Chapter 12


The ICU waiting room was smaller than the one in the ER, but no less forbidding. Institutional gray walls, molded plastic seating units, attached to metal frames, all a nondescript gray that might once have been blue, arranged around Parsons-style coffee tables, scratched and chipped, and covered with months-old editions of Newsweek and People and Better Homes & Gardens. In the corner, ready to dispense its battery-acid grade sludge, an industrial-sized coffee machine was nested among stacks of Styrofoam cups, a remnant of the days when service guild members hovered nearby to offer succor and comfort to anxious family members. The volunteers were long gone (mostly), but the machine remained, old and cranky and barely functional, but vital in its purpose.

When the group of Liberty Avenue denizens (an accurate sobriquet, even if many of its members no longer resided there) made it to the cluttered chamber, Emmett made an effort to show some signs of rekindling his characteristic flame by throwing up his hands in mock horror. "Omigod!" he exclaimed. "Who decorated this place? The Brothers Grimm?"

"It's okay, Honey," said Ted, offering up a weary smile. "Not everybody can have your fabulous sense of style."

"I know, but why must hospitals choose an ambiance that's more suitable for a mausoleum? Don't they understand that a few splashes of magenta against a chartreuse background would do wonders for patients' spirits?"

The words were cheerful enough - vintage Emmett - but the delivery was pallid.

"Or give them a heart attack," laughed Debbie, managing to sound almost normal.

Emmett dredged up a smile, but it was a half-hearted effort.

Though they had not spent much time talking about it, the general demeanor of the entire group was proof enough of their relief in learning that Brian would recover; they were all reaching for normalcy, for the insouciance that acquaintances would have expected of them, and those self-same acquaintances might even have been convinced by their cheerful display. Those who knew them well, however, would have noted the strained quality of their efforts.

Even so, only Ben, Drew, and Calvin recognized the fundamental irony underlying their attitude, realizing - as most of the group did not - that Brian - despite their shared tendency (or perpetual need) to blame him for all the wrongs in their lives, to question his motives and doubt his morals, to resent his successes and revel in his failures and savor his troubles like the taste of fine wine - was the cement which held them all together, the sun around which they all orbited.

Thus there were vague shadows lingering around them all, even as they expressed their relief. They would never acknowledge it, probably never be willing to even consider it, but something inside them knew it, nonetheless. They had come close today to losing the tie which bound them to each other.

And the day was not done yet.

Of them all, only Michael and Lindsey were still wrapped in total silence, feeling no desire to generate a false sense of well-being - content enough with the doctor's assurances, but not yet able to let go of their anxieties. They sat together, somehow taking comfort from the non-verbal sharing of old memories. Melanie loitered nearby, occasionally trying to make casual conversation, but her efforts were mostly futile, which only added to her growing sense of frustration.

The group had dwindled somewhat in number by this time. Blake had gone out to scout for take-out, as it had become obvious that most of them had no inclination to go home. The decision to stay wasn't rational or sensible, as they'd been informed that chances of being allowed to see the patient any time soon were slim to non-existent, since visiting hours in the ICU were stringently enforced, and only two visitors at a time were allowed to enter the unit. In addition, Brian would certainly not be awake any time soon to be aware of their presence. Yet they lingered, needing to share insights and comments and complaints, needing to be together in their determination to proclaim their independence, to demonstrate to the world that they could sit here in this place and calmly contemplate the nature of his mortality and prove they did not need Brian around to function as the nucleus of the group. Even if they did.

Lance Mathis had stayed for a while, answering the group's questions as succinctly as possible, saying no more than necessary, but he had departed after a brief conversation with Dr. Keller, informing Drew that he was going to check in with the police to offer his help with the investigation.

Cynthia had also disappeared, after following the trauma surgeon back to the nurse's station when he'd finished addressing the group. They had talked together for a while, very quietly, and Emmett had noticed, at one point, that the surgeon had taken her hand and moved close enough to whisper something in her ear. Then he had escorted her down a nearby corridor, and they had disappeared through a double doorway into another section of the hospital.

Emmett wondered for a moment where she'd gone, uncertain of what she might be doing, but almost certain she had not left the hospital. She wouldn't. After giving it some thought, he realized she was probably handling the paperwork for Brian, just as she always did.

No one among the group of old friends had ever been able to define the exact relationship between Brian and his chief assistant - not even Ted, who worked closely with both. But Emmett sometimes speculated that Cynthia might know Brian better than any of them, better even than Michael and Debbie and Lindsey, who had known him longest of all. Still, she was a very private person, and she kept her personal thoughts to herself, including how she felt about her boss. Nevertheless, Emmett had seen the look in her eyes when Keller had made his proclamation, and he had seen the tears she tried to conceal.

It didn't explain everything, but it explained enough. He as pretty sure Cynthia loved Brian; he just wasn't sure in what way.

