CHAPTER TWO

Six hours later, when Michael returned, his temporary optimism was shattered. Halted at the entrance to the ICU, he was informed by the nurse that there had been a change in Brian's condition. He had been diagnosed earlier with the first signs of pneumonia, and he was semi-conscious and restless, in acute respiratory distress. Pneumonia, never taken lightly, but particularly serious in stroke events, was an extremely dangerous complication. Michael was equipped with a yellow disposable gown before he was allowed to enter the cubicle, which had been altered to accommodate an oxygen tank with a hose that threaded its way to a cannula that bisected Brian's face and fed air into Brian's nose.

Terrified, Michael rushed to the side of the bed. The back of the bed was raised to almost a sitting position. On his back, Brian's eyes were half open, the visible half unfocused and shining bright with fever, which the nurse said was 103. His breathing was ragged and heavy, his unparalyzed side moving erratically under the blanket. Face flushed and glistening, he seemed to sense Michael's presence, to still at the sudden pressure on his left arm and hand. Eyes cleared slightly as he focused on Michael's face, pleading a question that he could not voice.

I shouldn't have left. They were wrong, they were all wrong, Michael thought as he slid his hand down the solid muscle of the arm to clench the clammy fingers, taking Brian's hand between both of his own. "Take it easy. . . it's okay." Michael wasn't sure what to say, what would be right or appropriate. It wasn't okay, it wasn't going to be okay, and Brian was the first person to see through bullshit for what it was.

Yet the words seemed to have their desired effect; Brian's thrashing ceased and he seemed to rest more easily, although the bright eyes still held a hint of terrified curiosity. Michael knew that answers were being demanded of him, yet he wasn't sure which questions needed to be addressed. "You're very sick right now," he said softly, and the fingers clutched his a little tighter, "but we're going to get you well again. You just have to hang in there, be strong."

He reached up to brush the fine, damp hair from Brian's forehead. "We'll be strong together, okay? Just like always." I'll be strong enough for both of us. I swear it.

Yet battle they did, with every resource at their disposal. Constant, intensive nursing care, the most potent drugs and procedures--if determination and medical skill counted for anything, Brian was in the best of hands. The rules of the ICU had been relaxed, and Michael was allowed constant access to the impersonal cubicle in which his friend dwelled, now in a netherworld of delirium, pain, and distress. Complete exhaustion put the sick man to sleep periodically, only to be awakened by the agony of labored breathing. While conscious, he would slip in and out of lucidity, often not even aware of his surroundings. His fever climbed, then broke, then climbed again. The damp sheets had to be changed in a periodic flurry of activity that caused only more misery to the abused muscles of the patient.

Michael had sent word to Lindsay and she, in turn, had notified everyone else. Within a very short time she and Melanie arrived, to periodically relieve Michael or join him in the cubicle as the daytime hours passed and the autumn sunset began to gather. He began to feel a new appreciation for Lindsay as they shared this moment of crisis over the man they both loved and could not have. Lindsay was strong, gentle and supportive; she was steady and calm, with a serene earth-mother compassion that Michael had never recognized before. No wonder Brian was so fond of her, he mused.

The ICU nurses continued their routine care of the patient. They carefully performed the range of motion exercises on Brian's right side that needed to be done even through the more pressing respiratory emergency; propped him periodically into a sitting position to rub and palpate his back to keep the phlegm from collecting in his lungs; moved and changed him as bedclothes and gown became soaked with sweat. It was a long, harrowing ordeal that showed no sign of a rapid resolution.

At the moment, Michael was alone as Brian slept restlessly. Melanie had dragged Lindsay off for some soup and coffee with a promise to spell Michael when they got back. He knew that both his mother and Emmett were waiting in the lounge, and that Ben and Ted would be here shortly. The clan had gathered again, drawing strength from each other, banding together to offer whatever they could to one another to get through. Our family. . . our little extended, alternative family, he reflected, feeling oddly blessed and thankful for them all.

