As he reached his neighborhood, the traffic had cleared, only because everyone had already arrived at their destinations and there was no parking space to be found. He circled the block twice, tried the next street over and finally, with a muttered "Fuck it, " he pulled the Jeep into a NO PARKING zone almost two blocks from the loft. And, of course, he'd left his umbrella at home that morning.

The rain had become a deluge now, accompanied by spears of lightning and loud claps of thunder. The branches of the elm trees along the sidewalk were bending and twisting under the onslaught, and the street was completely deserted. Everyone had run for cover and likely were safe and warm inside somewhere. Maybe, he thought, I should just stay put until it lets up some. But the inactivity did not appeal to him. He wanted to get himself inside, have a drink, take a hot shower and get to work. Cursing again he climbed out, fumbling with the auto-lock button on his keypad.

A beat rose in his ear, source unpegged at first. The sudden, familiar pain hit again at the back of his neck, slicing into his skull. It was so sharp it made him suck in air for a moment and choke on an aborted groan. His hand reached instinctively to grab at the nape of his neck. The beat continued, a fully orchestrated cacophony inside his head, and this time he recognized it. Babylon. Rage. The party. It had been early that spring, a lifetime ago. He was Rage, and rage still resided within him. Loving, unloved, unlovable. The pain of a name he wouldn't mention again, a face he had stopped tracing even with imaginary fingers in tear-drenched dreams.

The pain now was scalpel-sharp, slashing away at his layers of control and reasoning. With grim determination, he ignored it and started to make a run for his building. It suddenly seemed a long distance away. The beat of drums moved from his ears to the seat of his brain, the bass reverberating not as sound but as raw rhythm inside his head. No longer underscoring the movement of undulating bodies celebrating Rage, the music transformed the scene from party to funeral games.

The tidal wave of agony blanketed his brain for a frisson of momentary comfort, only to flair into fiery flames sweeping his synapses as it fused all feeling and thought in its wake. Just ahead was the entrance to his building, but he couldn't see it as the erupting wave of lava buried grey matter, consciousness and self with it. He hung onto the searing pain in his waning moments; he claimed his rage to stay alive; he gifted his last cognition with the redrawn memory of a forbidden face. Justin. His last sensation, as he was cocooned in crimson death, was the taste of warm, sticky, iron-tinged blood that dripped from his nose into his open mouth. Senses reeling, his knees buckled and he went down hard.

Thinking that it might be Ben, wondering what was keeping him, Michael answered with a lilt in his cheerful 'hello.'

"Is this Michael Novotny?"

It wasn't Ben. It was a female voice, impersonal, probably selling something. "Yes, it is."

"This is Pittsburgh General Hospital."

Ben! Oh, God, not again! What now. . .? Michael felt his stomach drop into his sneakers.

"We have your name listed as contact person for a patient here in the Emergency Department--"

Yes, God, Ben . . . .

"--name of Brian Kinney," the voice was saying. Michael drew up sharply, startled.

"Brian? What. . .?" he managed to get out.

"I'm sorry--are you a relative?"

"I'm. . . no. Friend." No--more than friend. Not relative by blood, anyway. "Has there been an accident, or--"

"Your friend was brought in on a 9-1-1 call, unconscious and now disoriented. We're trying to ascertain the cause of the trauma."

It made no sense in Michael's shocked state. He had just talked to Brian at lunchtime on the phone; he had been fine. How did he wind up unconscious at the hospital? Disoriented, she had said--could he have taken some bad drugs? It was kind of early for partying, but Brian was doing some crazy things these days.

"We have some questions, if you could help us."

"Yes, of course."

"Is there any history of drug or alcohol abuse?"

Tough question. How do you define 'abuse'? And how forthright do you get with authority figures? Brian had a professional reputation to uphold. "Ahh. . .no. Some. . . slight recreational uses, but. . . no," he answered, he hoped truthfully. "What's happened to him?"

She didn't answer, fielding his question with another of her own. "Does he take any medications? Are there any medical conditions that you know of?"

"No, and no. Look, I'm coming right over there, all right?" Michael was getting frustrated with the one-sided communication. He wondered why they didn't just ask Brian these questions.

"Fine. Just come to the emergency triage station and someone will direct you. Thank you, Mr. Novotny."

At the triage desk, the nurse nodded somberly and led him back to a cubicle through a maze of turns and disconcerting corridors laden with beds and equipment. He expected to find Brian with a sheepish grin on his face trying to make time with whatever unfortunate doctor had been assigned to him, and Michael was prepared to read him the riot act for scaring him half to death.

What he did not expect was what he found.

