Diagnosis: Hemorrhagic Stroke, L. Hemisphere

Date of Incident: 9/27/02

Admission Date: 9/27/02

Patient Notes:  10/08/02  Patient is a 31 yo white male, transferred to Neurology from ICU on 10/07/02.  Presents with right hemiplegia and undetermined mental acuity.  Lungs compromised by complications of viral interstitial pneumonia.  Pt. weak and lethargic.  Incubate with Ringers and standard meads and catheterized.  History unremarkable.  ECG shows normal sinus rhythm.  EKG demonstrates appropriate absorption of intracranial blood.  Focus on strengthening and evaluating patient for transfer to rehabilitation. 

Dr. Jack Palmer switched off the dictation button and paused to consider the file in front of him, frowning as he considered the latest patient assigned to him. He had just made his first assessment of Brian Kinney and the usual preamble was simply the tip of the iceberg. It was the young ones who always gave him the most grief, and this one had certainly had his share of bad luck so far.

Brought to the ER by ambulance after being discovered unconscious in the street on the evening of one of Pittsburgh's worst thunderstorms in history, the young man had started out on a sour note with a devastating cerebral hemorrhage. Matters were further complicated when only days later he developed life-threatening pneumonia that had impeded any progress that might have been made by the administration of all the latest drugs and the other Herculean efforts of the trauma team. His stay in the ICU with constant attention and the proper antibiotics had accomplished the small miracle of allowing him to survive the pulmonary crisis, but crucial time had been lost on the neurological front.

Now it was Palmer's job to belatedly begin an assessment and reconstruction that had been seriously postponed. The initial exam had not gone well and did not bode well for this particular patient.

He certainly was a fine looking young fellow, Palmer mused. Almost a classic Greek profile, and a body that had definitely been well taken care of--an accomplishment that would generally be on his side in the ordeal ahead of him. Or not, he acknowledged silently. Sometimes, all too often really, despite all they could do there were subsequent strokes, mainly during the first year or so. And with the stronger ones, it only prolonged the inevitable termination process.

But he was a doctor, and he wasn't supposed to think about that, wasn't supposed to acknowledge his nemesis, death. It was just his fatigue making him pessimistic tonight, and he knew that after a decent rest period he would be capable of continuing on a more optimistic path.

Scanning his hand-written notes of the exam, he uttered a weary sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. Previous tests indicated that this bleed was a solitary incident that was resolving well. No surgery had been necessary, and that was to their advantage. But it did appear that the damage was grave. There was neither sensation nor motor control in the right extremities, and already some atrophy had set in despite the efforts of the staff in ICU.

How much cognitive ability had been lost was still uncertain; the patient's continued disorientation from the brain swelling left them unable to administer the proper tests yet. Remarks from staff and visitors indicated that his speech and language abilities were intact, and Palmer was hopeful that recovery in that area would be good.

The patient, Brian Kinney--he had to start thinking of him by name, appeared to have an adequate support system, although from the nursing notes, the people who were most involved were not his biological family. As long as there was someone, or several someones, it didn't matter what the relationship. And Palmer knew that the pati-Brian-was going to need every bit of support he could get. At best, he was in for a very long and arduous period of adjustment and recovery. A major stroke incident was one of the most devastating catastrophic illnesses anyone could face. Months, sometimes years of therapy and training, very often without significant results, were not uncommon. And when you were only 31 years old, that was a terrible future to have to face.

On a large cardboard mounted on the wall, various cards had been posted, along with several pages torn from a child's coloring book, enthusiastically scribbled with purple and red crayon. Lindsay smiled; these had been her own contribution, a gift from Gus to his daddy. Her other contribution, a framed photo of Brian with his infant son, rested on the small night stand next to a personal CD player and a pile of disks. And with a similar mindset to hers, Justin had hung a lovely charcoal and pastel drawing of Gus as he looked now on the corkboard.

The cheerful surroundings, however, didn't match the emotional ambiance of the room she had entered. She stood, just inside the door, taking in the lunchtime tableau at the bed. Brian, propped up into a sitting position, was groggy and on the verge of falling asleep, while Michael sat on the edge of the mattress and tried to coax him to eat from the spoon he offered.