Brian stirred again, his movements more purposeful this time, his eyes popping open wide in surprise and confusion, then lowering again in what seemed like resignation and despair. Michael wondered what thoughts, if any, were going through his mind.

As on several previous awakenings, there was more lucidity and even an effort to speak, soft mumblings, mostly incoherent. Michael moved to sit on the edge of the mattress and leaned forward, bringing Brian's attention to him as he attempted to soothe the fever-agitated man. More to himself than anything else, Michael began to list those who were already there and those who were to arrive shortly, to reassure Brian of their care and concern for him. Perhaps, he reflected, it would make a difference, to know he was loved and cared for, that people were pulling for him.

But Brian seemed not to hear or to understand him. His left hand gripped Michael's tightly, squeezing desperately, but his attention seemed elsewhere, floating about somewhere in a place far away or long ago. He mumbled rapidly and faintly; Michael couldn't make it out, even though he leaned forward and was quiet in order to hear better.

Out of the general babble, one word--two syllables--stood out with sparkling clarity. At first Michael wasn't sure he had heard correctly. Somewhere between two sounds that translated loosely as ". . .pie. . ." and ". . .hark. . ." came a very definite, ". . .sunshine. . ."

Michael drew back, startled. Sunshine? Okay, Brian was half-delirious. He was probably remembering the storm, when he had stroked, and wondering if the sun were out yet. It was dark when he collapsed. Okay, then he was probably wondering if it was the next day yet or not; he had probably lost track of time.

Yet as a chill passed down his spine, Michael knew he wasn't referring to the sunshine in the lower case. Sunshine--with a capital 'S'. Justin. Michael knew, with a certainty born of the deep bond they shared, that Brian was asking for Justin, and the knowledge made his stomach cramp, made his blood run cold in his veins. An irrational anger filled him.

Verbally, he went on soothing, went on as if the word had not been heard or understood; tried to pretend, in his own mind, that it had not been uttered. Justin was the last thing Brian needed at this point, really the last thing Brian needed at any point, but especially now. After what he had done to Brian last spring, he had no further place in their lives. He'd made his choice, made it publicly and plainly, for all to see and understand. End of story. Finis. And Michael, for one, had been quite glad to see him go.

But it's not about what I want, is it? the little voice in his head nagged. Right now, in the midst of struggling for his existence; right now, surrounded by those he had always cared most about and who cared so very much about him; right now, when he was barely able to utter a coherent thought and speech was an intensive, labored thing; right now, the primary thing on Brian's mind was... Justin.

For Michael, it wasn't good enough. Not by a long shot. His anger at Justin mounted and, in his opinion, the self-serving little brat could rot in hell. But if there was a remote chance that seeing Justin would improve Brian's chances for survival, then it had to happen.

He had calmed somewhat by the time he reached the house, willing to give Justin the benefit of the doubt. He was young, he might not understand the implications of what Melanie had told him, or perhaps she had downplayed the seriousness of the situation. Nevertheless, Michael would certainly set him straight.

As he knocked firmly on the door, Michael regretted that he hadn't asked his mother to come with him; surely, she would be more adept at dealing with her little baby "Sunshine" than he. Then the door opened and it was Justin himself standing there, looking rather shocked to see Michael Novotny on his doorstep. There was a moment of awkwardness as the two former antagonists and later, former conspirators regarded each other warily.

"Michael?" Justin ventured. His face had taken on an ashen tone and his voice wavered slightly.

"May I come in?"

Justin opened the door wider and indicated that Michael proceed. "Yeah . . . my mom took my sister shopping. "

Michael decided that this was good that they were alone. Justin followed him into the living room and neither sat nor offered Michael a seat. "Is this about Brian?" he asked, seeming to steel himself for the response.

Eyes snapping, Michael regarded him indignantly. "What the hell else would I come here about?"

