Lindsay had bullied him into it. He wasn't sure why he'd agreed, except perhaps for the fact that even in his darkest moods, his Junior knew how to make him smile.

Lindsay had picked him up and dropped off the two of them at the neighborhood playground amidst solemn promises to be back before sunset. She seemed to possess a confidence Brian didn't share that he would be up to the task and fully capable to entertain their rugrat, while keeping him safe and contained within the small fenced-in park.

The merry-go-round, its metal axle grounded in the dirt, spun in lazy circles, pushed by a couple of older kids. A bushel of younger ones, including Gus, stood on the wooden platform, faces pinched by the cold and flushed with excitement as they clung to the iron railing for dear life. Their voices were pitched to a high octave to match their exhilaration.

His own son's face flashed before Brian's eyes in repeated circles with the turn of the wheel, joy suffusing the little boy's being as he soaked in the winter sun, the freedom of the ride, the presence of his father. His throaty cry, "Daddy! Daaa-dy, watch me!" hit Brian full force, followed by the toddler's light body as he jumped off the still-moving contraption, arms raised to hug his dad.

"Sweetheart," he bent to pat the sun-kissed cheeks, " you're such a big boy! Daddy is very proud of you."

Beaming, Gus proceeded to hug his knees and, flashing him a smile, turned his attention toward his next target. "Swing--let's go swing." He pointed his hand toward the row of swings, his other hand searching for his father's. Pulling forcefully for a moment he stopped, fell in rhythm with the slower moves of the adult walking beside him. At two-and-a-half he was still at that wonderful age of early childhood when differences in people were noted, accepted, accommodated if possible--but not judged. If his father moved differently from other adults, it didn't matter to Gus--it was still his beloved Dada.

Brian helped Gus climb onto the link-chain and leather swing, gave him a slight push and watched as he tried to maintain momentum, pumping with his short legs and screeching with the pleasure of flying. "Careful, Sonny-boy," he heard his own voice caution, "you don't want to fall--" and felt himself almost black out. Fall . . . Swing . . . Claire. A long-ago playground, the chain coming loose, someone yelling at him, someone screaming. Claire? No, no, it wasn't his sister's high-pitched voice. He cringed, reflexively covering his face as the leather strap tore at him, making stinging contact with flesh. The scream had been his own.

He stumbled over to a bench by the swings and sat, blinded by the sudden, cutting headache--just like the others he'd suffered in the past weeks. Gus climbed off the swing and joined him, busy with clumsy efforts to comfort the visibly distraught adult. Finally, he brightened with an idea. "Gus go find a flower," he squatted by a patch of frozen winter grass, looking in vain for spring dandelions. At the end, he pulled up a few strands of straw-dry grass, and clenching the clumps between grubby fingers presented them to his father. His son, at two, was man enough to give the token of flowers, Brian thought. The irony was not lost on him.

Patient: Brian Kinney

Process notes: April 3, 2003

Patient is experiencing increased pressure from repressed childhood memories. Process is accelerated by as-of-yet unidentified trigger. Memory fragments of physical abuse by patient's father are evident, accompanied by psychosomatically induced tension headaches. Symptoms link the subconscious struggle to repress these memories with current trauma of stroke and fear of its recurrence. Indications of psychic fragility and bouts of anxiety in attempting to assimilate emerging information while battling depression. Some encouraging decline is noted in the frequency and action-orientation of suicidal ideation.

Note: indications of further repressed, and possibly more threatening, memories.

Treatment plan: adjust dosage of Nefazodone pending hematology profiling.

For a moment's dizzying swing the faces blended into one giant indistinguishable grin before his eyes, and he had to blink hard to sort them back into individuals, although even repeated blinking didn't make the grin go away. At the well of the semicircle of bodies stood Vance, looking so spiffy even the dome of his bald head seemed polished to a shine. He was flanked by Cynthia who, while maintaining a smile, was dabbing at the moisture in the corners of her eyes. Women. How could any man stand them, deal with them?

He took in the look on the familiar faces--a mixture of apprehension, ill-ease and uncertainty spicing the top layers of bland and benevolent goodwill--and for some strange reason it made him relax. Suddenly mellow, he leaned back on his cane, took a few steps toward the corridor leading to his office, and watched as the human sea parted to let him pass. With good-natured amusement he smiled back at the murmured well-wishes and quipped, "I'm back, no big deal. What the fuck are you all doing loitering by the elevator? Don't you have a job to do?" No more nice guy. He was back.