"C'mon, Brian, they said you've got to start eating something. You've got to try!"

Brian, dragging his brow into a frown, was having none of it. He closed his eyes tightly and patently ignored Michael.

Despite her concern, a slight smile tugged at Lindsay's mouth. Brian looked just like his son at feeding time on those occasions when Gus refused to budge. And, too, she smiled at the look of consternation on Michael's face, the grim set to his mouth and eyes. Those two, forever locked in a pas de deux, so very different and yet each so devoted to the other. For her, their relationship exemplified the words of Rudyard Kipling when he talked about "the thousandth man" who would stick closer than a brother, who would go to the gallows for the other. She had always been grateful that Brian had Michael in his life. He was one of the few people who could push past Brian's shield of darkness.

Michael glanced over and saw her and shot her an exasperated look. "He still won't eat anything."

Lindsay took a few steps forward. "Oh, my, my, we have a reluctant eater here, don't we?" she asked smoothly. Brian did not react to the sound of her voice, didn't even open his eyes.

Michael put the spoon down and stood up, resting his hand on top of Brian's head. "I'm about to send my mom in with chicken soup," he vowed, softly ruffling the tangled hair under his fingers. "They said he won't get his strength back until he starts getting some real food into him."

She couldn't tell whether it was the threat or the movement on his scalp, but Brian's eyes fluttered open and he smiled up innocently at Michael with an angelic look. "Mikey," he mumbled. "P...pateh-pateh-tick... " The voice was hoarse and raspy.

Michael frowned down at him. "Man cannot live by ice chips alone," he intoned seriously, dramatically.

Lindsay moved to the bed and peered at the tray. There was some kind of liquid broth that looked like dirty bath water in a plastic bowl, a tepid can of ginger ale, and a dish of green Jello cubes. "Mmmnnn...tasty," she murmured. Then, "Here, let Mama give it a try," she added sweetly, settling herself on the mattress and leaning over to give Brian a kiss on the cheek.

Michael grinned. "Yeah--you've had more practice at this than I have."

Brian's beautiful, large whiskey-colored eyes settled on her with confusion. His lips, she noticed, were cracked and chapped. She held up the can of soda, placing the straw to his mouth. "Take a sip," she urged. "Pretend it's laced with Seagram's."

"Is that what you say to Gus?" Michael quipped.

Lindsay smiled patiently. "Daddies have different needs." After Brian had, indeed, taken a few sips of the soda, wincing in pain as the fizzy liquid hit his tongue, she set down the can and tried a spoonful of the soup, if that's what it was.

He managed to shake his head from side to side. "H-hot. . ." he protested. "Hurts."

"I think his mouth is sore," Michael offered. "Try the Jello."

She regarded the sugary green squares dubiously. "Not very nutritious, but okay. It's a start, I suppose." Breaking one in half with the edge of the spoon, she held it up to Brian's lips. "C'mon, open the airplane hangar," she cooed, giving him a devilish grin.

With those big eyes on her, almost automatically he did as she said and took the bite, clamping his mouth shut. His eyes dulled and began to drift closed again, and in a moment a thin trickle of green liquid dribbled from the corner of his lips.

With the ease of practice, Lindsay snatched up a napkin and swiped at the drip, then tapped gently on his arm. "Wake up, time to eat." She proffered another piece of Jello and managed to shovel it in before he had a chance to think about refusal. "If you're a good boy and do this, you can have pizza and steak tomorrow."

A nauseated expression came over Brian's face as he regarded her with horror and he mumbled something unintelligible. Pressing his head and shoulders back against the pillow, he shut his eyes tightly and seemed to drift away again. Lindsay looked over at Michael.

"I don't know," she fretted. "I think he's got to be a little more coherent before he's ready for eating." She looked over at him, at the complete exhaustion on his face. "Let him rest for a while, don't you agree?"

Michael shrugged. "I guess. At least we got a few spoonfuls into him." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to be getting back to the store; Ben's got a class in half an hour. Are you going to be here for a while?"

Lindsay looked at him curiously. "Yes, but. . . Michael, he doesn't need someone with him 24/7 any more. He's going to be okay." She stood and put a hand on Michael's arm, her touch meant to reassure. But Michael's expression was ragged as he looked back at her.