He curled himself into a bedraggled old rocking chair by the window, and stared out into the growing gloom of twilight, caught up in a brand new, previously untested realization: they all loved Brian, even though there were plenty of times when they didn't like him at all. It was a strange, odd kind of love, unlike any other - but real enough for all that.

He looked down toward the front of the hospital, and watched as a car pulled up to the emergency entrance and a woman jumped out of the front seat and hurried toward the doors with a child in her arms - a little boy with dark hair, a little boy who would one day grow up to be a young man. Would he ever face the kind of horror Brian had faced on this day? Would people hate him because he was different, because he was not made in an image identical to those around him, because he believed differently or talked differently or worshipped differently - or loved differently? Emmett closed his eyes and was swept into hellish memory, suddenly unable to hold it back for another moment.

Then he felt strong arms close around him, and he was weeping and could not restrain himself, could not remain silent, as both Drew and Calvin knelt beside him, each determined to offer comfort, with not a single thought of competition.

"Oh, God," he cried, "you can't imagine what . . . what they did to him. How could anybody be so vicious, so cruel? And why? Why would they . . . They didn't just want to kill him.  They wanted to destroy him, to take this beautiful man and make him into something hideous, something horrible and grotesque. Oh, God!"

And he was suddenly surrounded by the people who loved him, each trying to offer comfort, to ease his pain.

But strangely, it was one pair of arms he longed for particularly - the one who loved Brian, who knew Brian as almost no one else did. For a moment, he realized it would have been perfect if only he could have reached out and touched Justin, but that could not be, so he leaned into Michael's arms, and allowed himself to be held.

"But he didn't give up, Micheal," he sobbed. "Even after the . . . what they put him through, he held on. God, he was so broken, so damaged. I don't know how anybody could endure that kind of pain and still hold on, but he did. He did because he . . . he knew he had to. He had to hold on, so he could tell us - for Justin."

"Tell us what, Em?" asked Michael, his hands stroking his friend's back.

"That . . . that Justin was in danger. That Justin was next."

They all felt it then - a pale cold veil of dread, settling over them like a shroud, although only some recognized its meaning. Most were too caught up in the desperation of the moment and the need to offer comfort to their distraught companion to explore the deeper meaning of his words. But a few saw it immediately.

Daphne stood abruptly, eyes huge in a face gone porcelain white, and stumbled as she turned and hurried toward the ladie's room. Ben watched her go, wishing he had some comfort to offer, but knowing any effort would be useless.

Then he looked up and watched as Melanie experienced her moment of epiphany, as she got her first glimpse at the full picture of the horror that had stalked the young man who had been her nemesis for so many years. Behind her, standing silent and gazing out into the growing darkness, Ted was trying to deal with the same kind of rising awareness.

In the shock of the moment, Melanie opened her mouth to give voice to her realization, to express her consternation, only to be silenced by the look in Ben's eyes. Bad enough, he reasoned, for the group of old friends to have to cope with the ordeal of Brian's trauma; the full realization that he had been a chosen victim rather than a random target could wait until later, until they were better prepared to face it.

He lifted his hands to rub his temples as he tried to figure out how he was going to tell Michael without sending him into a full-fledged panic.

Closing his eyes against the onset of a massive headache, he took a seat near the window and slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. He thought longingly of his lovely, comfortable bed in their lovely comfortable home - of their son, Hunter, who had spent the week-end with a friend, who had once had a huge crush on Brian, during the period before he'd discovered that he was actually straight, and Ben wondered how the teen-ager - who had been through so much - would react to the realization that the hot-and-mighty Kinney was not truly invincible after all.

Jesus! Was there no end to the complications which might arise from this endless, incomprehensible day?

The headache was getting worse.

He sat back in the chair, turning his head so he could look up through the window to watch the light draining out of the evening sky. It was, he thought, akin to the manner in which joy could drain from the human heart. He knew plenty about the loss of joy, and realized there was no way to avoid the gloom rising in his mind. It was a familiar mood, although he experienced it only rarely. Most of the time he was able to concentrate on the things in his life that were beautiful and right, but today was not comprised of such things. Today he had tasted potential tragedy and sorrow, and it mattered very little that it would be anguish once removed, so to speak. He looked into his own heart and understood that he had come to care about Brian during the years since Michael had come into his life - care quite a lot, in spite of his initial misgivings. It had surprised him when he had come to understand that there were hidden levels in his husband's best friend, levels only a few individuals had ever been allowed to see, levels which explained why Michael loved Brian so much, even though Ben had never actually been able to define the truth of those levels. But it didn't really matter. It only mattered that Michael loved Brian, truly, deeply, without reservation, and would never be able to recover fully should Brian be taken from him.

