that his son's grandfather was paler than the last time they'd met, and had lost a significant amount of weight, but still looked relatively sound. He doubted that the man would be able to maintain that façade for much longer.

When he moved to his desk, he ignored the protest of his abdominal muscles when he picked up his son and settled into his chair as Gus wrapped his arms around his father's neck and buried his face into the softness beneath Brian's jaw.

Justin stood nearby, eyes large and sharply focused, as Brian turned to him with a smile. "Are you responsible for this?" he asked, with only a tiny note of disapproval in his voice.

"Not guilty, your honor," the blond replied with a smirk. "But I can't even begin to tell you what I'd give for a canvas and a brush right now. I want to paint the two of you - just like this. Okay?"

Brian twisted to gaze into his son's beautiful face and smiled. "Sure, but if you think he's going to sit still to pose for you, think again. Right, Bud?"

"Right, Daddy." Gus was already squirming. If true to form, he would shortly find a reason to go exploring, spend a few minutes satisfying his wanderlust before returning to spend a little while wrapped in Brian's arms, followed by another round of physical activity.

It was the pattern of their existence.

Brian waited until his son climbed down to pursue whatever might have caught his eye before looking up to find Chris McClaren standing nearby, face carefully expressionless.

"No champagne, McFed?"

"No, thanks. Not on duty."

Brian grinned. "I don't recall that ever stopping you before. Weren't you 'on duty' all the time when we were vacationing at the beach?"

McClaren nodded. "I was."

Brian's smile went cold. "You're a credit to your profession, Special Agent. Willing to do anything necessary - all in the line of duty."

Very deliberately, McClaren leaned forward to be able to speak for Brian's hearing only. "Not quite anything."

"Then have a drink." Brian did not bother to lower his voice.

"Brian . . ."

"Now!"

For a moment, the entire room went silent as everyone turned to stare at the FBI agent and the man he was assigned to protect, and McClaren sensed that something unexpected was happening between them. But he couldn't quite figure out what, and he quickly decided it would be unwise to prolong the confrontation, especially since both Justin and Michael Novotny looked on the verge of demanding some kind of explanation for the harsh words.

"Sure," he replied easily, accepting a champagne flute from the tray proffered by Garrett Delaney and settling into a chair adjacent to Brian's desk.

Brian's smile was sardonic as he lifted his glass. "Hard to imagine that this nectar of the gods was created by a Benedictine monk, isn't it?"

McClaren merely sipped at his drink, offering no response.

Brian sat back and looked around the room, noting that most of his employees had made quick work of their champagne and samples of Emmett's culinary skill and were returning to their tasks, every one of them aware that Brian, as an employer, had two singular attributes that distinguished him from almost all others: he was extraordinarily generous to those who did their jobs well and completely unforgiving to those who did not. It made for an interesting quid pro quo arrangement.

As the crowd thinned, it was easy to determine who had joined the celebration; it was even easier to determine who had not.

"Where is he?" Brian asked finally, turning to find Cynthia and Lance Mathis standing nearby, obviously waiting for that exact question, as their boss lifted one hand to massage a spot on his right temple.

Cynthia took a deep breath as both Chris McClaren and Liam Quinn stood and moved to stand on Brian's left and right respectively. "He's in his office. Blake's with him." She studied her partner's face for a moment, obviously reluctant to say more, but Cynthia was nothing if not determined to provide whatever support Brian might need from her. "Have you decided what to do about him?"

He did not bother to suppress a sigh as he looked around to note the number of celebrants who appeared determined to linger in the office. "Yes, I have. But I need to clear the room before I call him in. If you'll herd the remainder of our guests to the break room, I can get on with it."

She nodded and turned to go, but Brian was not quite done. "Once you've done that, please come back in here. You're a partner now, and you need to be a part of what happens."

Cynthia's smile was rueful. "Guess that comes under the heading of taking the bad with the good - right?"

Brian nodded, his dark eyes soft with sympathy.

When Cynthia and Mathis began to encourage the assembly to transfer to the employee's break room, a few guests appeared reluctant - Lindsey, Justin, and Michael among them - but one look from Brian told them that protest was useless. This was business, and no one was going to be allowed to intrude where they did not belong. Not even Justin, even though - technically - he was now a part of the official Kinnetik heirarchy. Still, he favored Brian with a sweet smile before taking Gus in hand to steer him toward the lobby where Garrett Delaney kept a supply of coloring books and Crayons on hand to amuse young visitors while their parents were engaged in agency business. Nevertheless, the blond paused in the doorway to watch Michael take his leave.

For his part, Brian's childhood buddy knew that he was expected to walk away quickly, but he hesitated for a few moments, his dark eyes regarding his best friend with a mixture of understanding and regret. He knew what came next - knew what had to be done and why Brian had to be strong and stern and unrelenting. Still, he couldn't help but wish things could be different. But he didn't waste breath in pleading or arguing. He confined his actions to leaning forward and expressing himself with a gentle, almost asexual kiss - almost - which had both Ben and Justin debating whether or not they should intervene. In the end, neither did, but Michael thought - judging from the look in both pairs of eyes - that they had been extremely tempted. Still, Brian's response - a gentle smile and a tender caress of fingertips against Michael's throat - assured him that his message had been received and understood.

When he and his partner, along with J.R., Lindsey, Emmett, Drew and an unusually quiet Debbie passed through the elegantly appointed lobby, Justin and Gus were already kneeling beside a glass-topped coffee table, debating what color should be used for Captain Hook's coat, as Cynthia returned from her assignment, with Lance Mathis following behind her, escorting two individuals who had not been present during the welcome back celebration.

Michael and Ben paused near the front entrance, as Debbie helped J.R. into a cute little pink jacket, all watching in silence as the small procession moved toward Brian's office, and Justin even attempted a smile when he felt dark eyes looking down on him, but he found that he couldn't quite manage it. Instead, he chose to focus on Gus's artistic efforts, and avoid looking up to meet that gaze, knowing that his eyes might reveal some foreknowledge of what was to come, not to mention sparks of the anger still simmering in his gut toward the betrayal of his lover by a man who should have remembered how much he owed Brian Kinney. Should have - but hadn't.

For a moment, he debated standing up and following Ted Schmidt into Brian's office, to be there when Brian's particular brand of justice was dispensed, to witness the end of something that had been a part of their group existence for as long as he'd known Brian Kinney. Ted Schmidt had been there, after all, on the night that Brian had walked into Justin's life and staked a claim that would endure forever. But in the end, he remained still, smiling at Gus and deciding that he actually didn't want to be a part of that confrontation. Justice, after all, was noble and much to be desired, but that did not change the fact that it often left a bitter taste in one's mouth.

Instead, he would remain here, choosing to preserve older, sweeter memories, and spend this small, peaceful interlude accompanying Gus in his exploration of Never Never Land.

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

There were seven people present in Brian's office, but there was no sense of crowding. The room was large and uncluttered, and the clarity of the light streaming through the windows and the skylight made it appear even larger. It was also climate-controlled - never too warm or too cool - but now . . . Ted Schmidt stood very still, determined not to shiver even though the air around him felt too cold for comfort.

Brian was, of course, seated at his desk, a perfect model of sartorial splendor in his Armani jacket, his Alexander McQueen dress shirt, and his Fendi tie. The only flaw in his appearance was the faint bruising still visible beneath his jawline and something dark and indefinable in his eyes.