"I hardly think 'okay' is the operative word here," he protested. "He's barely out of the woods, and it's a hell of a big forest."

She looked down, at the man in that bed, at the complete helplessness and vulnerability of him. "I know," she whispered. "I know, Michael."

Brian Kinney had entered her life at a time when she had desperately needed someone. Why or how they had formed a mutual attraction was a mystery she would never solve. It had just been one of those things, simply meant to be, just as she and Melanie had been meant to be, only in a different way. Brian had been--still was, she admitted--sensitive to her every need, desire, unspoken or otherwise. He had helped her to identify her own sexuality, had shown her by action and example that it was okay to be gay, to admit to yourself what was truly in your soul. When she had thought that her need for him was physical, when she had believed that the love she felt was sexual, he had shown her otherwise, opened her eyes and her heart to the concept of deep and abiding love that could exist between friends.

People who didn't really know him thought that he was cold, calculating, manipulative. They thought that because that was what he chose to show them, and he performed his act very well. Sometimes too well. And yes, it was true that most of the time he bought into it himself, often to his own detriment. He was a master at sabotaging his own well-being, at believing that he needed no one and nothing from anyone.

She remembered one conversation they had, when she had gone to the loft to talk him into attending the art show where Justin's pictures were to be displayed. He had told her, most emphatically, that he didn't need anyone. And she had said to him, "Maybe someday you will."

The prophetic statement sent a shiver down her back. Now the payment had come due. Now he would be needful.

She looked back at Michael and impulsively put her arms around him, clinging to him with pain and affection. Somehow, they would make it work, would pull Brian through this, perhaps despite himself. All the little unacknowledged sacrifices that he had made for all of them at one time or another would finally be reciprocated. She knew that, and Michael did, too.

He hugged her back and smoothed her hair off her face. "It's okay. He'll make it."

She nodded emphatically. "We'll make sure of it."

With a final pat, he released her, then bent down and gave Brian a quick kiss. "See ya later, Tiger."

Patient: Kinney, Brian

Patient #: 201-92-5855

Diagnosis: Hemorrhagic Stroke, L. Hemisphere

Date of Incident: 9/27/02

Admission Date: 9/27/02

Patient Notes: 10/15/02 Patient's mental acuity is returning and physical strength improving. Full diagnostic testing indicates resolving slight aphasia and elevated clarity and cognizance. No longer oxygen-dependent and current x-rays indicate lungs are clear, no bruits. Recommendation is registered for transfer to Rehab Unit for additional testing and instruction in achieving ADLs in preparation for release.

Leaning back in his chair, Dr. Palmer took a sip of his lukewarm coffee and sighed. Brian had been his patient for only a week so far, but Palmer would continue, as a consultant, to follow his progress after he was transferred to the hospital's rehabilitation wing. On the whole, he was pleased with this patient's progress, glad that the young man had made the recovery at all. It wasn't clear yet how much Brian Kinney actually was able to grasp of what was being conveyed to him. He was able to follow instructions, understood the simple commands of the examination process, but Palmer suspected he hadn't really put it all together yet, the complex web of what had happened to him and what he had yet to accomplish or overcome.

In rehab, he knew, they would begin the psych evaluation and he would be assigned a case manager. That was where the real work of physical and occupational therapy would begin. Palmer's job was simply to keep him alive to get to that point, and to be on hand in case there would be a neurological setback.

He had met Brian's friends, and was comfortable with the attention, care and support they seemed to exhibit. He made no judgment of his patient's lifestyle, except for the risk factors that had possibly contributed to his stroke. Habits like drinking, smoking, drug use, and probably a profound stress factor, would have to be eliminated or Kinney would wind up right back where he had been before. And it was doubtful that he would survive a second stroke. Palmer didn't know the man well enough yet to wager an opinion on whether or not he would be successful on that front, but he couldn't stress its importance enough.

Physically, the trauma to his brain had begun to heal. But there had been no appreciable improvement in his right arm and leg; the paralysis remained complete. It was really a shame, young as he was, to have his mobility so diminished and to have such a negative prognosis. Perhaps someday medicine would have more to offer stroke survivors; they were working on it, but for now, there was little they could offer people like Brian Kinney and the other patients he managed to pull through the initial crises.