As for the rest of it - the never-discussed, deep-seated truths about Michael's feelings for Brian - they would remain undiscussed. Ben had come to full acceptance a long time before, understanding there was no way of changing the reality. He would live out his life knowing that, had Brian been able and willing to do so, Michael would have been claimed many years before he and Ben ever met, forever off-limits to anyone except the man who would always be first in his heart.

It had not been an easy pill to swallow, but doing so had been the only way for Ben and Michael to build a life together.

Thus, he thought, some tiny, ugly part of him should have been tantalized by the notion of an existence free from Brian's influence. He hoped it was a measure of his maturity and his selfless love for his husband that he had resisted such an impulse.

He smiled, reflecting on how extremely fucked up life could become.

Ben felt a heavy weight settle in his chest. He could not bear to think about how Michael would have fared if Brian had died at the hands of his attackers.

He recalled the bad times of his own life - both the ones he had already shared with Michael, and the ones he had not yet chosen to reveal. He didn't think it was because he was deliberately avoiding full disclosure; it was just that he knew how hard it was for Michael, a natural optimist, to face the uglier truths of life. It wasn't, he realized, an ideal time for reflections like this, but ultimately, he had no choice but to let the memories come, let the sensations of loss wash through him. He remembered losing his father to heart failure, and his younger brother to a rare blood disease; he remembered watching his mother's slow, miserable, relentless slide into the mindless landscape of Alzheimer's, culminating in the unavoidable decision to confine her to a sanitarium when she could no longer care for herself; he remembered Paul, the gentle, soft-spoken young man who had taught him so much about the art and power of love, who had changed his life forever, who had ultimately infected him with HIV, and who had died just a couple of years earlier. And he remembered the day he always thought of as the last day of his youth: the day he'd learned he was HIV positive.

He sometimes wondered how he'd managed to survive.

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

"Because," drawled a sardonic voice that called up an image of a droll smile, "you're a tough motherfucker. Like me."

He opened his eyes and was, somehow, not surprised to see who was sitting beside him.

"I thought you were at death's door," he observed.

The familiar face - unblemished, unbroken, and yes, Goddammit! beautiful - was giving him that patented Brian-Kinney smirk. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Ben wanted to frown, but couldn't. "You like using that line, don't you?"

The image shrugged. "When the shoe fits . . ."

Ben sighed, reflecting that he really must be tired, if his psychotic delusions were choosing to speak in clichés.

Still, it would be rude to proclaim that he knew a dream sequence when he saw one - just in case he was wrong, and it was this horrible day which had been the nightmare and this surrealistic moment was the reality. "Not so exaggerated," he observed. "You nearly died, you know."

"Yeah. I know. And if I had . . ."

"If you had," Ben interrupted, loathe to say it but realizing it needed to be said, "I don't know how Michael . . . how he could have . . ."

"That," snapped the image of Brian, "is your responsibility. If I can't be there for him, you have to. Understand?"

"Of course, I understand." Ben knew instinctively that one of Brian's primary purposes in life was to annoy the people around him, to get under their skin enough to force them to re-examine their lives and their philosophies and see things in a new light, but that didn't prevent him from feeling the irritation. "I just don't know if I can . . . not like you do."

The image of Brian chuckled. "You remember when your Stepford fag neighbor opened up his little couturier shop? What was his name again?"

Ben struggled not to grin. "Eli Gruber."

"Right. Gruber - seems appropriate somehow," replied Brian's image, his tongue tucked firmly in his cheek. "And remember how excited Michael was, so eager to believe that his good friend was going to let him buy Armani and Prada - disguised under different labels, of course - at knock-off prices, and how he didn't want to hear that you can only pay knock-off prices for designer items if the items are knock-offs to begin with?"

"Oh, I remember," Ben admitted. "And I also recall how upset he was with you when you referred to the shop as 'Fags Are Us'."

Brian shrugged. "I believe in telling the truth."

Ben couldn't really argue with that. "But it's not always necessary to use a broadsword when a paring knife would do the job just as well, with a lot less pain."

"Whose pain?" demanded the image of Brian. "Michael's? I'm thinking it would have been a lot more painful if I'd stood by and said nothing while he paid $100.00 for that pseudo-Gucci shirt only to find out later that it was a polyester fraud."

"Yeah, well, Eli certainly wasn't overjoyed with your comments."

"Are you kidding me? Are you saying it would have been okay for Eli to run his little crap emporium, ripping off friends and neighbors, but it wasn't okay for me to call him on his bullshit?"

Ben paused, remembering how angry Eli and Monty had been with Brian - how they had denied his assertions and been cold and distant to both Ben and Michael for weeks thereafter. Until the day when Ben had decided to make an attempt to mend fences, by stopping by the store to speak to Eli, only to find it closed and shuttered.

Apparently, Brian had not been the only one to recognize the shoddy nature of the merchandise. A few days later, Eli and Monty had apparently managed to swallow their resentment and resume their easy friendship with their neighbors - almost.