Ted found it difficult to meet that cold stare and chose instead to look around, noting who was to be privy to this kangaroo court.

"Brian," he said finally, coldly, attempting to achieve a stoic demeanor that he could not quite pull off.

"Theodore." The reply was equally cold and clipped.

"Must we have an audience for our . . . discussion?" Still almost without inflection, almost calm.

But Brian was not fooled; he knew what was happening beneath that chilly façade. "Yes, we must. So, if there's anything you want to say to me, now's your chance."

Ted took a deep breath and stood a bit straighter. "Despite whatever you may have been told, by certain people . . ." He did not quite glance toward Cynthia and Lance Mathis, but the flicker in his eyes made his meaning clear, "I have always acted in your best interest, trying to protect your financial holdings and promote potential growth. The information that I received indicated that the profits from the ventures I recommended could have been . . ."

"Could have been," Brian interrupted. "Could being the operative word, Theodore, and I have to point out that the information required to confirm the validity of those claims - or the lack thereof - was available to anyone with the willingness to pull off the blinders and take a good, hard luck. I'm assuming that you've been advised of the circumstances of the plot hatched by Wylie and his compadres. Right?"

"I have."

Brian stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, Brian turned to gesture for Liam Quinn to join the discussion. The attorney's manner and tone were precise and professional. "Have you gone over all the particulars, Mr. Schmidt? Specifically, have you reviewed how the details of the plot could have been exposed had you bothered to take certain fundamental precautions and looked into the condition of the land itself?''

Ted frowned. "I don't think anybody could have discovered the truth without . . ."

"Wrong." Brian's voice was deadly quiet. "In a matter of a few hours, the sordid details of the deception were exposed, and all that was needed to accomplish that was a determination to investigate elements of the deal that didn't quite ring true. In other words, you could have exposed it all if you'd bothered to do even a tiny bit of digging. But you didn't. Want to explain why?"

"Well, it all seemed above board to me. I mean, it's not as if we were dealing with the kind of scum who . . ."

"Who what?" Brian had surged to his feet and was now staring at Ted with a hard gleam of revulsion in his eyes. "Who paid a gang of thugs to mutilate me; who threatened my son and Justin and my family; who plotted to strip me of my money and my place in this company and reduce me to poverty? Who did all of that - and more, including collusion in Ponzi schemes and charity frauds and the kind of bigotry and hate crimes that make the KKK look like some kind of harmless social club? Are those the kind of 'non-scum' you decided to entrust with my life and my family's safety and my money?"

"Brian, I . . ."

"Answer - my - question, Theodore."

"I didn't know." It was a wail now as dignity fell away from Ted like a discarded cloak. "I only wanted . . ."

Brian sat back down. "What? What exactly did you want?"

Ted found that he couldn't stand to confront the ice in Brian's gaze. "I just wanted you to . . . to understand . . . to acknowledge that I was . . ."

"Was what?"

Ted mumbled something that was not quite audible.

"Was what?" Brian repeated, his patience growing thin.

"Worthy," Ted said finally. "I wanted you to acknowledge that I was . . . worthy of your loyalty, your trust. More than . . ."

"More than me." That was Cynthia, her voice flat and without inflection.

Ted hesitated for a second; then he nodded.

"So this was all about me, failing to appreciate your service. Right?" Again, Brian's tone was cold.

"Well," Ted replied, still looking down, "I do think I deserved to be . . . your good right hand."

"Right," said Brian softly. "I suppose I should be the one apologizing to you. Obviously the fact that I made you CFO of my company and paid you an obscenely generous salary means nothing."

"No. I didn't say that. I just . . ."

Brian looked down then, lifting both hands to massage his temples, suddenly so weary that he didn't think he could say another word. Thus he turned to face Liam Quinn again, nodding for the attorney to take over.

"Mr. Schmidt," said Quinn, stepping forward and laying a document down on the desk for Ted to examine, "this is a copy of the conditions of your discharge from Mr. Kinney's employ. You may, of course, refuse to sign off on it, but, if you do, it will not change the fact of your dismissal. It will, however, change what happens next."

Ted's eyes were suddenly huge. "Brian, you . . . you're firing me?"

Brian did not blink. "I am."

"But you can't. You need me to . . ."

"Correction, Theodore. I did need you, once upon a time. But the simple truth is that you're more interested in staking a claim on my loyalty, than in doing your job. That's all I ever asked of you. And by giving you my trust, I endangered everyone and everything I care about. I won't take that chance again."

"But . . ."

"Do yourself a favor, and sign the document," Brian went on. "If you agree to the terms, you leave here with your reputation mostly intact, and with a favorable letter of recommendation from me. Even a personal intro to a friend in New York that might get you an extremely good job. Plus a severance package that is damned generous, all things considered."

"And what exactly are the terms?" Ted's face was no longer chalky white as color bloomed in his cheeks.

Brian sat back, his gaze hard and relentless, as Quinn provided the answers. "You are to make yourself available for interrogation by law enforcement officials and Kinnetik investigators. You will testify concerning the financial plot perpetrated by Mr. Wylie and his co-conspirators. You will also confess to the release of confidential medical information about your employer to individuals engaged in HIPAA violations. You will agree to maintain total confidentiality regarding any other financial or personal data pertinent to Kinnetik or Mr. Kinney. You will relocate to a different city - of your choice - although Mr. Kinney recommends New York as your new base. You will have no further contact with Mr. Kinney or any member of his staff or family, and - in exchange for your full co-operation, you will be granted full immunity from any criminal charges or fiscal penalties that might otherwise apply."

During the recitation, Ted had gone from rosy-cheeked to rage red, and he huffed an impatient breath that was not quite a snort. "And if I don't sign it?"

Liam Quinn opened his mouth to respond, but Brian beat him to it. "Then you're fired, Theodore. Publicly, loudly, and immediately. No severance package, no references, and everything that happened here, every action you took - including your cooperation in a conspiracy to defraud me and endanger my family - becomes public record. It's even possible that charges might be filed against you."

Ted stared at Brian. "You won't do that," he said coldly. "You don't like to get your hands dirty and . . ."

Brian leapt to his feet and leaned across the desk to wrap his fingers in Ted's tie and jerk it tight. "Fuck you, you little bastard! Because of you, the people I love were put in danger. Because of you, I almost lost everything I've spent a lifetime working for. And frankly, Theodore, you have no fucking idea how dirty I can get when it's necessary, but you're on the verge of finding out."

He jerked once more, and Ted spent a single moment wondering if the King of Liberty Avenue was actually angry enough to strangle him, and whether or not anybody else in the room might intervene on his behalf. Even Blake, the man who was supposed to love him beyond all reason, was standing by and watching like a disinterested observer.

Then Brian smiled - a thin, deadly smile - and released his grip, eyes filled with ice as he spoke his final words on the subject. "Sign it - or don't. Your choice. But either way, get the fuck out of my office and out of my life. And you need to remember one thing: if you ever try to hurt me or mine again, you'll live just long enough to regret it. Think about it, as you're making sure my door doesn't slap you on the ass on your way out."

Ted took five seconds to straighten his tie, and five more to lean forward and sign the agreement and accept a copy of it from Liam Quinn. Throughout those moments, Brian did not bother to look at him again, acknowledging nothing as the accountant turned and went running out of the room. Blake Wyzecky followed more slowly, his gaze soft with understanding as he met Brian's eyes just before he made his exit.