He woke with a jolt. It wasn't the fact that he found himself in a hospital bed--he had, by now, come to remember that. It wasn't that he was strapped, weighed down, hooked up and connected to endless needles, wires, and machines. That, too, had become yesterday's shock. It wasn't even that his first sight was Michael's concerned face hovering over him. The face of his friend had become a constant fixture in the hazy netherworld he'd been inhabiting for... well, he didn't even know for how long. The jolt was for the absence of some other things he'd come to take for granted. There was no pain, no nausea, no violent muscle spasms, no waves of panic as he fought to breathe. The absence of pain made him almost giddy for a moment, offering him a new, albeit minimalist, take on happiness. Fuck, he thought with tongue-in-cheek sarcasm, I am so pathetic.

He slightly turned his head, almost shocked at the ability to do so, and quietly called, "Michael?" His voice was that of a stranger; weak, hoarse and without the familiar timbre.

Attentive as always, Michael jumped from his chair and reached for Brian's hand. "You're awake," he stated the obvious. "How do you feel?" With affectionate fingers he brushed Brian's hair, planted a kiss on his forehead. "Would you like some ice?"

Brian only nodded, suddenly aware of his dry mouth, sandpaper throat. Holding up the cup, Michael hand-fed him a couple of chips, waiting while the other sucked and swallowed the frozen treat. Brian tried to lift his right hand, take the cup from his friend. Couldn't. Eyes suddenly coming into full focus, he asked, "Mikey, what's wrong with me?"

Michael sized him up thoughtfully for a couple of moments, then sat with great care on the bed by Brian's side and took hold of both hands. "You want me to give it to you straight? Like we've always done?"

Brian only nodded. It was clear that he had not retained any of the medical lingo and concerned prognostication that had floated around him in the past weeks, as friends and hospital staff watched him drift in and out of consciousness and assorted medical crises. Now, there was a clarity in his eyes that demanded the truth. And he'd better hear it from a friend.

Michael sighed and tightened his grip on Brian's hands. "The truth, then. You suffered a stroke, bleeding in the brain, exact cause unknown. A neighbor found you on the street, called 9-1-1. You received all the latest and best medicine has to offer to stop the bleeding and counter its lasting effects. Made quite a bit of progress during the first couple of days, then came down with pneumonia." He took a deep shuddering breath, touched by the icy fingers of the same fear he'd felt that night when Brian lay, unconscious and feverish, struggling for every breath. Michael had been sure he'd lose him then. Holding Brian's warm flesh in his own made him a believer in small miracles.

Face expressionless, Brian listened to him, looking almost detached, disinterested. Without direct recall and memories of those past weeks of his life, it seemed to be about somebody else. Still, he had to ask. "And what's the final tally?"

"Severe weakness and some residual breathing problems from the pneumonia, with partial dependence on oxygen therapy for a while. And... temporary paralysis on your right side--arm and leg." With a vague motion he pointed to Brian's head. "The hemorrhage was in the left hemisphere, affecting your other side."

"The truth, right? How temporary... the paralysis, how temporary?"

"They... don't know yet. Too soon to tell. But recovery from a stroke can take up to a year, even longer." Michael's hand slid down Brian's right arm, caressing the thinned-out muscles, the slightly warm and moist skin. Reaching for the limp hand he lifted it to his lips. With a small smile Brian only responded with, "I can't feel it, Mikey."

The nurse came in, angled up his bed to lift his upper body, and attached him to the oxygen mask. He liked her ministrations, devoid of anything personal and safely unobtrusive.

She left and he closed his eyes, concentrating on sucking the oxygen into his thirsty lungs. Mindless, for a while he only lay there, turning inward and visualizing his body: lungs expanding, drinking in the air and sending oxygenated blood to starved cells; grey matter still reeling from the assault, absorbing blood and debris and fighting to regain control; muscles idled and directionless, disconnected from their damaged command centers in the brain. You're a fucking wreck, Brian Kinney, face it! Shifting attention, he abandoned the close examination of his physical being to focus on more existential matters.