"Mel told me he was in the hospital. . ." Justin offered.

"Well, give the boy a dog biscuit," Michael snapped. "Did she tell you he could die?"

Justin managed to flop into a chair just in time to keep from falling. "Oh, shit."

Okay, Michael reasoned, so maybe he didn't realize. He softened his tone. "He suffered a massive stroke on Friday night. Today, he developed pneumonia." Michael moved to the couch and sat down himself, feeling the trembling in his own knees threatening to drop him. "It's a serious complication, and we don't know. . . . It's very serious," he repeated, unable to utter the ultimate negative words.

"How can someone so young--" Justin didn't finish. He seemed to gather himself together and sat up straight. "Why did you come here? I thought you never wanted to see me again."

"I don't." Michael drew a breath and paused. "That's all you think about, isn't it? Yourself."

"I'm not thinking about myself," Justin replied defensively. "I doubt I'd do Brian any good at this point. Why would he want to see me, and what could I do?"

"I don't know. I don't know why he'd want to see you, and I don't know if you could do any good, but it seems to me that you should at least try."

"Did he tell you he wanted to see me?" Justin sounded almost hopeful.

It was a hope Michael refused to indulge. His voice was hard as he responded, "No. He's not able to talk. He's been unconscious for two days." Except, he reflected, for that one word, Sunshine. But he did not tell Justin that.

Justin was about to reply, but at that moment the front door opened and Jennifer Taylor entered with her daughter, Molly. She seemed somewhat disconcerted to find Michael seated in her living room.

"Ahh…Michael. Good evening. What brings you here?" she asked pleasantly. Then, "Molly, honey, go on up and get your bath. I'll be right up." She folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself in a gesture of anxiety.

Justin didn't look at her as he spoke. "Brian's in the hospital. He's had a stroke."

"Oh, my god." She seemed genuinely alarmed, and Michael wondered at that. He'd always had the impression she didn't approve of Brian Kinney. She glanced over at Michael. "Is he going to be all right?"

Before Michael could answer, Justin spoke. "Michael seems to think that my being there might help Brian. Like I would have been helped, if he had come to see me when I was in a coma. Or when I was in rehab."

Michael rose and, ignoring Jennifer, stepped over to Justin's chair, furious. "You little prick! He sat at that damned hospital for three days without sleeping or eating--I was with him--when they didn't know if you'd live or die!"

Justin stood up unsteadily. "No--he didn't. He never came--"

"You were unconscious," Michael refuted, suddenly realizing that Justin had never learned of Brian's vigil. The knowledge stunned him, just as he was sure Justin was stunned by the revelation. "You didn't know? Brian never said?"

He heard Jennifer speak. "No. He never said a word. About the first three days, or about how he came there every night after Justin was sleeping, keeping watch over him like Cerberus. The nurses told me about it."

Both men looked at her with stupefied amazement. Even Michael had not known about that particular detail; he had been busy pursuing his life in Portland during those weeks.

Justin's brow creased. "You never told me that."

"I respected his wish for privacy. And, truth be told, it was an incentive for you to get well. And I wanted you well."

Michael's stomach suddenly felt queasy. He could imagine it all too well, Brian's devotion, his simple, quiet way of doing whatever he could, probably feeling guilty as hell over what had happened to Justin, haunting the hospital at night after everyone else had left. There were such profound feelings here that he couldn't deal with them at this moment. He had to get back to his original agenda. He spoke to Jennifer, but for Justin's benefit.

"Right now he's fighting for his life in the ICU. He's developed pneumonia on top of a very serious stroke that we're told may have long-term consequences, if he even survives. And the only reason I came over here is because Justin might have a chance of getting through to him, give him. . . I don't know. . . something. It might be a longshot, but. . . " Michael broke off, unable to go on. He was too close to breaking down, and he didn't want to do that, not here, not now.

He turned to face Justin, who still seemed shocked into silence. "You make your decision. I'm going back where I'm needed."