The office remained silent for several seconds after the door closed behind the two.

Then Lance Mathis stepped forward and regarded his boss with a sardonic smile. "Remind me never to piss you off," he remarked. Then he laughed, and so did the rest of them. It wasn't a huge, booming roar of laughter, but everybody assumed that it was better than the alternative, even if nobody wanted to waste time figuring out just what that alternative might be.

As they dispersed, each to return to the jobs they were paid to do, only McClaren remained to take a seat across from Brian and study his face. "You okay?" he asked finally.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Brian's voice was raw with impatience.

"Well, you did threaten to kill him, you know. I should probably arrest you."

Brian's smile was wicked. "Oh, please, Officer. If you let me go, I promise I'll figure out a way to make it up to you."

McClaren chuckled. "Careful, Stud. If I throw you down across that desk and fuck your brains out, I'm pretty sure the boytoy is going to come running in here and threaten to castrate us both."

"Probably," Brian admitted. "Anyway, everything's cool, so you can . . ."

"Don't do that," the FBI agent interrupted. "Don't put on that stoic Kinney face, because I learned to see through it a long time ago. What you just did was painful, even if it was the right thing to do. It's always hard to discard a friend, even one who deserves it."

"Yeah, well, if you're expecting tears, you're going to be disappointed."

McClaren grinned. "Perish the thought."

"Why are you still here? Don't you have something better to do?"

"In point of fact, I do. We've got a crew of forensic accounting people working with your IT staff to co-ordinate all the evidence in your files and change all the access codes - just in case your system's been compromised." His smile was sympathetic. "Which it very well might have been."

Brian took a deep breath. "You really think he would have done that?"

McClaren stood and looked down into Brian's eyes, knowing that he was seeing what almost no one else would notice - what he would not have noticed either had he not been forewarned. "I think he was so desperate to establish himself as a newly-admitted member of the elite that he'd have done almost anything - and you can't afford to take the chance."

"Right."

The FBI agent leaned forward and braced himself with one hand as he studied the details of those previously perfect hazel eyes. "How bad is it?" he asked.

Brian frowned. "Bad enough. So just . . ."

"Yeah. Okay." McClaren knew better than to argue. "Are you still flying out tomorrow night?"

"That's the plan."

McClaren stepped back. "Okay. I'll make the arrangements, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Have you told Justin yet?"

Brian turned to look out the window. "He knows I have to go for a follow-up appointment."

"And?"

"And he flies out tomorrow afternoon for meetings in New York about a new gallery showing. He'll be gone a few days."

McClaren nodded. "And he expects that you'll be here waiting, when he gets back."

"Something like that."

"Brian, you can't . . ."

"Do not presume to tell me what I can or can't do."

The FBI agent paused for a moment, a speculative gleam in his eyes. "Okay, but . . . how long are you going to be here today?"

Brian looked up then, sensing something different, something unexpected in McClaren's demeanor, but uncertain what it might mean. "I've got a lot of details to work out, so I'll be here all day. Why?"

McClaren turned away and walked toward the door, speaking without looking back. "Because there's something you need to see. But not now. Later - when there's no one else around. So call me - when you're ready. I won't be far away."

Brian sat back and watched as the man who'd saved his life so many times walked out the door, and he took a moment to wonder just when it would be that the agent walked out of his life just as easily.

Then he turned back to his work, determined to waste no more time maundering over things that were inevitable and other things that might never happen at all.

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

The iconic cottage once owned by Ted Schmidt and Emmett Honeycutt was just down the street from the one now occupied by the Novotny-Bruckners, and it had benefited from the loving attentions of the young professionals - one physical therapist and one IT specialist - who had purchased it when Ted had been arrested and lost virtually everything - his home, his business, his professional reputation, his lover, his friends . . . almost.

For the last few years, since he'd been granted absolution for his sins and a reprieve from the punishment he'd earned, he'd made a habit of studying the façade of the little house whenever he visited the neighborhood. He'd conceded - reluctantly - that the new owners had a certain stylishness and a flair for original design as evidenced by the stained glass transoms that topped newly-installed leaded glass windows, the copper containers of tree roses that flanked a new flagstone entry, the freeform design of raised flower beds illuminated by solar-powered pewter landscape lighting, and the small, intricately carved redwood pergola that provided support for a healthy trumpet vine rampant with new growth. Despite the overall appeal of the place, he'd always taken a certain amount of pleasure in noting that it was smaller and older and less refined - not to mention considerably less expensive - than the townhouse he now shared with Blake. It was a measure of his emotional state on this occasion that he never even glanced at it as he hurried toward his destination - the home of the one person to whom he could plead his case and hope for help in appealing the arbitrary nature of the sentence handed down by Brian Kinney.

Blake, walking at his side, had said very little since they're made their departure from Kinnetik and gone home to discuss what to do next. But there had actually been very little discussion; instead, there had been Teddie's venomous soliloquy - an explosive recitation of his list of complaints against Brian's actions. Blake, on the other hand, had remained mostly silent, declining to so much as offer an opinion when Ted had pointed out that the one person who might be able to help him, the one person who could always be counted upon to manipulate Brian into changing his mind, was poor, innocent, little Michael; Michael, who had at one time been the focus of Ted's forbidden desires; sweet, naive Michael who had never known how Ted felt about him because he'd been far too busy mourning the fact that Brian Kinney would never love him the way he longed to be loved. Ted wondered if Ben Bruckner knew that he was nothing more than a consolation prize for what Michael really wanted.

He did not stop to examine how he felt about that fundamental truth, for, if Ben was simply a substitute for Michael's fondest dream, what did that make Ted?

He took a deep breath. It wasn't about what it made him; it was about how allowing himself to be so hopelessly enslaved to a man who didn't deserve it made Michael a total soft-hearted pussy, a pussy who - with a tiny application of the right kind of pressure - could be easily manipulated. It had taken Ted no more than a few minutes to decide that his only logical recourse was to go to Michael and have a face-to-face conversation in order to convince him to intervene on Ted's behalf. Blake had agreed to accompany him, but with minimal comment, offering little in the way of encouragement. He had maintained his silence throughout their trip, his eyes downcast and shadowed, making it clear that he did not share Ted's optimism.

Well, tough shit! Ted knew what he had to do.

Unfortunately, on arriving at his destination, he did not find the quiet, serene atmosphere he'd been hoping for. He had counted on being able to speak to Michael privately, to take the opportunity to remind him of all the good times they'd shared and how Ted had been such an integral part of their group and how much he had done for so many of them - up to and including the mighty Kinney - thus convincing Michael that Brian's retaliatory actions were unnecessarily harsh and grossly unfair. He'd been sure he could do that - until Ben opened the door of their little house to expose a scene of pure pandemonium.

While waiting on the porch of Ben and Michael's home, where a small wicker plant stand held a variety of spring annuals just budding into bloom and a group of hanging baskets displayed an assortment of lush, healthy ferns and ivies, Ted had managed to arrange his features into a small, smug smile that he thought appropriate for approaching Michael with his request for a serious conversation. But he could not maintain that expression as he stepped into the house to witness Michael's daughter and Brian's son running around the Novotny-Bruckner den in pursuit of the small white dog that darted back and forth across the room, barking non-stop and exhibiting an uncanny ability to evade the small hands and bodies that pursued it. The noise level was almost deafening, but not the least bit ominous as it consisted mostly of childish squeals of giggles providing a shrill descant to the baritone rumble of masculine laughter and verbal encouragement.