Of course, Vance had kept his old space for him--anything less would have been construed non-politic. But he hadn't left it untouched. More a suite than an office, it was remodeled to include a private bathroom, leather sofa and recliner, and the father of all executive leather armchairs built for comfort and easy coasting.

Slowly pivoting to appraise the changes, Brian turned back to Vance. "Duly noted and appreciated." Used to their succinct exchanges, Vance only nodded, "You're welcome."

"Guess you'll expect me to earn it, right?" Brian's tongue was playing with the inside of his cheek as he asked.

"No pressure, Brian--just show me you're still on top of your game. See you in twenty, for a quick management team meeting." With a slight salute in his partner's direction, Vance was gone.

Cynthia waited for a few moments, her eyes observant as she watched Brian check out his space, finally settling in the new chair with a satisfied grunt. All male, all territorial, she thought with a mix of fascination and gender-resentment. What's he gonna do next, whip out his prick and mark his turf? Smiling at the mental image, she began to walk toward her office as she asked, "Still prefer it hot, black and sweet?"

"No, Cynthia, strangely enough I find myself into blonds lately . . ." Brian responded with his sincerest best.

"Your coffee, Mr. Kinney," she laughed, heading out. "I missed you. Sure was dull around here without you."

He made it to the conference room on time, with Cynthia in tow carrying his coffee and project folders. In addition to the two partners, the management team consisted of four others--all male--sitting with expectant looks on their faces as they watched him, after six months, rejoin their ranks. The undercurrent of curiosity paired with discomfort was not lost on him and, instead of ignoring it, he opted to meet it head on. He cleared his throat. "Glad to be back, gentlemen, thanks to the support of Mr. Vance and Cynthia, my 'right hand.' Wondering whether I can still cut it? We'll soon find out. It'll take a while longer, but I fully intend to carry my weight in this great outfit. So, with all the 'Welcomes' behind, let's just move on," and surveying the tentative smiles on the surrounding faces, he reached to open the first file before him.

He reached into the closet, the dry-cleaner's plastic cover rustling under his hand as he pulled out the tuxedo. The sight of it hit him with an immediate visceral impact unnerving in its intensity. Note to self, he thought with dismay, it's about fucking time I get used to my own post-stroke emotionalism. Just another shrapnel of my exploding brain.

He hrumphed with self disgust, but could do little to reign in the wave of knee-weakening memories cresting over him to wash away his control. Using his good hand as a lever he lowered himself to the floor, wedged between the bed and the nightstand. The tux, long cleaned of blood stains and still wrapped in plastic on its hanger, lay crumpled into a shapeless heap in his lap, both harbinger and guardian of nightmares not yet receded deep enough into memory.

He sat there for a long time, vacant eyes staring back at the past, fingers clutching at the perfectly tailored outfit symbolic of so many things--first reckonings, buried in the rubble of his shame and guilt. He couldn't be quite sure, but thought he'd been forgiven. Could he, would he ever forgive himself?

Justin's cheerful "Brian--Bri-an!" cut into his silent reverie. The rubber soles of his sneakers squeaked as the younger man turned and finally spotted him. He picked up speed as he closed the distance to the bedroom. "Brian, you okay? Did you fall?"

"Only from grace," Brian's voice was a quiet monotone as he pointed with his chin at the tux on his knees.

Justin didn't need more words--the memory of the prom had become a shared wound between them, slowly scabbing over but sore to the touch. And he surmised with a sure sense fully attuned to the other that Brian didn't need words either. Instead, he slowly descended on his knees and gathered the other in his arms, hugging, rocking, using his body heat--his very presence--to keep the ghosts at bay.

Passive at first, slowly Brian began to respond. He buried his face in the blond mane and rubbed his cheeks against the shampoo-fresh strands, his mouth strewing small kiss-bites as he moved from earlobe to neck, nuzzling the soft skin. The comfort offered soon transmuted into passion, and his mouth sought the other's lips with renewed urgency. The kiss was a long, deep-throated affair, their tongues lost in each other, sucking, tasting, savoring, never having enough. Dizzy from an overload of sensation, Brian detached from Justin, letting his eyes and fingers continue the exploration of the perfect lips flushed now into a deep pink and glistening with his saliva.