Without waiting for a response, he strode to the door and pulled it open. As he shut it behind him, he heard Justin call his name, but he went on, down the steps and out to his car. Quickly, he started the engine and headed back to the hospital, blinking the tears that were falling down his cheeks.

"Fuck!"

What Melanie had told him that morning had been horrifying enough, and when he had first glimpsed Michael on his doorstep, his overwhelming thought had been that Brian was dead. He could barely process that impression before Michael relieved the fear, if only slightly. A mere verb tense---could die, not is dead separated the threat from the reality.

After the phone call, he had gone to his classes, unable to concentrate, his mind occupied with questions and worry and half-formed plans. He had believed that he wouldn't be welcomed at the hospital, not by any of Brian's friends who might happen to be standing guard, nor by the staff of the ICU who routinely admitted only the closest family. Nor had he wanted to run into Michael or any of the others; he felt as if he had forfeited his place in their brotherhood. He might have asked Lindsay or Melanie to sneak him in, and he had considered that option. In the end, though, he had decided to wait until late at night, when he figured no one would be there, to go and find out what he could first-hand from the medical professionals. He knew some of the staff from his own time spent there, and maybe, if he were lucky, he would have located someone to tell him about Brian or to sneak him into the ICU.

Ironic, isn't it? As it turns out, that's exactly the course of action that Brian decided on when I was hurt….

He couldn't bear to think of it, of the incredible discovery that had been unveiled to him tonight. It changed so much, revealed so much. He had always believed that Brian had taken him to the hospital that night and dropped out of sight. No one, including Brian, had ever told him differently. Yet in the end, it hadn't mattered. Brian had been there when it counted, had stood by him through the painful period of his recovery, had helped him reclaim the life he had thought lost forever. I didn't want to leave him...I never really wanted that.... It had been a mistake, one of monumental proportions, to go impulsively flying off with Ethan, to think he could find what he wanted by simply slipping into a new, untried relationship. He'd often wondered, in the subsequent months of self-loathing, whether he had done it out of spite or fantasy.

The bottom line was that he had never stopped loving Brian Kinney, had never stopped wanting him, needing him in his life. Separation was agonizing and dismal, life was grey and difficult. Not one day went by that he didn't regret what he had done, that he didn't see Brian's enigmatic, wry smile that last moment at Babylon. Not one night went by that he didn't reach out either asleep or awake, to caress that broad, smooth chest or to rest a hand on the spent cock and feel it spring to life, growing and twitching under his touch. He still felt Brian in him, in his body and in his soul.

Ultimately, nothing with Ethan or with anyone else could stand a chance of success. They had parted, bitterly, and he had gone home to his mother, wondering if he had any chance of resurrecting what he had destroyed, ashamed and afraid to try, scheming and fantasizing ways to make it happen. It had never, ever occurred to him that he might run out of time.

The hospital entrance loomed up ahead of him and he pulled onto the parking lot. He was terrified of what he might find within the hospital walls, silently begging that it wouldn't be too late, that perhaps Michael was right and he would possess the magic key that would make everything all right again. Brian was young and strong; surely he would manage to conquer this crisis. Justin refused to believe otherwise.

The ICU was always active, but always controlled and efficient. Justin entered through the waiting lounge, guardedly looking around for the familiar faces of Brian's friends. Almost relieved to see none he recognized, he stepped over to the main nursing station.

"Brian Kinney?" He made it a question.

She looked up at him. "Are you a relative?"

"I'm-- " he started a denial, then nodded his head. "Yes."

Amazingly, it was that simple. She stood and handed him a sterile gown, oversaw his use of it, then led him over to one of the cubicles that formed a circle around the nursing hub. He shivered, his knees going weak as he followed her steps, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

The cubicle was dominated by a single hospital bed surrounded by monitoring devices and equipment. Justin's gaze raked the small area, catching on Michael seated on the left side of the bed on a folding chair. When he finally gathered the courage to shift his eyes to the bed itself, his attention was riveted on its occupant and everything else faded as he zeroed in on Brian.