"Get him, Gus," called Michael, grinning as the pup wriggled through J.R.'s legs and zigzagged around the base of Ben's favorite recliner to make good his escape into the kitchen where Lindsey Peterson and Sharon Briggs were chatting with Debbie Novotny as she removed a baking sheet from the oven, laden with golden brown, aromatic chocolate chip cookies. Seated at the bar, focused on a set of panel drawings, were Justin and Hunter, Michael and Ben's adopted son, along with Daphne Chalmers and another young woman that Ted did not recognize, all of whom turned away from their subject to inhale the mouth-watering fragrance of the cookies and to offer indulgent grins for the children and the dog.

Ted's eyes were huge and agleam with bright sparks of resentment as he glanced around to identify each member of the crowd. "Having a party, are we? My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail."

"Teddie?" That was Michael, his tone betraying his misgivings at seeing Ted in his home following the events of the day. "What are you doing . . ."

But the question went unfinished as Lindsey stood up and stepped forward. "It doesn't matter why he's here. It only matters that he can't be. He agreed to stay away from . . ."

But Ted was not about to take orders from any charter member of the Kinney fan club. "Staying away from Brian's so-called 'family'," he drawled, "doesn't mean that I can't pay a visit to an old friend. How was I supposed to know that Brian's whelp would be here?"

He stared at Lindsey, his cold smile daring her to respond.

But it was not Lindsey who chose to speak up, nor any of the guests of the so-called party.

It was Michael.

"Is that what you think of Gus, Ted?" Michael's voice was very soft - and ice cold. "A whelp? What about J.R.? Does that term apply to her too?"

"Of course not," Ted replied with a smirk. "I'd never refer to your child as . . ."

"Oh, so it's only Brian's blood that offends you. Is that right?"

Ted frowned, hearing something in Michael's voice that he couldn't quite identify. "So . . . did he tell you what he's trying to do to me? He apparently thinks somebody died and made him king of Pittsburgh, and gave him the right to decide where I can live and who my friends are. So who the hell does he think he is?"

The house was suddenly silent; even the children and the dog had gone still and quiet, alarmed by the ugly tone of his voice.

"He thinks he's my brother," Michael said softly.

"But . . ."

"And he is, Teddie. In every way that matters, he's always been my brother, and I'm ashamed to admit that the only one that never realized that . . . was me."

"Don't be a fool, Michael," Ted snapped. "You were never anything more than a convenience, so don't . . ."

"That's enough." A new voice, from a new direction and a different gender.

Debbie Novotny walked out of the kitchen and moved to stand directly in front of Ted, her expression stern and relentless. "Michael is right, and the only thing wrong with what he's saying is that it took way too long for him to say it - for all of us to say it. We all got into the habit of walking away and leaving Brian to stand alone against the world and clean up the messes we left him. We got used to taking the easy way out, because we let ourselves believe that we didn't owe him anything - not our loyalty or our gratitude. Not even a moment of our time to try to figure out what was really going on. We allsimply assumed that it was just a case of Brian being Brian, just acting like the asshole we all judged him to be."

"But . . ."

"And we were all wrong," Debbie continued, a small, rueful smile touching her face. "Not about him being an asshole. That'll never really change. But about why he did the things he did, and why he just stood there and watched as we all turned our backs on him. It wasn't because he didn't need us or want us or care about us." She paused and looked around the room, seeing the soft understanding in all the eyes that looked back at her. "It was because he was the one strong enough to bear up under the load - sometimes the only one. We all congratulated ourselves on making it through the storm, when the simple truth was that - without Brian - we'd never have survived. We took the easy way out, and he protected us. That's what he did, over and over again. And we let him, and you . . . you were one of us, Teddie. You let him protect you, just like the rest of us. The only difference is that we took advantage of him through ignorance and carelessness, while you . . . you deliberately made it worse. You tried to force him to sacrifice everyone he cares about to prove his loyalty to you. He could have died, Teddie. Have you realized that yet? He could have . . ."

"So that's it then," Ted snarled. "He says 'frog', and you all bust your asses to see how high you can leap. After everything I've done for you. After . . ."

"Ted," said Blake suddenly, sharply, "we need to go. Now."

"No. If they're going to stab me in the back, they're going to have to face up. . ."

"That's enough, Teddie," said Michael. "Blake's right, and Mom's right. You crossed a line, and there's no going back. So just . . . go quietly. While you can."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Ted's face was flushed and blotchy now, as he lost control and bellowed his defiance.

He fully expected Michael to do what Michael had always done - to back down and offer apology and conciliation. No one was more amazed than Ted when that didn't happen.

"I'll tell you who I am. I'm Brian Kinney's brother, and it's about damned time I remembered it."

Ted gaped, and struggled to breathe, to find the air to challenge Michael's certainty, but, in the end, he couldn't find the words or the strength to speak them, and his effort was cut short by the actions of the individual who came through the front door at that juncture, took a moment to size up the situation and did what was necessary to put an end to the unpleasantness. Drew Boyd, with Emmett stepping aside to allow him access, took the most direct action available to him by picking Ted up and depositing him back onto the front porch, as easily as if he'd been discarding a broken doll. When he then slammed the door in Ted's face, everyone in the group waited with bated breath, wondering what would happen next.

Which, as it turned out, was nothing. There was no sound from outside; there was only the breathless stillness of the shadow that remained near the doorway for a while before slowly turning and moving away.

It did not escape anyone's notice that Blake Wyzecky had not been ejected from the room along with his erstwhile partner. In fact, he lingered for a few minutes, a mute apology writ large in his eyes as he turned to face the group.

"I should go," he said finally. "He'll be overwrought, so I . . ."

"Blake," said Emmett softly, "how do you feel about what he did?"

The young counselor sighed. "I didn't know about most of it until it was too late to change anything, but I did try to dissuade him. He was so sure that he was right - that Brian would be grateful in the end. That's all he wanted, you know. For Brian to . . ."

But he fell silent, apparently at a loss for words, until Michael finished the thought for him. "For Brian to owe him a huge debt of gratitude."

Blake nodded. "Either that, or . . . to love him."

Emmett's expression was gentle. "In some ways, I think that's what he's always wanted."

Blake's smile was bittersweet. "Proving that we all want what we can't have, and the more impossible it is, the more we want it."

"So what will you do now?" That was Justin, his voice soft with sympathy.

Blake moved to the window and looked out to find Ted standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the house - staring at him.

"He's changed," he answered absently. "Sometimes I don't think I know him any more."

Emmett nodded. "If there's anything we can do . . . "

Blake sighed. "Thanks, but I think this is something I have to handle myself."

"Do you think he'll do what Brian wants? Will he leave town?"

"Yeah. He will. He talks a good fight, but, at heart, he's afraid of Brian. He'll bluster and threaten and pretend to be outraged, but, when all's said and done, he'll go."

It was Justin who looked up to study the young man's expression, apparently hearing something melancholy in his voice. "Will you?" he asked.

But Blake only smiled, and Justin was pretty sure that the reason no verbal response was offered was because Blake, himself, had not yet figured out what he wanted to say - or do.