The only sound in the room was their heavy breathing as they tore at each other's clothes with impatient hands. They stripped, and Brian pulled the pale, boyish body against his bare chest, his tongue mapping out its own route with markers of slow, torturous pleasure as it traveled from ribs to breastbone to navel. He nudged Justin to rise on his knees, his warm breath ruffling the wispy-blond pubic hair, the rough texture counterpoint to the smooth pulse of the eager, engorged prick... Justin's prick--a perfect match and hot-pink accessory to his lust-swollen lips, Brian though with a smile as he came down on the throbbing organ.

"Don't... don't let me come," Justin pushed at his shoulders ineffectually, clearly struggling with himself. "Want you... want you to fuck me."

"... Within an inch of your life?" The smile lit Brian's eyes. He bent his head to continue, savoring the other's increasingly loud moans, the fingers sinking into his shoulders. The taste of pre-cum was pervasive in his mouth.

"Stop--stop!" Justin was shaking with a buildup of tremors in his entire body, fighting for control and losing.

Reaching over Justin's shoulders Brian turned him around and pulled him backward into his lap. His own cock was hard as rock; Justin was ready and receptive. Grabbing for a condom on the stand and stretching it onto his cock, he encircled Justin's waist and guided him over to his shaft. They came together, merged with a sob-like moan, the fully erect prick sliding home into its warm, moist sheath.

"Ooouch . . ." Justin's breath caught in pain, "Vlad the Impaler, reborn."

"Think so?" Heaving, Brian bent over the curving neck and sank his teeth into the inviting white skin. "Wanna feel my fangs?"

In true partnership, they divided the thrusting between what momentum Brian could provide seated as he was on the floor, and Justin's contribution as he rode the long, hard cock bracing himself with both hands on the floor.

With a last effort, Brian reached around his lover and tightened his fingers on the other's throbbing organ. Their twin explosions were like artfully sequenced fireworks--Justin came first, muscles contracting in the throws of orgasm and pushing Brian's encased cock over the edge with him. Still riding the tremors of pleasure, he collapsed against Brian's sweat-covered chest, leaning back to nuzzle on the long neck.

He felt fingers brushing his hairline, Brian's weak, uncoordinated fingers, probing the spot above his right temple, homing in on the scar. Visiting. Paying homage to the memory. A quick shiver ran through Justin but he remained silent, leaning into the comforting fingers to absorb the healing touch. Then Brian's hand dropped and the moment passed.

"Hey, Superstud, this wasn't half bad." Justin rubbed up against the moist skin.

"Half bad?" Brian raised a well-arched eyebrow. "Have you no manners? No gratitude? No appreciation of what it takes at my age to perform?"

"Asshole! Some 'Impaler' you would make--Vlad the vampire with an age hang-up!"

"Ah, the lore of the undead. We should all be that lucky . . ."

"Anyway," Justin climbed off Brian's lap and clambered to his feet. "I'm famished, and we both need a shower. Coming?" He offered his hands to pull up the other.

Standing, Brian gave him a quick grin. "By the way, if you're wondering what I was doing on the floor . . ."

"You mean other than plotting to land my cute ass in your welcoming lap?" Justin responded with a wink.

"I was searching for the proper attire to a very special event--the spring gala of the Pittsburgh Symphony, sponsored by one of our A-list clients. I'm representing Vanguard. You are my date." Registering the look of surprise on Justin's face, he took an awkward bow and amended, "That is, if you'll have me as yours."

Laughing, Justin captured Brian's hands in his. "Anything for you. And--nothing would please me more than 'to have you as mine.'" The double meaning was intentional, and it didn't escape Brian.

They already headed for the bathroom when Brian turned, pointedly staring at the discarded black heap on the ground. "The tux is definitely out."

It was Saturday night, and Heinz Hall was ablaze with lights reflected on the diamonds worn by the glitterati of Pittsburgh as they donned their best in couture, jewelry and furs and gathered to celebrate one of their city's major musical events.