Asleep sitting upright, he was breathing through an oxygen tube with heavy, labored movements, his chest rising and falling with each hard-won entry and exit. His face was flushed and swollen, there were dark rims around the closed eyes, stubble shadowing the lower half. There were IVs and electrodes attached to his upper body. The chest of his hospital gown as well as his face and hair were damp with sweat. The signs, if any, of a stroke were not immediately obvious, but evidence of pneumonia was apparent at first glance.

Pneumonia is curable, isn't it? Justin remembered his grandmother being hospitalized with it when he was just a little kid. His mom and dad had taken him to visit her, and she hadn't seemed so bad. It had been scary, but not terribly so. She had been in a regular room, though, not in the ICU. There had been flowers sitting all around.

"You can only stay for a few minutes. He needs to rest," Justin heard the nurse say as she turned away. At the sound of her voice, he saw Brian stir slightly, and to his surprise, saw the heavy lids open part way, the gaze unfocused.

Justin could feel Michael's gaze on him, but he ignored the other man as he moved to the opposite side of the bed. He saw Brian's eyes tracking his movement, thought he saw a glimmer of emotion in the clouded depths. Impulsively, instinctively, he reached down to take Brian's hand, clutching at it.

It felt wooden, the damp fingers remaining slightly curled and still. There was no acknowledgment of his touch in Brian's expression. Alarmed, he glanced over at Michael, who sensed his question without his having to ask it.

"It's the wrong hand. He can't feel anything on that side," Michael explained softly, little above a whisper. "Come over here." Michael stood and Justin was surprised at the compassion on his face, in his voice. He seemed totally different from the man who had come to his home earlier. It was as if being there, joined in this battle for Brian's life, they were once again allies, their past differences set aside in a momentary truce.

Justin looked down to see that Brian had slipped away once again, his eyes closed. Carefully, he laid the hand back on the sheet and moved around the foot of the bed to stand beside Michael.

"I'll be right outside, in the lounge," Michael said, squeezing Justin's shoulder as he yielded his place. "He's been in and out---just don't let him get excited."

He's always 'excited' around me, Justin thought with a sudden acerbity, and the reflection made him smile, made everything abruptly seem normal again. The indiscreet thought took away the trepidation and the terror, made it Brian again, not some ghostly stranger who lay there sick and broken.

He sat in the chair vacated by Michael and took the left hand in both of his, squeezing it between his palms. So strange, the difference in the feel of this one, how it somehow seemed so much more... alive, real. He looked down at it, at the long, slender digits that had so delighted and enthralled him on so many occasions, the nails neatly trimmed and clean, the palm damp with sweat. Intent upon his reflection, he was startled when the hand stirred in his, the fingers pressing back upon his own, and he looked up sharply. There was a trace of a smile on Brian's lips and the fever-bright eyes glistened as they fastened on him. The shallow breathing became a little deeper as he stirred to consciousness.

Justin felt like a bug under a microscope, awkward and ashamed. He told himself he had every right to be here, and he managed to meet the eyes squarely, offering himself in the intuitive belief that he was wanted and needed, that he belonged here. Those eyes told him that, gave him a glimmer of hope that he was right.

"...J..jusss..."

"Shh...don't try to talk. It's okay, I know." Justin cut off the feeble attempt at speech, the struggle to form the proper syllables. He could barely drag his attention from that precious face, but he bent his head over Brian's hand as he lifted it to his lips. "I love you... I'm so, so sorry... please? Please, what? Forgive me? Don't die? Yeah.. all of that, and more. Just, please....

He felt the pressure against his hand loosen and he looked up, dismayed to find that the eyes had shut down again, their light temporarily extinguished. The steady beeping of the monitor and the rapid rise and fall of the chest assured him that it was only sleep.