Things felt a bit awkward for a moment, as Michael saw Blake to the door and took a quick look outside to confirm that Ted had finally tired of waiting and taken off - out of their yard, out of the picture, and - apparently - out of their lives. Michael turned back to find Ben at his side, dark eyes filled with concern. Concern for Michael, of course. As always. But, in this case, the younger member of the Novotny-Bruckner partnership was slightly surprised to find that he was not particularly in need of comfort. It might seem harsh and unfeeling to admit it, but, sometime during the last few days, Michael had come to realize that automatic forgiveness - given perpetually and unconditionally - became meaningless after a while. Actions had consequences - a fundamental truth that Teddie had chosen to ignore as he'd betrayed Brian; betrayed one of their own, and thus earned the justice he'd received. On occasion, he would be remembered fondly and missed accordingly, but life would go on, as it did at that moment, settling back into its customary shape within the happy ambiance of the household without a noticeable glitch, as Gus and J.R. resumed their game of tag with the lively little dog, and the rest of the group enjoyed the occasion while feasting on Debbie's fresh, hot cookies. There was laughter and warmth and happiness in the little house, and not a single shadow to be found.

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


Spring was finally in full flower in the city; it had lingered just off-stage for several weeks, teasing the residents with an occasional splendid morning or a golden afternoon, but had not put in an extended appearance until winter had finally given up its cold grasp and faded into obscurity. Thus, the season would not be long-lived, but Pittsburgh wore it beautifully nevertheless. Once primarily an industrial center - a city of steel - the metropolitan area had been transformed in recent years, with dramatic natural features being emphasized and enhanced by careful planning and imaginative landscaping. It had always been located in a potentially lovely setting, but industrial pollution and a lack of attention to aesthetics had left it - at one time - buried in a toxic grime that obscured the natural beauty of the area.

Society matrons, dedicated philanthropists, and young environmentalists had noted its condition and worked together to pull it back from the brink of ugly ruin, and they had succeeded beyond all expectations.

Sometimes, Brian thought the city had become so pleasing to the eye that it could hold its own against those most renowned for natural beauty, those which had never had to recover from a plague of industrial pollutants.

But it wasn't a subject he dwelled on; the environmentalist cap did not exactly fit his image. Still, he stood at the window in his office, looking up at a sky of perfect, crystal blue, and studying a tree growing in a small circular bed beside his private entrance. It was strange, he thought, that he couldn't remember noticing it before, but, since it stood almost twenty feet tall, he was sure he must have just overlooked it. Which was hard to credit since it was also smothered with sprays of lavender/white flowers - vaguely lily-shaped and exuding a rich heady fragrance. Beautiful; so beautiful that he thought Justin should paint it. So beautiful, indeed, that it almost made him ignore the fact that he could only appreciate its full beauty when he focused on it directly, trying not to notice that the space around it - the space that should have been pale and still lovely in his peripheral vision - was little more than a shifting landscape of dark shadows.

It was definitely time to make his exit from Pittsburgh. He would not dwell on the possibility that it might be for the last time - that it might prove to be his final exit from the life he had known.

Thinking about it wouldn't change anything.

He was still standing there, enjoying the warmth of sunlight on his face, when someone opened his door and stepped into his office.

He didn't turn to identify his visitor. He had no more appointments for the day, and he knew that Justin was having dinner with Daphne and some old friends, catching up on everything that he'd missed during his prolonged absences. If the young artist had known that the evening might prove to be the last he could share with his lover, he would have abandoned his old friends and spent every moment in Brian's arms.

But he didn't know - couldn't know. That was the plan.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Brian smiled. He had not expected to like Cedric Lasseigne. He had hired him because of Justin, because the old man had proven himself to be a true friend to the young artist and - unexpectedly - a voice of reason in a world gone wonky and distorted. In truth, Brian had an almost non-existent record for good relationships with members of the older generation, excluding his grandfather, of course, but that had ended when Brian was still a child. Beyond that, there had only been Vic Grassi, Michael's uncle and Debbie's brother. He supposed he should include Debbie in that number too; she was certainly considerably older than he was. In years, anyway, but not so much in wisdom. He grinned with that thought, certain that she would dispute his opinion - colorfully.

Still, he was a bit embarrassed to concede that he did feel a certain reluctant affection for Lasseigne - probably because the man was a New Orleans original, a product of a society that valued pleasure and physical indulgence as much as Brian did.

"Yeah. It's beautiful," Brian replied. "But what the hell is it - and where the hell did it come from?"

The old Cajun moved to stand at Brian's side, in order to peer up at the lush spray of blossoms. "It's a royal empress tree, according to your senior partner, and she planted it last summer. But she calls it something else."

"Such as?" Brian asked, obviously puzzled.

"She calls it 'Brian's Song'."

Brian's face went very still. "You're shitting me," he said faintly.

"Swear to God," Lasseigne responded.

"Why would she . . ."

"Pretty sure she's got her reasons."

Brian was surprised to find that he couldn't think of a single smart-ass remark to employ to generate the sarcastic attitude he wanted to display.

Lasseigne continued to smile as he turned to see to straightening the office and grooming the double stem phalaenopsis orchids that sat on the low glass tables flanking the raw silk sofa. Brian was not smiling as he continued to gaze out into the parking lot, noting that day's end was approaching.

The end of the day - possibly the end of the final day, the last day he would ever spend with Justin Taylor playing a major part in his life, the last day he would ever go home to find his blond lover awaiting his return.

He took a deep breath. Time to go. Time, perhaps, to let it all go.

Except . . . had he forgotten something? Was he supposed . . .

The door opened, and Chris McClaren walked in - and that was when Brian remembered what he'd been supposed to do.

"You done?"

McClaren looked tired, looked like his day had not gone particularly well - and more than that. Looked like he was facing something that he didn't want to face - something that he dreaded, that he wasn't sure he should do, but was nevertheless determined to go through with. Whatever it was - like it or not.

"Yeah." Brian sounded uncertain - which was totally unlike Brian. "Why? What do you . . ."

"Good. Then come with me."

"Why?"

The FBI agent went very still, his face without expression. "Because I asked you to."

Brian smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Sounded more like an order."

For a moment, the stillness remained, but then McClaren blinked, and there was a definite flash of irritation - almost anger - in his eyes. "Take it any way you want. But - for once - just do as I say."

"But . . ."

"Just fucking do it!" Now there was no mistaking the anger, which was growing steadily into something resembling rage.

Brian took one last glance at the beauty of the tree - Brian's Song, his ass - and moved away from the window, stepping forward into McClaren's space. "And if I don't?"

"Then I swear to God, I'm going to pick you up and carry you."

It was Brian's turn to blink. "You mean that - don't you?"

"I suggest you don't try me."

"Chris, what . . ."

"Do not call me that. You've never called me that; don't start now. Just . . . walk."

Blue eyes were not the only ones agleam with anger at that point, but Brian decided - for a reason that even he did not quite understand - to do as he'd been told, as Cedric Lasseigne looked on with a sympathetic smile.

When McClaren led Brian down the corridor and proceeded to step into Cynthia's office, Brian was puzzled. He had assumed that the FBI agent wished to speak to him in private, so why would he go instead to the one place in the building where someone else was sure to be, as Cynthia was almost always the last to leave the building - excepting Brian himself.

"Hey, Boss," said his partner, turning away from her computer to regard the two of them with an inquisitive expression. "What's up?"