Brian and Justin were fashionably late, due to a last minute hissy-fit Brian had about every detail of his appearance and that of his date--sure sign, as Justin noted acerbically, of the return of Brian's old preening self. As they stepped out of their company limo, Justin gave him the once-over. "It took you forever to get ready, Mr. Vain," he teased, "but, admittedly, the results are aesthetically pleasing. You look great." The tone was joking, but the sentiment rang sincere.

Brian sized up the slim figure by his side with a critical eye. "You're not too shabby yourself." Justin's preppie slacks-and-jacket ensemble complemented Brian's more formal Armani, with both wearing dress shirts, ties, and Italian loafers. With some surprise, Brian also noticed a thin silver slave-bracelet on Justin's narrow wrist.

"Tried to dress decent for you--after all, it's like your second 'coming out.'"

"Justin, Hon, they've known forever that I'm a fag," Brian punctuated the last word with a limp-wristed wave-of-hand.

"I meant your triumphant return to the glory world of advertising," Justin snapped back, "and... don't call me 'Hon,' baby, or introduce me as 'the little woman' to any of the Lions of Madison Avenue!"

"Now why would I ever do that?" Brian was all falsely accused innocence as he reached for Justin's arm, steering him toward the reception area.

The obligatory cocktail round was mercifully coming to an end with the second ringing of the bell calling the audience to their seats. The lobby was beginning to empty of people and Brian said his goodbyes as he turned with Justin toward the elevators. He'd been on his best corporate behavior for the better half on an hour, and the strain began to show.

"Can you smell it?" He asked, his face a mask of seriousness.

"Smell what?" Justin whiffed the air. "It's nothing but the best, most expensive aftershaves and perfumes."

"Funny," Brian wrinkled his nose in response, "smells like manure to me. Fucking knee-deep, hypocritical pile of shit. Business." Getting it off his chest, he felt better instantaneously.

"At least nobody had the gall to ask about us directly," Justin mused. "They only stared."

"What about 'us'? We're just friends, right?" Brian retorted, but his grin took the sting out of an otherwise thorny topic between them.

"So, 'friend,' what's on the program tonight?" Changing the topic, Justin threaded his arm through Brian's as they headed toward the balcony. They had a corporate box for their private use provided to Vanguard courtesy of their client.

"The first piece is Mozart's Rondo for Flute with Sir Gallaway, followed by a Strauss Violin Concerto Sonata." Nudging Justin jokingly, he added, "Culture--what a concept! It's good for you."

Their theater box was spacious and luxuriously appointed with its brocade walls, gilded trim and velvet-clad armchairs. It accommodated eight, but Brian and Justin were its only occupants for the night. Brian made himself comfortable in the plush armchair, spread his legs and closed his eyes, ready to absorb the auditory treat of Mozart's tunes without any visual interference. His obvious preferences for Babylon's disco beat and mellow jazz notwithstanding, he was a connoisseur of classical music--had fallen in love with it late, when first exposed to it in his college years.

The cacophony of tuning from the orchestra quieted to silence, the lights dimmed, and the audience greeted with thunderous applause the entrance of the guest conductor, a young and promising talent from Japan. And with the rise of his baton, the magic of Mozart's music began to flow.

The high-pitched, keening sound of the flute joined the swell of instrumental music as Gallaway, another Celt and kindred spirit, joined the orchestra. The solitary theme evoked an echo in Brian, and unnamed longing of beauty conceived in pain. His new damnable sentimentality--there he was, wallowing again, he thought, chagrined.

A light touch brought him around--the back of Justin's hand gliding up and down to stroke his neck. The hand was soon replaced by lips planting rows of kisses on his exposed skin, the soft tongue circling his Adam's apple while the busy hand slipped behind to play with the longish strands of hair curled against the nape of his neck.

His breath caught as the full, sensuous lips sought to target his mouth, kissing and sucking his lips before the insolent, invading tongue thrust to meet, intertwine with his. He recognized the subtle taste of the Chablis Justin had at the reception, mingled with the younger man's unique and familiar flavor. The sudden recognition both elated and scared him--he'd known Justin now for close to three years. And he'd become addicted to him.

The object of his ruminations suddenly stopped the 'dueling tongues' game and slid to the floor, positioning his lithe body between Brian's outstretched legs. Before he had the chance to stop him, to question or protest, Justin's nimble hands reached for the zipper of his dress pants and liberated with experienced fingers his already awakening cock.