Impulsively, he moved to sit on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle its occupant. Bending over the unconscious form, he smoothed the damp hair from Brian's forehead, carding it back in a gentle caress. His fingers lingered at his temple, stroking softly, affectionately. Many nights he had watched this man sleep, had lain beside him and regarded those features in repose with a tender intimacy probably unknown to all but a very few. He barely looked different now. It was hard for Justin to grasp the concept of a stroke and what it might have done to his virile former partner. Michael had said that Brian's right side was paralyzed. That wouldn't be permanent, would it? His own arm and hand had recovered after the blow to his head, and he had even had to have surgery. There was no evidence of surgery on Brian, so it couldn't be that bad, could it?

He took a shaky breath and considered. He needed to find out what was going on, talk to someone who knew what was being done for Brian. He needed assurance that everything was going to be all right, that it wasn't too late for second chances.

But in reality, we never have that, do we? Life doesn't always guarantee another opportunity. Brian had tried to teach him that; to live in the moment, not looking back, not sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for tomorrow to bring what we could have now.

Sometimes, though, we don't appreciate what we have, we think we want something else. Justin had turned away from Brian, hoping he could find something more, something better than what he had, when all along he'd had everything he'd needed in one complete package. And he'd been too stupid, too immature, to realize it until it was too late. Maybe too late. Hopefully, not. He was still enough of a child to believe in happy endings, to exude optimism where the rest of his life was concerned.

If we're given the chance, that vital, crucial second chance. He shivered, gazing down at the perilously ill figure struggling for each breath he took, his brain perhaps permanently damaged by an unforeseen accident. Aching for him, burned by the very vision, Justin stood and backed up a step from the bed. Hot tears scalded his eyes as he moved away, and he struggled to regain his composure, to keep the panic at bay. Blindly, he fled the cubicle.

"Hey? whoaaa...." He looked at Justin with concern. "You all right?"

Blinking, gathering his composure, Justin nodded briskly. "S-sorry. Where's Michael?"

"He went to the canteen for something to drink," Ben explained. "Sit down a minute."

Justin ignored the invitation and insisted, "I need to find out . . . I need to talk to Brian's doctor...."

Ben smiled ruefully. "Well, I doubt you'll find him this time of night. Hey, take a deep breath and count to ten," he advised. Justin realized that he must be radiating what he was feeling; he felt himself rocking back and forth on his feet, hands clenched at his sides. No idea what his face must look like, probably a wreck. He had no strength or will to camouflage at the moment.

Reluctantly, he sat on a wooden bench and was startled when Ben sat down beside him, reinstating the hand on his shoulder. Justin flashed a brief smile of appreciation, then tried to steady himself.

"Michael said he's paralyzed. It's not permanent, is it?"

Ben shrugged. "Too soon to know that. And every stroke is different, every person is affected differently."

"I don't understand how this could have happened..."

A voice spoke from behind him. "Don't you?"

He turned; Michael stood there, glaring down at him as he continued to speak venomously. "No, you wouldn't. You haven't been around for the past months, seen how he's driven himself to exhaustion with work, and then spent every spare minute off drinking like there was no tomorrow...."

"Michael..." Ben cautioned, but Brian's vengeful champion was on a roll.

"You just had to get on with your own life, didn't you? You had to publicly humiliate him and leave him to pick up the pieces of his reputation and try to move on. You had to throw everything away and--"

Justin jumped up and confronted him belligerently. "Shut up! What happened between us is none of your goddamned business! It never was and it never will be!" But despite his anger, the words had cut deep, slashing into his terrified soul with pitiless rancor. One part of him wanted to smash Michael in the face, draw back a fist and attack; the other part wanted to cower and whimper like a whipped dog, to pull the covers over his head and hide from the truth he heard.