Ben frowned at the realization that there were, occasionally, still some awkward exchanges between the two couples, but that was not germane to this moment. "What does all of this have to do with what Michael would need from me, if you . . ."

"Bought the farm?" Brian's image appeared to be enjoying the conversation. "You can say it, you know. Dying has never scared me all that much."

"Okay. If you died. I still don't see . . ."

"I know, Zen Ben." The smart little smirk had become a tender smile. "But listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yes. I'm listening."

"Do you want to know why I love Michael so much - always have and always will? It's not because he follows me around like a faithful little pup, or because he accepts me when no one else will, or believes in me when everybody else doubts. It's because he has the purest heart of anybody I've ever known. Michael wants to believe the best of everybody. Wants to trust people - wants to show everyone who he really is, and be accepted, just as he's willing to accept everyone else."

"So you're saying he's gullible?" Ben didn't much like the sound of that.

"Fuck, no!" Obviously, Brian didn't like it either. "It's not that he's gullible. It's that he wants to believe the people he cares about are all as honest as he is. He's so eager to trust that he buys into the fantasies people use to disguise realities they can't deal with. The sweetness in Michael isn't just a show or a sham. It's real; it's who he is. It's the best part of him, but it's also the worst part of him - the part that leaves him open and vulnerable. So that's what you have to do for him, Ben, if I'm not around to take care of the problem. You have to prevent him from letting himself be used and manipulated by the people he loves."

"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

The smirk was back. "Sometimes, by acting like a total shit."

"But I'm . . ."

"What? Too spiritual? Too well-adjusted? Too rational? All of the above?"

"Well . . ."

The look on that beautiful face was suddenly pensive, suddenly difficult to decipher. "If you love him enough, you'll find a way."

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

"Hey, Ben! You awake?"

The professor managed, barely, not to jerk upright, resurfacing from his dream with a soft grunt.

Looking down at him with a guarded expression was just about the last person he would have expected to see here, under the circumstances, although a moment's consideration made him realize he really shouldn't be surprised.

Monty Peabody, after all, was employed here in this hospital, as a lab technician.

"Hey, Monty," he replied, rolling his head from side to side in an attempt to relieve the kink in his neck. "Must have dozed off."

Monty was pushing a cart loaded with blood sampling tubes and needles and similar supplies, but he pushed it aside and took a seat beside Ben, saying nothing for a moment as he watched the interaction between Michael and his friends.

"You guys must have had a rough day," he said finally. "It's all over the news, but you know how the press exaggerates everything. I'm sure it's not as bad as they're saying."

"Actually," answered Ben wearily, "it's probably worse. Although I haven't seen the reports."

Monty shook his head. "What a shame! We live in evil times, Ben."

"Yeah. We do."

"Well, listen!" Monty said as he stood and reached for his cart. "I'm going to go in there and get the real scoop. Find out what's really going on."

"Thanks, Monty," Ben replied, not quite sure why he was feeling a vague sense of alarm, "but that's not necessary. We talked to the doctor, and . . ."

"Yeah. I heard that Keller is the attending. He's got quite a reputation around here."

"For what?" asked Michael, suddenly appearing at Ben's side.

Monty frowned. "For being a first class prima donna and a royal pain in the rear. But . . ."

"But?" Ben read the concern in Michael's eyes and wished he could figure out a way to warn Monty to gauge his words carefully.

The lab technician sighed. "But for this kind of trauma case, he's probably the best there is. It's just that nobody knows why he has to be so . . ."

"Kinney like?" That was Ted, having just wandered over to join the conversation.

"Exactly," said Monty, relieved that someone else had said what he was thinking, although he was pretty sure that he'd noted a faint trace of fondness in Schmidt's voice that he thought totally unwarranted. Everybody - everybody who counted anyway - knew Kinney was a loose cannon of the first order, as he and his partner had good cause to know, and it was certainly not surprising that the Stud of Liberty Avenue had wound up as a target for gay bashers. The only real surprise was that it hadn't happened sooner. The man had practically begged for it.

But one look at the faces of the people around him convinced him he would do well to keep that thought to himself.

Still, he couldn't wait to talk to Eli, who would understand exactly how he felt and share his ambivalence. It was, of course, a tragedy that such hatred and violence existed, and that the homophobic cretins would probably get away with it, but . . .

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said smoothly, "with all the inside information."

"Monty," Ben said uneasily, "you don't have to do that."

Monty merely grinned. "Hey. What are friends for?"

He hurried toward the ICU doors, pausing to punch in the code that would open them, as he perused the documents on his clipboard and straightened his tie.

"Apparently," said Melanie not quite below her breath, "they're for ignoring HIPAA restrictions."

"What's that?" asked Michael.