Brian inhaled sharply, almost chocking on the gulp of air, then hissed in a low whisper, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's called a blow job." Even in the semi-dark Brian could make out the glow of the blond shock of hair as Justin raised his head and grinned at him. "Don't you remember? Had one just this afternoon."

"This afternoon we were alone, in the loft. There are hundreds of people here," Brain mouthed barely audibly.

"I thought you enjoyed an audience... " Justin replied with a shrug. "Anyway, nobody can see me down here in the dark. Just make sure you cum quietly." Smirking, he lowered his head and captured the hard cock in his mouth. Clearly, whatever reservations Brian might've had at this point, they weren't shared by his ever-ready prick.

Brian crescendoed with Mozart close enough to make any conductor proud. His panting breaths were drowned out by the final, fully instrumented notes of the Rondo as the audience roared its applause.

Justin barely managed to scramble off the floor and into his chair when the lights came on and the crowd came to its feet, acknowledging the virtuoso of conductor and soloist as they took their bows. Brian was struggling to zip himself up and straighten his clothes; Justin could not wipe the satisfied, smug smirk off his face. He licked his lips suggestively, like a sated feline.

"I always liked doing it with an audience, but have never before received a standing ovation!" Brian guffawed. "You like living dangerously... "

"I'm with you, aren't I?"

"You could be arrested for this--lewd and lascivious behavior in public. And not only because you're queer."

"Well, some risks are worth taking." Combing his fingers through his disheveled hair, Justin rose. "You want to go down for another drink?"

Brian, never trusting and always on guard with breeders, gave the man a probing look, but the other met the glance head on and with a smile. "Allow me a somewhat inappropriate personal comment, Kinney. I know you're gay--always knew--and that the very attractive 'friend' is your partner. And it's just fine with me. Not all of us straights are closed minded homophobic pigs."

Searching his face intently for another moment, Brian finally raised his glass. "No, I guess not. How refreshing. May your kind be fruitful and multiply."

The man moved on, and Brian turned, his eyes following Justin's form. From the vantage point of his height he spotted the dark figure before Justin did. It was something about the heavy black curls with the signature unwashed look; the small stature more than made up for by an air of arrogant self-confidence. Ethan. The violinist must've noticed Justin, for he headed for him in a straight bee-line. Propelled by some urge he couldn't deny, Brian too lurched forward in their direction.

The utter shock on Justin's face at the sight of Ethan gave way to naked concern as he noticed Brian's approaching form.

"Justin... Ethan... What are you... Brian," their triangle closed as the three converged in a crossfire of glances, all three of them trying, to varying degrees of success, to blanket the show of emotions on their faces. Finally Justin, always the socially correct one, asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Classical music is my career, Jus. I've been on a US tour after winning second place at the Heifetz Competition, and when I came back, had a job offer from the Pitts Symphony. Second violin."

"So we shouldn't expect you to be the featured fiddler for the Strauss piece?" Brian knew the comment was petty and mean, but couldn't help it.

Ethan pointedly ignored him. He only had eyes for Justin. "How have you been? It's been so long since... since you moved out. Back to your mom. Or so I thought."

"I did. And I'm still in school, sophomore year. But--I'm with Brian now." He enunciated the last words slowly, clearly, reaching to hold Brian's hand.

"You always have been." Beyond bitterness, Ethan's statement was flatly matter-of-fact. Justin was with Brian, as he always had been. Never really left. He belonged to Brian. It was something Ethan had always known, had tried to deny only for a short, sentimental romantic interlude. And not one that he would ever be sorry for or regret.

The lights started to blink, signaling the end of the intermission and cutting into the awkward silence thick between them.

"I've got to get back. Good to see you, Justin." Ethan's eyes lingered for a moment on Brian, noticing for the first time the cane, the subtle changes in his appearance. But whatever questions he had remained unvoiced. "Justin, Brian," he lifted two fingers in salute and turned to leave without a backward glance.

A heaviness settled into the pit of Justin's stomach, making him rooted to the spot for a few minutes before he could order his limbs to move again. Squeezing Brian's hand, he asked, "Do you want to go home?"