He was a planner--always had been, since that day in fourth grade when he began to plot his escape from the clutches of his family and the swamp that was their life. But how could he plan his way out of this? What cards did he have up his sleeves, what assets did he have left?

His mind. First and foremost, he still had his mind, kindly spared even as much of the rest of him was unkindly cut down. His friends. Michael, the best friend one could have. For no man is lost as long as he has a friend--a Greek philosopher had said it, or was it Debbie? Same difference; it was true. His son. His own little ticking clock of eternity. All things he could count on.

He wasn't sure of much else. His job, career, unknowns at best. He'd been in the cut-throat world of business long enough to not count on any consideration or favors. The safety net of his wicked habits--he hadn't been treated yet to "the lecture," sure to be followed by many happy returns, but he was certain he would be sermonized ad nauseam about the evils of his past life and told to quit drinking and smoking and drugging and whoring. All vices of choice that added primary colors to the pallet of his life. His past life.

His body and sex life--well, he surely wouldn't continue to be Pittsburgh's most fabulous fag. He couldn't even go there, reason out fully the carnage of his body integrity and the remains of his sexual prowess. That was too profoundly disturbing, pushing him precipitously close to the edge of darkness, fingering the essence of his identity and self. That one would have to wait.

And then there was one more thing. Justin.

One of his first moments of recalled clarity was the first time Justin had come to see him in the hospital, materializing out of nowhere, giving substance to the sleepless nightmares that Brian had had in the loft, alone in his bed.

In the swirl of whispering voices around him he'd heard Michael saying, "It's the wrong hand," then felt his left hand, the one unaffected, being placed in a pair of trembling palms. Justin's.

He could have sent Justin away right then, and maybe should have. Banished him from his side and refused to poke at wounds too fresh to heal yet, if ever. But in the moment, in the depth of despair and fear, he couldn't help but be drawn into Justin's touch, needing his comfort and warmth. He should have, but could not turn away from it. Slightly squeezing with his good hand the fingers embracing his, he'd drifted away.

After that first time, Justin seemed ever-present at his side. Every time he came back to some level of awareness, Justin was there. Often just sitting, pale and disheveled, worry redrawing the features of his young face. Brian, surfacing from whatever undertows held his mind captive in their murky morass, would catch the light eyes trained on his face, chips of blue ice bright with emotion. Usually, as soon as Justin noticed that Brian was awake, he would lower his gaze. But his hands, his entire body were less successful in hiding his feelings. He could not keep away from Brian, to touch, stroke, comfort the older man. The long-established bond between their bodies was unbroken. It was as if each living cell in Justin's body was attuned to Brian's, aching, not for, but with his past lover's pain.

But today, with the return of the razor-sharp, emotion-free clarity that used to be a Brian Kinney trademark, he had to decide. It was the day of reckoning, the first day of the rest of his life. If there were to be a 'rest'. If he were to have a list to balance the assets and liabilities, to hold out at least the promise of a life worth living.

Love was not real; trust was. He could never again trust Justin. And pity was a completely, utterly unacceptable motivation to have the twink hang around him. He would not allow it. Justin was off the list.

His features darkened with a bitter smile. An exquisite memory claimed his mind--the rafters of his loft, the rich feel of smooth silk around his neck, the most incredible hand-job he'd ever given himself, and the mortified face of his friend framed in his own drug-haze. He could almost feel the sharp impact of his exposed, engorged genitals with the floor as he'd fallen face first, cushioned only by Michael's arm. Anger rose within him now as then. The hell with Michael. He should have let me finish what I'd started. Now it was too late to go in a blaze of glory, forever young and beautiful.

The nurse came back, removed the oxygen mask and checked his vitals. Brian tried to shift in bed, failed, and gave up with a groan of pain. "Dammit, nurse, I can't move any of my body parts. You sure I'm not paralyzed on both sides?"

"I'm sure, Mr. Kinney. You're just weak, as much from the pneumonia as from the stroke. Here, let me help." She raised both his arms, placed them around her neck, and snaked her hands under his armpits to lift him. For a smallish woman she was surprisingly strong, and with great economy of motion she shifted his body to his left side. Her touch was not gentle, but it was experienced and added no pain. "Thanks, Nightingale," he murmured, suddenly too tired to keep his eyelids open. But his mind was still running on over-drive.