Brian shrugged. "Ask McFed," he replied. "I'm just along for the ride."

Cynthia turned then to examine the look on the FBI agent's face. It took only a moment for her eyes to widen as she began to shake her head.

"No, Chris," she said softly. "You can't. Don't you understand. I promised I wouldn't. You can't show him . . ."

But McClaren was regarding her with grim determination in his eyes. "Exactly, Honey. You promised. But I didn't. And . . ."

"But it's not up to us."

The agent walked across the room and opened a slim door in the corner of the office. "Yes, it is," he replied firmly. "Because somebody's got to. If nobody steps up, then he may never see the truth of it, and that's not fair. Not to him - or anybody else."

"But . . ."

"And we're out of time, Cynthia. Tomorrow, it's too late. The chance is gone."

"What chance?" Brian demanded, suddenly tired of being talked around and about. "What are you talking about?"

McClaren did not bother with a verbal answer. Instead, he simply leaned forward and extracted a large, flat object from the storage closet, and set it against the wall.

Brian felt something catch in his throat. He had no idea why, but he had a sudden urge to turn around and leave the room. But he couldn't; the look on McClaren's face held him there, frozen in time and space. "What . . . what is that?"

"It's what you need to see," replied the FBI agent in a tone that was surprisingly gentle, "before you make the biggest mistake of your life."

"Chris . . ."

"Save your breath, Cyn." McClaren did not bother to look at her; he was too busy staring at Brian's face; staring as if to commit every feature, every shadow, every eyelash to memory. "If I don't do this, I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to believe I didn't have selfish motives for keeping my mouth shut . . . and I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to pull it off." Then he smiled - a lopsided, bittersweet smile. "You, Stud Muffin, are never going to understand what people go through because of you."

With that, he simply reached down and pulled off the canvas and plastic that was wrapped around the object he'd pulled from the closet; then he stepped back, leaving room for Brian to move forward, to have an unobstructed view of the item on display.

But, for the space of a heartbeat, Brian did not move; he simply stood, looking down into a rendering of his own face, his own body - his own image as he had never seen it before.

"What . . . what is this?" he asked finally, his voice barely audible as his breath caught in his throat. "Where did this . . ."

"Don't be deliberately stupid!" McClaren was not in the mood to tolerate uncertainty or confusion. "You know what it is. You know who painted it. And - above everything else - you know what it says."

It was at that point that Brian went to his knees, and Cynthia found herself holding her breath, knowing - despite the determined look on his face - that he'd done so because he'd had no choice. She had known for her entire adult life that there were few sights more beautiful than her boss's face, but she had never seen it quite like this before: Brian Kinney, struck dumb with wonder and stripped of any ability to maintain the sardonic demeanor that was his trademark expression. His eyes - even crowded with the shadow that was constant in them now - were wide and soft with . . .

Cynthia deliberately looked away. It wasn't as if she'd never seen tears in his eyes before; they'd been friends for too long, and not even the mighty Kinney could maintain iron control in the face of the kinds of overwhelming devastation he'd been forced to endure from time to time. But she found that now - this time - she didn't want to see them again.

It was up to McClaren to acknowledge them - to address them. "Do you see it, Brian?" he asked gently. "Do you see what it says - and why he never showed it to you? Do you understand that it strips away every defense he might have - that it bares his soul and leaves him completely at your mercy?"

Brian, still wordless, leaned forward and laid a hand against the canvas, devouring the vision of his own eyes - undamaged, unguarded . . . perfect - looking back at him.

"Look at the light," McClaren urged, laying one hand on Brian's shoulder. "It doesn't fall on you; it doesn't illuminate you. It . . . Brian, it is you. Do you get it? Does it explain why you can't - you simply can not just walk away, without telling him the truth?"

For a while, Brian said nothing, unable to dispute what McClaren was pointing out. He saw himself, holding a guitar, smiling as he looked up - bathed in light against beautifully textured shadows. Glowing. Not reflecting light; not absorbing light; not refracting light. Generating light.

He smiled and turned to look into Chris McClaren's eyes. He knew exactly what the man was trying to tell him; though it was in a new form, a different language, it was not unfamiliar. He had always known its truth. The title, scribbled in the lower right corner in Justin's unmistakable scrawl, only confirmed it.

The Fire.

Confirmation that could not be ignored or disputed - confirming the most fundamental of truths.

Now he had to find out if he could make someone else see it.

"Do you understand what it . . ."

"Do you?" Brian interrupted softly, reaching out to cup McClaren's face with gentle fingers. "You're right when you say that the truth is there for anyone willing to see - the truth, as far as it goes."

"So you understand. You know that you have to tell him."

"I understand perfectly." Brian rose, his eyes constantly drawn back to the perfection of the portrait, and McClaren watched him, hearing something odd in his voice - something that he didn't want to hear or understand. "This is one chapter," Brian continued. "But there's another. Do you know what he says to me, every single time he addresses the other facet of his feelings? Do you know what's in his mind and his thoughts when he remembers . . ."

"Remembers what?"

"Other times. When I wore a different face."

"I don't . . ."

"He needs forgiveness. Not from me; it was never about me."

"I don't get it. You're saying he needs someone to forgive him - someone besides you?"

Brian nodded. "Without it, nothing works out the way it should."

McClaren frowned, eyes full of shadow. "But . . . I don't understand. Who does he need forgiveness from?"

The smile was achingly sweet. "Who do you think?"

"Brian," said Cynthia, sensing a pain beneath his words that went too deep for casual exploration. "You can't do this. He'd die for you; you have to understand that."

He looked up then, his eyes meeting hers, before turning to catch McClaren's gaze - looking for something, looking for an inkling of understanding. Looking - and hoping.

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

"You're going to just walk away," Cynthia accused, spots of anger bright against her pale skin. "You're going to go; you're going to destroy him, and we're supposed to just stand here and watch - and do nothing."

Brian turned to go, pausing for just a moment at the door, not bothering to turn back to face either one of them. They couldn't see the sardonic smile that touched his lips, but - somehow - they could hear it. "Is that what I said?"

Then he was gone, and the silence that lingered behind him was heavy with dismay and a sense of defeat.

McClaren turned to look at Cynthia's face, hoping to find a spark of hope, a glimmer of optimism.

But there was nothing except a reflection of his own despair, punctuated by the ridiculously prophetic chiming of the pendulum mantel clock on Cynthia's credenza.

Symbolically, virtually, and realistically, time was running out.

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

One day led to the next, and the weather reversed itself. Spring reverted - for the space of a few hours - to winter, determined to breathe its last gasp. Dawn - wet and gray and rimmed with frost - found Justin wrapped tight in Brian's arms, snoring softly and oblivious of the dark eyes that feasted on the pale perfection of his face.

The loft was still in shadow, deep enough to conceal two assortments of luggage - Brian's neatly-packed stack of Louis Vuitton cases - distinctive in the brown-gold pattern instantly recognizable all over the world - and Justin's scattered mismatched group of canvas and nylon carry-alls - and the one beautifully designed Coach travel bag that Brian had bought him on a week-end trip to Chicago when he'd managed to break the zipper on his favorite army-surplus-style gym bag. He had, of course, protested that the bag cost more than the entire trip, but Brian had silenced him in the most, direct, convenient way - by kissing him senseless - and he'd never bothered to bring up the subject again.