Even as he heard his own words, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. The hand held in his, the other's entire body, stiffened. "Why--aren't you enjoying the concert? I'd rather stay." The wall was there, between them, as real and tangible as a barrier built of mortar and brick.

_________________________________

"No." Brian acted as if the one-syllable effort was a drain on him. He walked up to the bed alcove, threw his weight on the bed and began to undress.

"Going to sleep already?" Justin allowed a note of incredulity to creep into the question.

"Yes." Another monosyllable from the bedroom.

"And no talking?"

"Well, as usual, you're talking."

"I meant you and me, talking to each other. Communicating."

"Really? About what?" The sharp edge of challenge was audible in Brian's voice. Justin preferred it over the studied indifference.

"About Ethan." There. He threw the grenade and waited for the explosion.

None came, although Brian stopped undressing and, barefoot, limped back down to the living room. "Ethan. Aha. I have nothing to say." His voice was still flat, but the muscles of his jaw tightened, a sure sign of barely-controlled tension.

"Brian, please," Justin walked up to him but knew better than to touch. "We've been together now, in a fashion, for the past six months. I have to know."

"'Together?'" There was a nasty tilt in the way Brian said it.

"Yes, together, damn it!" Justin was yelling now, color flushing his neck and face. "I definitely call this," and his arm swept the loft in an inclusive gesture, "'together.' I know I'm here with your sufferance, but I am here. We sleep, shower, eat together, share rides, go places. I help you with therapy, keep tabs of your appointments. You praise my art and help me with schoolwork. We have sex, often, and at times one could even say we make love. It's called living together."

As if visibly shoved by the outburst, Brian stepped back, his hand on the back of the sofa for balance.

"Did you live together with Ethan, make love to Ethan too?" It was as if something broke inside Brian, shattering the ice-cold detachment, and his confidence with it.

"It was a mistake, a hugely stupid mistake, and I have regretted it many times over. I grew up since. And I never loved Ethan, or anyone else, but you. From that first night on Liberty Avenue."

"Love--such a cheap, overused word. Soap operas, Harlequin romances, Hallmark cards, lesbians." There was deep contempt in Brian's voice, the dismissive wave of his hand. "You broke the rules--ironically, the very ones you insisted on; you lied to me. Betrayed my trust. And," he swallowed painfully, "you left me in the dust, publicly humiliated for all to see. Want to talk about love?"

He turned away, moving toward the alcove, when Justin physically blocked him. He hoped he would be a match to Brian's height and bulk as he tried to stop him, bracing his waist and pinning down his arms to hold him hostage.

"Listen to me, don't leave. Anything is better than just walking away. If you can't forgive and forget, can't trust me again or commit to us--at least talk." Unspilled tears choked him, made his voice break. "Please don't let this--us--be over."

For a moment Justin thought Brian would resist, as his arms pushed against the restraint. Then the other's body went languid and he leaned into the circle of Justin's arms.

"It wasn't all your doing, Sunshine. I was pushing you away, fucking with your head. Pretending like I didn't know you were unhappy trying so hard to please me, denying who you are in the process. And all that time," he paused, studying the other's face as if to weigh whether to confide in him, "all that time I was simply scared. Brian-fucking-chickenshit-Kinney, too damn scared to have a non-boyfriend walk out on him. So I did all I could to make you walk out. I guess I thought that as long as I was in control, I'll be able to take it. News flash: big fucking mistake!"

"You never told me... " Justin was reeling, as much from Brian's willingness to reveal as from the revelation itself. That he sort of intuited a long time ago.

"Couldn't have. Didn't know it, recognize it myself. I'm just learning, courtesy of Sigmund, about the wonders of my subconscious." And in the first light comment of the encounter, he added, "I think I miss repression... the good old days."

"You also thought me leaving you was for my own good. Some shit about acting my age, experiencing life to its fullest--all that crap. How could you be so arrogant, so sure?"

"How? I'm still convinced you'd be better off without me." Brian's jaw squared in a stubborn line.

"People are different. They grow up--or not--at different rates. Some are very clear on what they want; I am. And what I want is you. Besides," and he ventured a smile, "do you remember what I told you a long time ago?"

"Yeah-yeah, that you're the most mature person I know, including myself. Impressed?"

"Actually, I am. Amazing memory for someone of your advanced age. So--can I stay?"