For whatever reason, for whatever he saw in Justin's face, Michael's eyes softened. Perhaps it was the public location, or perhaps it was Ben's presence there, but Michael backed down. In a toneless voice almost to himself, he murmured, "It's not anyone's fault. It just happened, that's all."

Somehow, Ben had insinuated himself in the small space between them. He turned to Justin. "We're all tired and upset. I think we should all get some sleep and come back in the morning. Justin, you can see the doctor then, get the latest update, and let him explain it all to you."

Justin nodded mutely, suddenly unable to bear any more at that moment. He needed to get away from Michael, from the censure he felt in the man's presence. He needed to think about everything and pull himself together, to be able to cope with this still surreal situation.

He turned and, for the second time, walked away from Brian Kinney.

Now, for the first time in almost six months, he slipped it into the lock and shoved the door open. Scant daylight from the descending dusk outside was the only illumination, and the loft had the gloom of emptiness over it like a bitter pall.

The familiar surroundings settled around him as he let his eyes adjust to the dim light, loathe to throw the light switch. Everything was the same; he didn't know what he had expected. The furnishings were all in the same places, the walls were the same color, the carpets in precisely the same location. As if he had walked out yesterday....

Justin didn't know why he had come here, didn't know what he had thought to find or do. Tentatively, he stepped forward, into the living area, his eyes going to the computer sitting in its usual spot. The computer where Brian did his ad work, where Justin had learned to draw again and where the first issue of "Rage" had been created. He remembered sitting there, working on a project for school; remembered Brian coming up behind him, distracting him with a soft caress, a gentle nudge.

Shivering, Justin blinked and took a few more steps forward. Memories consumed him, so many happy moments of passion and excitement in the first flush of newfound love and desire. He realized that he was standing in almost precisely the same spot he had stood on that first night, the night that Gus had been born, the night that he had been born again. The night that he had first seen the face of god.

He smiled slightly, remembering Brian's cocky swagger, the way he had poured the bottled water over his head, an unholy baptism that had made Justin hard even as his heart pumped wildly with fright at what he was about to undertake. God, how naive and inexperienced he had been!

Slowly, he made his way around the apartment, picking up the tell-tale signs of recent activity there. A used washcloth on the bathroom sink. A plate and spoon resting on the drain. A stray sock lying on the floor a few feet from the bed. A magazine resting on the table by the sofa. Each item he picked up, touched, absorbed into himself, the signs of a living, fully functioning Brian Kinney going about his normal routine, whole and vigorous and healthy.

In contrast, in his mind's eye, was the image of the man whose hospital room he had just left, an image he could not cancel out, could not erase no matter how he tried. Bold, assertive, ass-kicking Brian, lying helplessly unconscious with wires and tubes insulting his body, with the vast array of modern medicine doing everything possible to keep him alive and barely functioning.

Justin settled gingerly on the edge of the bed, perhaps the most memorable spot of all, and considered all that he had learned today, from Michael and from his mother, facts he had not possessed before. Would they have inevitably made a difference in his decision to leave? Perhaps not. Perhaps maybe. It was useless to try to second-guess. Hindsight was always 20/20. He had come to live with Brian after the accident, believing, even without that knowledge gleaned today, that Brian loved him in his own way. Later, somewhere along the way, he had decided that he was deluding himself. Or that Brian's "own way" simply wasn't enough for him. Ultimately, he had realized that he would settle for any of it, just to be able to go back to where he had been. And now, it might all be destroyed, no matter what decisions he made, or Brian made, or they both made. The entire situation had been taken out of their hands by cosmic forces larger than either of them.

Tears slipped unbidden down his face as his hands clutched the silken fabric of the duvet, and he found himself silently pleading with whoever or whatever might be listening to him.

"Let him be okay...really okay. Not for me...it doesn't have to be for me." And he realized it as the truth. It couldn't matter whether or not he had a place in that life, only that there be a life. Brian Kinney must go on, must recover fully, must continue. Because the alternative was completely unthinkable.