This morning, Brian had surprised himself by waking so early - and surprised himself even more by being willing to lie still and relish the sight of his young lover. It would not last long, of course; he could already feel a stirring in his groin, but he was content for now. Watching. Memorizing.

Wondering if he'd done everything that he could do.

Wondering if he'd done enough - if the message had been received and understood. He was pretty sure it hadn't - yet - but he had to believe that it would, finally, serve its purpose. Otherwise, the last flicker of hope would fade and die.

He closed his eyes, and let his mind wander, but it wasn't really wandering, because he knew instinctively where it would lead him - to that face. That face in the painting - not the new one that sang of life and passion and bright tomorrows, but the other one that was almost frozen, frosted and cold and filled with pain too deep to verbalize or acknowledge. His own face, as he'd watched Justin walk away from him - forever, or so he'd believed at the time. As Justin had believed at the time.

And now, every time Justin remembered that moment - and the others that contained a trace of the same devastation - the young artist was gripped with such a massive bitterness - a bottomless hatred - and Brian knew that no one else had ever realized what it meant or at whom the hatred was directed.

Justin needed forgiveness - exactly as Brian had told McClaren and Cynthia. But there was only one person who could give him that. One person who held that power.

Justin needed to be forgiven - by Justin.

And that was why Brian could not confront his young lover and tell him that he was leaving him and why. Because, if he did, he knew that Justin would never allow it, would never consent to letting him walk away and give up his place in Justin's life, for Justin's own good. The refusal would not be motivated by love or passion or destiny; it would happen because of guilt - Justin's guilt. If Brian stood there bold as brass and told Justin about the damage to his eyes, about what might happen and how he might be blinded, about everything that he might lose, Justin would automatically and immediately prostrate himself and pledge undying devotion to saving Brian from himself, because he would not be able to tolerate the look of hurt and betrayal that would flare in Brian's eyes if he chose to react differently.

Which was exactly why Brian could not tell him. He could not trust himself to be as strong as he needed to be, to swallow those feelings and be the rock of confidence and purpose that would be required of him.

Yet, he could not deny that Justin had a right to be told, to be given the opportunity to make his choice, based on logical thought and a modicum of self-interest. And if, in the end, he chose to spend the rest of his life with Brian - living and loving all the days of their lives, or so long as random chance favored them - then so be it. But if he decided differently, it was only fair that he should not have to face Brian's disappointment or despair as a result, for it would only increase the weight of guilt that he would bear for the rest of his life.

There were moments when Brian wished he was bold enough and arrogant enough to make that choice for Justin, but he just couldn't quite pull it off. Because - he took a deep breath to steel himself against the primal ache he always experienced when he allowed himself to explore these thoughts - because he believed, deep in the darkest parts of his being, that Justin deserved better; that someone else would give him a better life. Thus he had to accept that he simply didn't have it in him; he was not strong enough or unselfish enough, and he could not quite release the hope that Justin really did love him that much, whether he deserved it or not.

No. There was only one fair way.

Brian could not tell him. Nor could he write the script for someone else to use to paint the scenario for Justin to examine; it was a painful reality, but undeniable nevertheless. He knew Justin too well, knew exactly what words to use, what pressure to bring to bear to influence him to do what Brian wanted him to do, without stopping to consider whether or not it would be best for Justin. Not only could he not speak those words himself; he would not coach anyone else into using those words to manipulate Justin.

The truth - the whole truth - had to be laid out for his beautiful young lover - by someone who would present the entire scope of the drama, without pressure or preconceived notions. The facts - and only the facts. And who better for that, he thought with a grim smile, than his own personal reincarnation of Joe Friday.

His FBI special agent.

He conceded that it was bizarre to have lived most of his life without falling in love with anyone, only to find - once he'd passed that damnable threshold of thirty years, that he was not only capable of being swept into a love affair he'd never wanted or believed in, he was also vulnerable to a second kind of love - reluctant, angry, resisted-every-step-of-the-way, but still real enough.

It was not a contest, of course; Justin would forever rule his heart. But Chris McClaren would also forever own a tiny piece of it.

And now - now he had to rely on the decency and honesty and integrity of the man he loved a little to do the right thing and preserve his chance to spend the rest of his life with the man he loved a lot.

He'd always known that life was unfair; he just hadn't known how ridiculously unfair it could be.

A sudden gust of wind rose and blasted heavy raindrops against the big loft windows, and Justin stirred, coming awake enough to snuggle deeper into the arms that held him so gently.

"Hey, Sunshine!' Brian leaned forward, burying his face in the soft warmth beneath Justin's chin. "Sweet dreams?"

Justin stretched and moved to give Brian better access to his throat. "Ummm - dreaming about your lips. I could write poetry about your lips, you know - the shape, the taste, the way you fold them when you don't want anyone to see you smile. Best lips . . . ever."

Brian laughed and inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of his young lover. "Very romantic, but counter-productive, I think."

"Why?" The touch of those much-appreciated lips against a particularly sensitive spot under his left ear brought a tremor to Justin's voice. "You got something better in mind?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Such as?" Still sleepy, but smiling now.

Brian lifted his head to stare down into crystal blue eyes, still shadowed with sleep. "Want to fuck me?"

The sleepy eyes blinked once, and opened wide, marking the inception of a brilliant smile. It was an offer that happened only rarely, and - when it did - it required only immediate, direct action - not allowing any opportunity for a second thought in which Brian might change his mind.

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

Babylon - silent, dark, and almost empty - always felt wrong; haunted, somehow - and it was even worse when the weather turned sour and windswept rain beat against the exterior walls creating a hollow roar and emphasizing the lack of young voices, manic music, and writhing bodies. Still, despite its well-deserved reputation as the party center for Pittsburgh's thriving gay community, it was also a hugely successful business venture requiring periodic managerial oversight to keep it running smoothly.

Like now - especially with the owner/chief executive, and perpetual King of Babylon leaving town for a while. There were details that Emmett handled, but the overall policies of operation were down to Brian, and he sat at his sleek, black executive desk in his sleek, mostly black office and signed the documents that Emmett laid out for him, but never blindly. Brian Kinney did not sign what Brian Kinney did not first read.

It was time-consuming and annoying, but not for Brian.

The relatively small office was crowded, and even darker than usual because the banks of security monitors arranged around two walls were momentarily shut down. Since the building was locked up tight, and a more than adequate security team was on duty, there was no need for executive management to watch the empty building. Thus, Michael and Ben, Debbie and Carl, Lindsey and Gus, Justin, Drew Boyd, Lance Mathis, and Chris McClaren had little to do for the moment, but stand by and watch as Brian and Emmett reviewed the various documents and decisions requiring executive approval.

The only missing face belonged to Cynthia, who had stopped in just long enough to beg off, citing a need to spend the day with her daughter. That, of course, had been a convenient excuse, but Brian had accepted it without comment; his eyes had informed her that he knew the real reason but chose not to argue.

She had paused in turning away to make good her escape, but could not manage to ignore a tiny voice in her head which whispered that - if fate chose to be horribly cruel - she might never be granted the chance to look at him again. So she had; she had turned and looked and then walked around behind his desk and wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Just once. For luck, she told herself, but both knew that it was a surprisingly passionate kiss for such a mundane cause.

"Come back to us," she'd whispered. Then she'd done a runner.

And now - now he was trying to hurry, trying to finish all the paperwork and dry details so he could indulge himself for the few moments remaining, for Justin was waiting - with virtually no patience - to show him the new details of the drawings he'd done of features to be incorporated into the house plans.