Ben and Ted exchanged glances. "That's what he'll be violating," Ben explained, "if he comes out here spouting confidential patient information to anyone who wants to listen."

"Hey!" said Debbie, eager to learn anything that could be learned, and not very concerned with how she learned it. "We're not just 'anyone' you know. We're all family here. Why shouldn't we be told whatever . . ."

"Because," said Melanie, who looked as if she couldn't believe she was about to speak up on Brian's behalf, "it's privileged information, and Brian is the only person who has the right to determine who should be allowed to hear it."

"Well, he's hardly in any condition to say anything, is he?" Debbie snapped, sure she had come up with a perfect response to end the debate.

But Melanie, despite the fact that she had resented him with every breath for longer than she could remember, knew Brian well enough to be certain he would not leave such questions unresolved. She knew, for example, that he had both a will and a living will, though she knew nothing about the details of either document. Her smile was slightly venal as she realized that what she had to say would not please those who heard it. "Granted. He can't speak now. But do you really think he would have left something like this to chance?"

"No," said Lindsey, eyes dark and haunted. "He wouldn't."

"So," said Debbie uncertainly, "do we have any idea who he might have . . ."

At that moment, with perfect timing no one would bother to notice, the elevator doors opened with a ding, and three people exited into the hallway, walking rapidly toward the nurse's station, as Lindsey and Michael spoke in perfect unison.

"Well, it sure as fuck isn't her."

"Why?" asked Ben. "Who is that?"

It was Lindsey who answered, sounding unutterably weary. "His mother, his sister, and - unless I'm mistaken - the fucking priest."

"The . . . fucking priest?" Ben echoed.

"Literally," said Melanie, good humor somewhat restored.

Ben tried to think of something appropriate to say, but quickly recognized the futility of the effort. How in the world could one respond to that?

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

It was amazing, he thought, that a person could actually be bored cruising at 30,000 feet and sitting in the lap of luxury. First class seating - plush and contoured and reclinable though it was - was still no more than a cushioned cocoon inside a metal framework, and all the in-flight movies, video games, trays of canapés, delectably prepared entrees, and a constant flow of pricey wines and spirits couldn't compensate for the fact that one was locked up inside a steel cylinder, hurtling along at supersonic speeds and defying the laws of gravity.

He nestled into the plush blanket the attendant had provided for him and watched the television screen in front of him as Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, in cowboy persona, tried to devour each other in the reunion scene of Brokeback Mountain. This was the second time he'd watched it during the flight, and he was now lamenting the fact that he'd never taken the time to see it when it was still in theaters.

Who would have believed, he wondered, that a film about Wyoming cowboys could have provided a relevant and beautiful look at homosexuality in its purest form? He was pretty sure even Brian would have liked it.

And where the fuck did that thought come from anyway - and why did it matter?

When the scene ended, he closed his eyes for a while, and felt the full weight of the day settle upon him. His body was already feeling the effects of extreme jet lag, the kind resulting from following the sun across the surface of the globe, and he kept glancing out the window, expecting to find the leading edge of twilight, only to discover the perpetual presence of relentless extended afternoon. He was beginning to yearn for the soothing fall of evening, which did not bode well for the hours ahead, as the sun would continue to keep pace with them for a time while his body would insist that it was he who was out of sync with reality.

It would be early morning when they arrived in Wellington, and he would somehow have lost an entire day, which he would recover, of course, on the return journey, although his internal clock would contend that the day should be edging toward late afternoon. He knew the geography and the physics of it perfectly well, but intellectual certainty was ineffectual in adapting one's senses to the vagaries of time. He was more tired than he'd expected, perhaps because of the emotional roller coaster lingering from the previous night, but he was afraid that if he allowed himself to doze now he would find it impossible to sleep when the time was right.

Steven, of course, had no such dilemma. He was busily conducting business as usual via computer, monitoring a corporate merger between three pharmaceutical companies with a combined annual income of five billion dollars and participating in a conference call with associates from Barnes, Fletcher, and Corrigan. All in a day's work for Steven, who was completely submerged in corporate consciousness when he was in his professional zone, shutting out everything else. It was a world of which Justin knew nothing, and he occasionally wondered why he wasn't jealous of his boyfriend's fascination with it. But then he remembered how he had always been aroused by Brian's compulsion to be the best advertising exec in the business, and thought he might be beginning to understand his own motives. He had a thing for power - not for the phenomenon itself but for the men who wielded it. He knew he could intrude if he really wanted to, and distract his companion with a seductive offer of a bit of slap-and-tickle in the lavatory, but he found he really wasn't all that interested. He had joined the ranks of the mile-high club long ago, courtesy of one Brian Kinney on a flight to San Antonio for a white party in 2004, but he'd never been tempted to duplicate the performance with somebody else. Probably because he knew any such attempt would only serve to call up old memories.