"Don't be such a melodramatic little shit. We ran into Ethan, and now you think I want you out of here? Do you think that until today I didn't ponder about Ethan, didn't remember? Didn't try to dissect and understand?" The pain spilling out was real and raw in Brian's voice, in the cast of his face.

"Me too, tried to analyze it to death. Organize the sequence of events, things you and I did, or failed to do. Look for patterns, cause-and-effect. Do you think it could've been prevented?"

"Not really, given our personalities." Brian only shrugged.

"Our... relationship is like some goddamn surrealistic play, destined to unfold on its preordained course."

"Ahhhh... my tragic Greek hero. Count on a queen to become all corny and sentimental. You're too smart for this kind of 'soggy' reasoning. Next you're gonna call it kismet!"

Except for the stroke, the thought, unexpressed, crossed their minds in full synchrony. No fate, no divine power should've dealt them that... They had to believe it was blind, random luck of the draw.

Instinct guided Justin as he gently steered Brian toward his favorite leather recliner and began to strip him naked. Lying back without protest, Brian delivered himself into the caring hands as Justin's fingers roamed the length of the lean and elegant body spread out pliant and boneless before him.

Quickly dropping his own clothes, he reached for one of the massage oils on the nearby table and asked, "Any special part in need of attention?"

In way of an answer, Brian only shifted his right leg, still carrying the punishing marks of the brace.

Justin settled on the edge of the footrest, carefully lifted the other's leg across his lap, and began applying the scented oil. Months ago, when Brian was still in Pitts Rehab, Justin began to teach himself some of the more basic techniques of therapeutic massage, and put the skill to good use in the months since.

The oil bathed the pale skin, glistening in the glow of the side lamp with a muted golden hue. Justin's expert fingers smoothed the heavy herbal lotion into the dry pores, soothing the sore spots irritated by contact with the brace. He followed the line of the long thigh muscles, the large-boned knee, the bulk of the calf tapering into the strong ankle, marveling at the warm, living smoothness under his fingers. He paid special attention to the long, narrow foot--he always thought Brian had the most beautiful feet--testing the high arch, playing with each toe. He pondered, not for the first time, what it must be like for Brian, control-freak-extraordinaire, to not even be in full control of his limbs. His range of motion in the paralyzed leg was limited, and so was the sensation of heat/cold, touch and pain. As if, somehow, the transmitters between his brain and neurons were knocked down, scrambling the messages.

Without conscious thought he stopped for a moment, to flex his right hand and rub it absently with his left. Maybe, after all, he did know some of what Brian was going through--as much as any person could know, could hurt with another's pain.

He returned to a slow, deep-tissue kneading of Brian's leg, seeking the heat of the trigger points of stress, stroking out the tension and muscle-fatigue, His touch lightened to a caress as he rubbed more oil on the now-reddened skin and ran his hand up from leg to groin, touching the protruding hipbone and skipping to the flat stomach. He scooted up on the recliner, fingers exploring the rise and flow of the perfect, well-muscled chest. With an exhausted sigh he stopped, his arms embracing Brian's neck and shoulders.

Rising to a sitting position Brian got hold of Justin's left arm, focusing on the silver bracelet. He looked puzzled. "Did I give it to you in one of my weaker moments, or was it your boyfriend?"

Justin decided to ignore the small unkindness, chalked it up to Brain's perverted sense of humor. "Neither. It's a gift from me to myself. Brand new."

"Knowing you, drama princess, it must have a special meaning."

"It does," Justin confirmed with a blush.

"Care to share?"

"You sure you want me to?" The question was rhetorical, and Justin continued. "It's a reminder to myself of a commitment I made. Unilateral. Non-binding on any other party."

Brian seemed to contemplate this for a moments, than reached for the bracelet.

Made of a thin, slightly hammered band of solid silver, it was shaped as a slave bracelet, most likely a reproduction of these bracelets popular in ancient Rome. It was clearly hand crafted, as was the one-word inscription on the inside--"BRIAN." No second name, no verb linking them. No date. The pure simplicity of form and message appealed to Brian's sense of style; the implication made him ill at ease. Commitment. He deposited the bracelet back into Justin's palm, careful not to actually thread it around the narrow wrist.