Finally, with a sigh, he signed off on the last of the contract proposals that required his approval and looked up at Emmett with steely eyes. "Is that it?"

"Well, we could always discuss my plans for a Twilight celebration. Maybe we could even get R-Pat . . ."

"Emmett!" That was Drew Boyd, the grin on his face somewhat at odds with the skepticism in his eyes. "I think you've pushed your luck far enough."

"But . . ."

"Emmett!" That was Brian, sitting back in his desk chair and shifting to work tired shoulder muscles. "Listen to your stud muffin."

Drew blinked. "Stud . . . muffin?"

Brian just laughed.

"But . . ." Emmett was still unconvinced.

"Honeycutt." That got his attention; Brian only called him that when he was dead serious. "The day I approve a Twilight celebration, in my club, you better get on your knees and start praying, because the Apocalypse is upon us."

Justin grinned and stepped forward, while Chris McClaren remained in his spot in the corner, where he'd been since Brian arrived. He had not spoken, had not even responded when addressed by other members of the group.

He'd simply watched Brian - watched him intently, as if waiting for some horrible specter to materialize out of thin air to cut the man into tiny bloody shreds.

Brian chose to ignore him, as he'd done throughout the hours since his arrival, and the FBI agent continued to brood, his face blank and stoic and revealing nothing of the thoughts behind that perfect façade, as he remembered and wished he could forget.

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

Emmett, sighing but resigned to disappointment, had stepped aside to allow Justin to appropriate the surface of Brian's desk, eager hands sweeping aside everything that might get in his way as he unrolled a bundle of papers - a mixture of blue prints and diagrams and sketches - and launched into his sales pitch. In moments, Brian was laughing, not because the data provided was comical, but because Justin was flying so high in his enthusiasm that his lover could not have resisted him if he'd asked him to build a bridge of rainbows to the entrance of their new castle.

"And look at this, Bri. Look how the light will catch in the mullioned glass and refract into the . . ."

McClaren wasn't really listening to the boytoy, although even he had to admit that the blond's enthusiasm was charming, almost enchanting. But still, his mind lingered in the darker thoughts, the darker moments of the previous day.

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

It was at that point that everyone in the room stepped forward, each eager to add thoughts and suggestions for the house, each eager to claim their spot in the sunshine that was the approval of Brian Kinney. Even Gus, who had climbed into his father's lap as Justin flipped pages and pointed out details, seemed eager to participate as he asked about the structure of the infinity pool as sketched in the center of a private courtyard at the rear of the house.

But McClaren still stood back, remaining aloof from the conversation, still remembering.

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

Brian looked up then, and - for the space of a heartbeat - hazel eyes met blue and said . . . something. McClaren frowned. Said . . . what?

What was Brian trying to . . .

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

He'd gone over it a hundred times - maybe even a thousand times. But it was always the same. It always came back to the ugly truth that Brian would walk away from the young man who needed his love . . . no, that was the wrong word. Not needed. Deserved. He didn't want to admit it, but could not bring himself to deny it.

Justin deserved to be loved, adored by Brian Kinney. So why . . .

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

It was always the same. It was always a terrible, heartless decision - a cruel rejection.

But . . . McClaren went very still. Brian Kinney was many things - many negative things, but he was never needlessly cruel. There was always a reason, even if he was the only one who could see it. So why . . .

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

Always the same, only . . . not exactly.

When his eyes widened, and he could not quite suppress a quick smile, Brian laughed, and no one else was quite sure why.

"I understand it better than you know. That's why I can't tell him."

The emphasis on the "I" had been subtle enough to require some additional thought - a lot of additional thought, but now that he examined it, he realized that, somehow, he had known it all along. He just hadn't really wanted to know.

Well, shit! So it's up to me, to save him for you, and you for him.

It was at that moment that the FBI agent stepped forward, leaned over the desk and stared directly into Brian's eyes before pointing to a drawing Justin had laid out on the desk - a sketch of the view from the master bedroom which looked a lot like a royal realm ready to worship at the feet of its king.

"That'll be your favorite," he said, never breaking eye contact as Brian stared back at him. "Maybe you'll want to name it after me."

Brian grinned while Justin tried not to squawk. "Maybe I will."

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

The crowd had ultimately just refused to go away, so their good-byes had been a lot more public than either of them would have preferred; Debbie had even commented that she'd bet they weren't accustomed to farewells that involved clothed bodies. Justin had winced at that, remembering the last time he'd left to go to New York - remembering the beautiful body, nude and perfect, stretched out on the bed, as Brian had pretended to be asleep while Justin made his departure.

But this time would be different. Three days from now - or five, maximum - he'd be back, and he'd walk into the loft to find Brian beautifully au naturale, ready to speak to him - to greet him in the way they'd always communicated best.

Physically.

Still, although they refused to go away, the crowd did grant them a few private moments, everyone pretending to be otherwise occupied as Emmett activated the music system, and a perfect, mellow voice swelled through the speakers.

"When all our tears have reached the sea,
Part of you will live in me . . ."***

Brian had stalked forward then, circling Justin as if inspecting him, staring at him as if fulfilling a need to memorize him, as . . .

"Stop it," he'd whispered, stepping forward, and reaching up to wrap his arms around his lover's neck. "I'll be back in less than a week, and then . . ."

"And then?" Brian was busy exploring the velvet softness of Justin's throat with hungry lips.

"And then we spend the rest of our lives figuring out new ways to drive each other crazy. How's that?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Brian?"

"Hmmm?"

Justin pulled back and stared up into dark eyes, and wished, for a moment, that the room were less shadowed so he could get a better view of the emotions stirring there. "I love you."

"I know."

Justin grinned. "Not good enough, Stud."

Brian sighed. "I love you too."

Justin surged up to claim those beautiful, perfect lips, molding himself to the body that accepted him and claimed him in return.

Finally, inevitably, it had to end, and Justin, desperate for breath, stepped back. "You . . ." He had to take a moment to fill his lungs. "You just hold that thought. I'll be back."

"I know," Brian replied in a gentle whisper. "I know you will."

It shouldn't be so hard, Justin thought. It was only for a few days. Yet he had to tear himself away, and force himself to head down the stairs, pausing just long enough to wave good-byes to the group.

As he reached the first landing, he turned and found, to his surprise, that Brian had followed him to the railing and was standing now, looking down at him, backlit by overhead lighting that was as soft as starlight. Brian in shadow - perfectly beautiful.

It was an image he would carry with him for a very long time.

The music continued; the song was familiar, of course, but not the singer. He'd have to remember to ask Emmett for - though the McGraw version was quite pleasant - this one was better somehow, threaded through with warmth and a deep abiding melancholy.

"Remember me when you're out walkin',
When snow falls high outside your door,
Late at night when you're not sleepin',
And moonlight falls across your floor,
When I can't hurt you anymore"***

Justin paused at the exit, a cold shiver touching his spine as he looked back just once more, noting that a trick of the light seemed to be silhouetting Brian's figure against the shadows beyond him.

Beautiful, he thought again.

It was his last thought as he walked out into the rising storm.

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


*Love Me Like There's No Tomorrow -- Freddie Mercury

**After All -- Dean Pitchford, Tom Snow

***Please Remember Me -- Will Jennings, Rodney Crowell