Always old memories, as it was becoming more obvious with each passing day that there would be no more new ones.

He knew the time was fast approaching when he would have to open his fingers and let those memories slip through, like grains of sand, and turn away to build new memories, new castles in new sands.

But not quite yet.

He picked up the phone, provided for all first class travelers courtesy of Qantas, and dialed his mother's cell phone, suddenly anxious to share a family moment and hear a familiar voice, but the call went straight to voice mail. Next, he went down the line, attempting to reach various friends and acquaintances, starting with Daphne and ending with Lindsey, but without success.

What the fuck? Was everybody in Pittsburgh too busy to answer the phone?

The last number he dialed was the most familiar of all, the one that was still first in his contact list, but the only response was the same terse three words he'd heard every time he'd dialed it of late.

"Leave a message."

He was struck with the realization that these might be the last words he ever heard spoken by that voice - remote, detached, distant - and he was astonished by the depth of the pain generated by that thought.

Abruptly, he signaled to the flight attendant to bring him another drink - a double - which he tossed back in one big gulp. Then he started dialing again. On his second attempt, he got lucky.

"Daphne?" he said sharply. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Justin?" Her response was broken and garbled. "Is that you?"

"Who else?" he laughed. "Where've you been? I've been calling you guys all day?"

There was a noticeable pause, and the line was filled with sporadic static. "Daphne?"

" . . . breaking up . . . been a long day . . ."

"But where are you?" Justin repeated.

Another pause, and he had the strangest sensation that it had nothing to do with the quality of the connection.

"Picking . . . dinner," she said finally.

"Oh, yeah? Where? If you're going to the Stage Deli, be sure to try the Derek Jeter with a cappuccino shake. It's my favorite."

Again the pause.

"Sounds great. I'll make sure to . . . rybody. How's . . . trip going?"

"Oh, fine," he answered, "Still flying. I was wondering, has anybody talked to Brian? Did he go to . . ."

" . . . breaking up, Justin. Why don't you ca . . . later?"

"No, wait," he said sharply. "Is Michael there, or Lindsey or . . ."

"Gotta go." That part was clear at least. "Hope you have . . . ulous time. Bye now."

"Daphne . . ."

But the line went dead, with another burst of static. For a moment, he held on to the handset, debating whether he should try someone else in the group. But finally, reluctantly, he placed it back in its cradle, before reaching out to pull the shade down over the window and arranging his pillow to cushion his head.

It had been a silly question to ask anyway. Of course, Brian had gone to London. Why wouldn't he? Which meant that for every mile the Qantas jet traveled, the 767 that was carrying Brian toward Europe was covering the same distance, in the opposite direction. They were soon going to be almost as far away from each other as it was possible to be on planet Earth.

He closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the voice screaming in his mind - the one that kept insisting that he . . . that they were both making the biggest mistake of their lives. Only . . . he knew there was nothing he could do to make it right, to turn it around, to turn them around. Brian had taken that option away from him.

Fuck this! Fuck the endless afternoon, jet lag, the international dateline. Fuck it all. And, finally, fuck Brian, who had not asked, had not bothered to talk to Justin to find out what he really wanted; who had, as always, taken it upon himself to decide what was best!

Fuck it all! He burrowed into his pillow and decided he didn't really give a shit what the clock said or whether or not he would be able to sleep on schedule when they reached their destination. It was time for a nap.

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


"Congratulations, Boss," said Liz Ethridge, Steven Fletcher's executive secretary, her face only slightly distorted on his laptop screen. "Your father is going to be over the moon when he hears this."

Steven paused to check on his companion and was glad to see that Justin had nodded off. The young artist had been testy and moody all day, and obviously needed to get some rest. "Thank you, Girl Friday," he said finally, softly. "Although if you think he doesn't already know about it, you're delusional. He probably knew before I did."

Liz smiled, and he was struck, for probably the millionth time, by how much she resembled the ideal image of a society grandmother, with her elaborately coifed silver hair, her pale skin, and perfectly manicured nails; it was even more remarkable because she was actually a childless Lesbian who had no maternal instincts and no interest in developing any. Except, of course, for her feelings for Steven. She had been his assistant since the day he'd emerged triumphant and summa cum laude from his degree program at Harvard and made his debut in his father's company, and her loyalty was complete and without boundaries. She took care of Steven, no matter what.

"Can you speak freely?" she asked softly, as the last of her fellow conference participants made their exit from the dark-paneled boardroom.

Steven glanced once more toward Justin, confirming that he was sleeping soundly. "Within reason," he answered quietly, as he adjusted his headphones to make sure anything she might say would remain private between the two of them.

She frowned and pulled a notepad out from beneath the stack of documents in front of her. "You had a call earlier," she said. "I would have told you about it sooner but I was pretty sure you wouldn't want it to become public knowledge."