The list, the balance... the rest of his life, such as it could be, was going to be. His thirtieth birthday was almost enough to push him over the edge. And now--the irony of it hit him with such sudden force it made his ears ring--now he didn't want to die. Unbidden words of an old conversation with Lindsey floated through his mind. "How do you know, how do any of us know, that we're alive?" he'd asked. Her answer had been typical vintage Lindsey, "Because somebody needs us." Well he, Brian Kinney, was on to another answer, forged in the horror of the past weeks. Humbled beyond vanity and staring into the face of darkness, in his own pain and fear--great motivators--he found his reason to live. He was not ready yet "to break on through to the other side." Hell would just have to wait.

Michael was already on his way back to the hospital when he stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. He had just told Brian about his condition, warts and all--a Brian who was finally free enough of drugs and pain, cognizant enough to understand the ramifications--and then he'd left him alone to his own devices. Of all the goddam, thoughtless, irresponsible fuckups, what the hell was he thinking? He picked up speed and was almost into a full run by the time he reached the main entrance to Pittsburgh General.

Disjointed snippets of their shared past assailed him as he rushed through the corridors, memories of things Brian had done long ago that had left him confused at the time, still questioning now. Brian always liked to take risks, challenge fate, play the odds, but at times Michael felt that there was more to it than that. There was a darkness in Brian, a void not to be filled, driving him to walk the precipice between daring and deathwish. And now...

Not waiting for the elevator, he took the stairs, two at a time, and was out of breath by the time he burst through the door to Brian's room. He stopped short when he saw that Brian was asleep. His bed slightly raised to ease his breathing, he lay on his back, face pale but peaceful, only his eyes moving under closed eyelids as if following whatever dream kept him captivated. Thank God, Michael sighed with relief, he's okay. At least for now.

He stepped over to the window, looking down at the grim downtown landscape. The streets were covered with the beginnings of an early snow, not unheard of for October, the large wet flakes swirling with the wind, rapidly accumulating on the streets. The blanket of white, pristine snow cover sparkled in the midday sun, transforming the grey City of Steel into an enchanted land. The world of whiteness brought back another, more recent memory: the luscious, sinful whiteness of the silk scarf. An innocent enough birthday gift, one that Brian, the man with the impeccable taste, gave himself on his thirtieth; an instrument of Russian roulette around his neck that day in the loft when he'd thrown himself a private 'scarfing' party. Next time Michael saw the scarf, its virginal whiteness was marred by bright blood, the same blood smeared on Brian's tear-streaked face as he sat, numb with pain and remorse, in the hospital's ICU, waiting for Justin to live. Michael's last disturbing glance at the scarf was upon his return from Portland, when he visited Brian's loft. Brian was preparing to shower and, unobserved, Michael saw the blood-crusted trophy of guilt hanging around his neck, hidden by his clothes. He had not seen the scarf since; he had often wondered what had happened to it.

But other than its association with death, blood, and injury, the scarf was also a symbol of something else, the beginning of a metamorphosis. A change in Brian, an opening, an emergence of something new and different that Michael recognized with a hopelessly intertwined mixture of joy, ambivalence, and jealousy. And in the center of it all was Justin, Brian' Boy Wonder.

Package safely in hand, Michael returned to Pitts General that evening, as he'd done pretty much every evening since Brian's hospitalization. Funny how fast habits can change, he mused, from being a regular at Woody's and Babylon to being on a first-name basis with all the nurses at the ICU. Of course, he'd gotten to know most of them during Ben's stay not that long ago, he corrected himself, then forcibly deserted the glum thought, dreading its further implications.

Brian was awake, seated in the bed and in apparent good spirits. "M-Mikey," he greeted his friend with a loopy smile as he turned his cheek for a kiss. "They're going to release me from Ne-neurology and transfer me to Rehab within the week." When excited, he still had some trouble with his words, but they were all assured by the speech therapist that it would pass.