Justin stood with a yawn and a full-body stretch. He was tired to the bone. "Let's go to bed. It's been a long day." Nothing has been resolved--and, most likely, it never would be. But Ethan was the past. And he and Brian had at least talked.

He was running. The back of his shirt was wet with sweat, the front with a mixture of sweat and tears. He was running in the gathering dark, cutting through the deserted streets and unfriendly back alleys his mother had always told him to avoid. He needed to stretch the distance between him and the Bowling Alley, proud home of the Eastway Kings. Jack's footsteps hooved loud and heavy behind him. Closing.

The large, callous hands--unkind, untrained in kindness--grabbed his shoulders and yanked him around to a forcible stop.

"You're a goddamn faggot, Sonny-boy!"

"No!" His hot breath was soggy with sobs, his voice a cry. "I'm not! I hate fags--I'm your son!"

Knowing that sleep for the night was over, he climbed out of bed careful not to wake Justin, and padded over to the bathroom. The cool water splashing his face felt good; he also drank some to wet his throat dry from the screams in his dream. Pulling the cashmere robe around his naked body he wandered to the living room, settling in front of the computer. It would be a way to kill a couple of hours, until Justin woke.

He pulled up the Brown Athletics file--he maintained dual records at Vanguard and at home, to allow himself the flexibility to work where he chose--and stared for a long time at the screen. Reports on the current status of the client's portfolio with Vanguard; an annotated list of all the multimedia work they, he, had produced to push client products; stats tracking the market performance of Brown Athletics; latest designs and campaign plans. There was one other file, security coded--his ideas for a new approach. This one he hadn't shared with anyone yet, and as he eyed the typed notes he weighed whether to run it first by Cynthia, Vance... or, possibly, Justin. With an impatient sigh he shifted in his chair and closed the file; he'd have to think about it some more, preferably after a full night's sleep. Besides, at some point it would also be nice to sell the concept to Mr. Brown and his Board of Directors.

Aimless, he limped back to the bedroom, silently watching Justin's sleeping figure. A part of him hoped that being watched would wake the other, but Justin only tossed around, throwing off the covers, and continued to sleep. The first blue-gray patches of dawn began diluting the night sky and in the pale light the younger man looked cocooned in mystery, with his perfect, milk-white skin, gold-spun hair and lithe, graceful limbs the protagonist of his own fairytale. And a gay one, no doubt, Brian added to himself, to bring to a screeching halt his own predawn foray into maudlin sappiness. His gaze fell on the silver band hugging Justin's wrist--a whiter shade of pale--the words of the song echoed in his ears, and he turned away with a shiver. Commitment. He felt woozy, almost as if he were about to pass out.

Returning to the computer, he opened the ArtPallet feature and, humming to himself, began to doodle. His good hand, with the lightest touch of the screen, translated the images lodged in his mind into line, shape and color. Singularly focused on each detail and unaware of the emerging whole, his fingers followed the dictate of his subconscious.

He chose a bright blue background. The central image in the middle, materializing in almost three-dimensional relief against the blue, was round in shape, resembling an emblem of sorts. The two sides of the emblem were twin reflections of an animal-profile. Squinting his eyes, he took a closer look at his own creation, trying to decipher it: bold lines, noble heads with just a hint of the rich mane, huge mouths, with exposed fangs, open in a roar--the sand-colored glory of male lions. Transfixed, he stared at the image, feeling there was something missing, his hesitant drawing hand itching to complete it. The hand finally moved, lifting the stylus to the screen. Using the gold of the tawny beasts, with sure fingers he finished the last piece--within the blue field of the emblem's circle he drew the letter "L." Completing the horizontal line of the "L" also completed the submerged memory--"L" for "Lions."

The dagger stabbing into the core of his brain struck him with primal force. With a guttural animal moan he grabbed his head, staggering to stand. Losing his balance he tried to grab for the chair and, as his weight pushed the scooters away, he crashed with a heavy thud onto the hardwood floor. L for Lions, was his last semiconscious thought as he cringed away from the biting sting of the leather belt striking him, and surrendered to the darkness.

BRIAN AND JUSTIN ARE TAKING A THANKSGIVING BREAK AND ARE WISHING YOU THE SAME.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE will be posted on Sunday, DECEMBER 7, 2003

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