"What's wrong, Liz?" he said quickly, sensing this was something extraordinary enough to cause her some concern.

"It was Justin's agent. Olivia Ruiz."

"Calling me?" He couldn't quite conceal his surpise. "Why on earth would she call . . ."

"Because," she answered with a sigh, "she was apparently instructed not to call Justin."

"Instructed by whom?" He was growing impatient with her vagueness.

"By the Pittsburgh police department," she replied. "There's been an incident."

"What kind of incident?"

She took a deep breath. "I assume you know who Brian Kinney is?"

Steven closed his eyes, suddenly certain he was not going to like what he was about to hear. "What about him?"

She proceeded to answer his question, to provide the stark, unembellished details, concluding the account with two bald statements. No one was sure whether or not Kinney would live, and everybody was sure it was incredibly important that Justin stay away, until the culprits could be caught and put away. His safety depended upon it.

When she fell silent, Steven said nothing for a while, reflecting only that he'd been right on target. He didn't like it at all. And he liked his choices even less.

"So I'm supposed to . . . what? Pretend I don't know?"

Her eyes were soft with sympathy. "You're the one who knows him best, Dear. If you tell him, what will he do?"

He huffed a bitter chuckle. "Probably try to hi-jack the plane. Or go looking for a parachute. Anything he has to . . . to get there. To be with . . ."

She nodded. "And put himself in terrible danger in the process. So I guess you have to ask yourself how much you love him. Tell him the truth, and be prepared to see him at risk. Or keep quiet, and risk losing him when he finds out. I'm sorry, Honey. I know it's a question of damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

He nodded and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "I can't take a chance on anything happening to him," he said softly.

Her smile was gentle. "Well, if it's any consolation, apparently you're not the only one who feels that way. It seems that Kinney managed to hold on to consciousness just long enough to pass along the warning. Looks like this is one special young man to inspire that kind of devotion."

"Yes," he replied. "Very special."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, determined to appear unruffled and unaffected, and never mind the big lump in her throat.

He took a moment to consider, as he turned once more to gaze at Justin, to bask in his beauty and the indefinable quality of innocence he always wore, no matter that he had not been truly innocent for many years. "Yes," he said finally. "You can call his mother, and tell her I'll do what I must to protect him. No matter what it might cost me later."


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

"Michael!" Debbie's voice was as sharp as a scalpel. "She's his mother. Don't you dare . . ."

"Stay out of this, Ma," said Michael, in a tone he had used only rarely in his life - hard and determined and unyielding.

"You can't interfere in this," she insisted.

"Oh, yeah? Watch me!"

Thus when Joan Kinney and her daughter arrived at the nurses' station, Michael was there to meet them, with Lindsey just a half-step behind him.

In truth, neither of Brian's old friends had any notion of how they might be able to run any kind of interference on Brian's behalf, but both were determined to try. Michael understood why his mother felt the way she did; Debbie had always believed that a mother knew best for her child. She had even believed that - for a while - about the skanky bitch who'd tried to take Hunter away from him and Ben, although she'd finally been forced to concede she was wrong in that instance.

But Debbie didn't know the whole truth about Brian's relationship with Joan. Hell! For that matter, neither did Michael or Lindsey. Because Brian had never been willing to tell them all the gory details. But they knew enough to be certain his mother would be the very last person Brian would want at his bedside while he lay helpless and comatose, and they were determined to do anything they could to assure his wishes were carried out.

Joan regarded Michael and Lindsey coldly as she approached the desk, and Clair, Brian's sister, looked at them with obvious dislike. "Michael," said Joan with a barely-there nod. "Miss Peterson." Lindsey, who had been an acknowledged Lesbian while still a teen-ager, had always been Joan's least favorite of her son's questionable acquaintances. "I can't understand why you didn't call me. Why I had to learn that my son is at death's door on the noon news. As you can imagine, I've been frantic to see for myself."

Lindsey and Michael exchanged glances and silently agreed not to point out that it had been several hours since the report had aired, and Joan, had she been truly frantic, would have arrived much earlier.

"He's not at death's door, Mrs. Kinney," said Lindsey. "The doctor assured us that . . ."

"If you don't mind," snapped Clair, "we'd rather hear it for ourselves. And we want to see him. Right now."

The nurse behind the desk was on the phone, speaking softly, when Joan leaned on the counter and cleared her throat. "My name is Joan Kinney, and I want to see my son, Brian, immediately."

Laura Van Deere had only been on duty for a couple of hours, but she already had a feeling this was not going to be one of her better days. An excellent judge of character and skilled in evaluating people's body language and attitudes, she knew at once that there was a lot going on under the surface between these new arrivals and the individuals who had been here all day, waiting for news about their friend.

The priest, silent until this time, stepped closer and appeared to be trying to calm the two women, but neither seemed in the right frame of mind to listen.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kinney," said the nurse. "But only Dr. Keller can authorize anyone to see your son, and he . . ."