"That's great news." Holding Brian's chin he turned it and kissed his friend on the mouth. "If they were really on to you, they would transfer you across the street to the Psych Ward. But, I guess, Rehab will do." He grinned, then asked, "Where's everybody?"

"Oh, don't fear, they were all here in their assorted pairs. Lindz even dragged in Gus, who of course promptly began to wail when confronted with all the whirring machines. Being two, he thinks they're living, evil creatures sucking the life out of his DaDa. Too much TV, if you ask me." His eyes, his entire face softened as he talked about his son. "And, of course, my ever-present shadow was here until a little while ago. And he threatened to call and come back if you didn't show up, convinced that I need a constant patient advocate by my side." It was hard to tell from his tone whether it was a complaint, but Michael remembered how Brian used to refer to Justin as his "teenage stalker" with barely disguised pride.

"Well, I'm back, ready and able to fulfill my duties," Michael intoned solemnly, "and in that vein... have you eaten any of your dinner?"

"No." Brian was all defiance. "Feel free to help yourself to it."

"No." Michael stood his ground as he settled in the visitor's chair and arranged the tray on the table. "I'd rather help you to it. You know you need to eat if--"

"If what?" Brian challenged him. "If I want to be back soon at Babylon to fuck my brains out all night? Not bloody likely." With his good hand he pushed the tray-table from him. "Take this dog food away."

With a sigh of resignation, Michael removed the offending tray, and placed the package he had brought with him in front of Brian. "I brought you a gift."

Brian's eyebrows rose as he deadpanned. "Why Mikey, you shouldn't have! What's the occasion? Even in my addled state, I'm pretty sure it's not my birthday."

"It's not from me." Responding to Brian's questioning gaze, Michael continued. "I've been by the loft a couple of times since you got sick. The package was in your mail. I opened it." Unwrapping the flat, rectangular item, he placed it before his friend without further comment.

Brian's eyes widened as he speechlessly studied it for long moments. It was a painting. As he continued staring at it, fingers absently brushing over the canvas, Michael rose and quietly stepped out of the room.

Fields of gold. That was his first impression as his eyes took in the color, the vibrancy, the joie de vivre of the painting. Gold dominated the canvas, enveloping a field of wildflowers, weaving into the garments, enshrouding in a halo the two figures emerging from among the flowers. The gold irradiated the entire tableau with an inner light. The pale reality of the figures stood in stark contrast against this matte of a world awash in light. Both were men, kneeling in front of each other in a full embrace. The shorter figure--blond, fine-boned and pale--had his eyes closed and head thrown back, more in total surrender than in ecstasy. His hand was possessively arched around the other's shoulder, pulling him in. The taller of the two men was larger-framed, his hair darker, complexion a duskier shade of pale. His strong hands held, embraced the smaller figure's neck as he bent to the other, kissing one cheek.

The pair--for they were clearly that--was draped in flowing garments, only hinting at the contours of their naked bodies. The smaller man's hair was sprinkled with flowers, the taller one's head was crowned with a ring of ivy. They were both beautiful. But the most striking element about the figures was their unity: holding, embracing, kissing, their bodies blended into each other's without detectable boundaries. Encased in the fields of gold, they were one.

Engaged in the details, it took Brian a while before he allowed his gaze to refocus on the central theme of faces and hands, the flare of generated emotion between them. The smaller figure had Justin's face--or, at least, an artist's rendition of the face Brian had come to know so well. The taller figure's head was half turned, pulled into the other's being with the rapturous kiss. The wrist of his right hand, the one holding and caressing the blond youth's cheek, was adorned, unmistakably, with a cowry shell bracelet.

Brian caught his breath as he took in the picture in its entirety. Form blending into meaning. Meaning into message. He had to close his eyes, as if blinded by sudden clarity. But the message prevailed. Opening his eyes again, he saw the card inserted with the package. It was in Justin's handwriting. "Inspired by Brian and by Gustav Klimt's 'The Kiss.' Justin Taylor, Pittsburgh, 2002." The mailing date stamped on the package was September 25, 2002 --two days before his stroke.

An offering of love, in the eloquent language of true art. A surrender. Justin wanting to return to him, of his own volition. And all this before... Not out of pity or some misplaced sense of duty.