Joan Kinney's eyes were suddenly huge. "Keller? Did you say Keller? You don't mean Matthew Keller, do you?"

The doors to the ICU sprang open suddenly, and it was no longer necessary for the nurse to provide an answer, for the doctor was suddenly there, in the flesh, and regarding Brian's mother and sister with a smile that spoke volumes - none of it repeatable.

"I'm so touched you remember me, dear St. Joan."

Brian's mother drew herself up and put on her best disdainful sneer. "You are not going to oversee my son's care, I can promise you that," she snapped. "I want to see the medical director. I want to see . . ."

Matthew Keller held up one hand. He was still smiling. "And I don't give a fuck what you want. Brian is under my care, as authorized by the individual he entrusted with his power of attorney, and - surprise, surprise - that person is not you." He glanced over at Clair, and the smile got uglier. "Now, take your troll offspring out of here, and don't bother coming back. You won't be allowed to see him, unless and until he invites you himself."

"You have no right," insisted Joan, "to come between a mother and her son. No right."

"I have every right," he retorted. Then he looked over and saw Debbie watching him with wide, unbelieving eyes. "It's just too bad nobody ever stepped up to do it when it might have done some good. When they might have saved him from you."

"Doctor . . . Keller, is it?" That was the priest, obviously hoping to play peacemaker. "Don't you think you're being a bit harsh? She just wants . . ."

The physician was quick to interrupt. "Forgive me, Father . . ." His smile became sardonic, "but I know exactly what she wants. And luckily, so did Brian - well enough, at least, to make sure she never gets a shot at getting it."

"Nevertheless," said Tom Butterfield, "she is his next of kin, and she's got a right to know . . ."

"A right?" Matt laughed. "You think she's got a right to know anything about Brian?"

He reached out and touched the cross the priest was wearing, and a strange, manic light flared in his eyes. "Tell you what, Rev. Why don't you get St. Joan here into the confessional, and ask her a few pointed questions; ask her about how she learned not to see what her son endured at her husband's hands. Ask her about how she expected him to stand up and step in, when his old man was looking for someone to take his drunken rages out on. Ask her how she saved her cunty daughter and herself, by providing an alternative target for the old bastard."

"Matt," said Lindsey uneasily, "I'm not sure . . ."

The doctor offered her a gentle smile, in deliberate contrast to the sneer he'd directed at the Kinney women. "Well, I am sure, Sweetheart. I promised you I'd save Brian, and I will. And that includes making sure he's safe from the people who should have protected him when he was too young to do it himself."

Joan and Clair looked at each other, and realized they had no choice but to accept the inevitable. They would seek alternatives; possibly even legal redress. There were always ways, if people were determined. And they were both determined and motivated - just in case. After all, if Brian did not survive this trauma - this punishment for his evil lifestyle - there was plenty of incentive to try to step in and be in the right place at the right time. He was a huge success, financially, and they were, after all, his only living relatives. So . . .

But today, they would not win this battle, and Joan was a bit concerned at a shadow she spotted in the eyes of the young priest who had been her solace for so long. She was furious at Matthew Keller for daring to speak of private family matters which did not concern him, but she was even more furious at her son, for revealing things best kept concealed, things he had seen from his own distorted perspective and interpreted in his typical, selfish manner. He knew she had had no choice but to allow things to happen as they had, because Brian had been strong enough to take what his father dished out, while she and Clair would have been destroyed by it. There had been no other way, and Brian had known it.

Then he had grown up and betrayed her, turning his back on her needs and his sister's vulnerability, like the selfish traitor he was.

But there was no point in going into those things here. Brian had obviously poisoned the minds of these people, these low-life sinners and fornicators who were staring at her as if they had a right to judge her. So she and her daughter would withdraw, conceding the battle, but biding their time before attempting to win the war.

Michael and Lindsey stood with Matt Keller and watched as the group walked away. None of them drew an easy breath until the two women and the priest stepped into the elevator.

At that point, Michael turned to look up at the doctor and offered a tiny, tentative smile. "Remind me," he said quietly, "never to piss you off."

Matt Keller laughed. "If you ask anybody around here, they'll be glad to tell you I'm a self-absorbed, cock-sucking bastard who doesn't give much of a shit about anybody. And mostly, they'd be right. But I do have one saving grace." He paused, and something dark and heavy moved in his eyes. "I take care of my friends. Always."

Then he turned and walked away, and Lindsey took Michael's arm in a proprietary gesture, before leaning in to whisper in his ear. "I think Brian is going to prove - once more - that he's the luckiest fag in the world. That self-absorbed, cock-sucking bastard is going to turn out to be the Kinney guardian angel, and he's not going to let his patient get away with defying him. So Brian will have no choice but to get well."

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