Prone, face-up on a gurney, Brian looked, at first glance, as if he were dead. Michael's heart stopped as he took in the helpless figure. They had stripped him to the waist with electrodes attached to his chest; his trousers, which were soaking wet, were unfastened. Shoes had been removed, revealing feet in damp black socks. His hair was plastered to his head, wet and stringy, and his face was bloodlessly white and set into a rictus of pain.

And suddenly, Michael was terrified.

A young Middle-Eastern physician at the bedside, whom Michael hadn't even noticed at first, detached himself from his patient and put a hand on Michael's arm. "You are the friend?" he asked.

Michael's gaze didn't leave the bed. "What's wrong with him?"

"We will be determining that. We suspect it is some sort of cerebral incident. He will be going for a CAT scan in a few minutes."

Michael tried to absorb the information. "A . . . what does that mean?" he asked in confusion.

"Possibly a stroke, an intracranial bleed. His brain is swollen," the doctor explained, without really explaining anything. It was impossible for Michael to contemplate, someone young and healthy like Brian having such a thing happen. His insides began to quiver.

"We don't know precisely yet," the doctor went on. "That is what the tests will tell us. He has been unable to communicate with us, although he did regain consciousness briefly. Any history you can provide would be appreciated."

The man's heavy accent made it even harder to understand, but Michael nodded. "Yeah. . .I'll be happy to tell you anything I can."

On the narrow bed, Brian stirred, seemed to become agitated. Michael instantly moved closer to the side, bending over and laying a hand on one slick forearm.

Hazel eyes opened partially, squinting in confusion. Lips moved in an effort to speak, but no sound issued.

"Brian, take it easy. It's okay," Michael attempted to reassure, feeling far from reassured himself.

Speech was obviously difficult and came out as a croaked mumble that sounded to Michael something like "Mmm. . .buffel-buffel-n-no . . . ." Distress was evident in the clouded eyes, and Michael wondered if Brian had even recognized him before the lids snapped down again and he was still.

The doctor lifted an eyelid and shone a penlight rapidly back and forth, right to left, as a nurse moved in to assist. Michael stepped back, out of their way, as lost and confused as he had ever been.

Another nurse came to his side. "Mr. Novotny, if you would come with me, I have some questions we need for you to answer."

Yes. . . anything to take his attention away from the nightmare before him. Anything he could do that would help.

Michael was seated in the patient lounge just down the hallway from the ICU when Ben arrived, rushing in with a sense of purpose, a steadiness that Michael, in the morass of his confusion, found extremely comforting. He had called Ben's apartment before he'd started for the hospital, only to alert him to the situation, not really expecting him to drop everything and run over. But that was Ben, always ready to offer whatever assistance he could, and always there for Michael whenever he was needed.

"What's going on?" Ben asked, kissing Michael as he stood to greet him.

"I don't know." Michael's voice quavered slightly as he answered. He told his partner what little he had learned.

"My god, a stroke?" Ben looked as shocked as Michael. He paused, considering. "Wasn't he complaining of a headache the other night?"

"Yes," Michael responded, remembering, then added, "And he told me he had a nosebleed the other day. Does that mean anything?"

Ben frowned. "It could."

"I told him he'd better go get himself checked over." Michael felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn't followed up to see if Brian had taken his advice. Brian hadn't been looking very well for some time, but he had just chalked it up to his hectic lifestyle and overwork, which his friend had been complaining about.

Ben touched his arm. "Let me go see what I can find out, okay?"

Michael nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

Pausing, Ben turned back to him. "Have you notified anyone else yet?" As Michael shook his head, he added, "Maybe you should call Lindsay, and. . .well, whoever else you think should know."

Michael headed for the pay phone. Lindsay, yes. And Emmett and Ted. What about Brian's mother? No, not her--not yet. He'd wait to see how this test came out. No sense pushing the panic button and getting everyone worked up if it wasn't really serious. His mind denied the possibility that it could be anything but a minor fluke, despite what his own eyes had shown him and his own ears had heard from the medics. He revised his list: Just Lindsay. No one else. Not until they knew more.

Brian had indeed suffered a hemorrhagic stroke. At least one blood vessel in his head had broken, flooding the brain with blood and destroying cells in the left parietal region. The extent of the damage was still undetermined; they would be performing another test shortly, an MRI this time, to help them pinpoint the affected area and the scope of destruction. He had not regained consciousness because of the swelling in his brain.

Ben asked specific questions about treatment and medications, impressing Michael with his apparent knowledge of the procedures, and seemed satisfied that everything possible and currently approved was being done. Michael asked if he would live. He was told that they were being "guardedly optimistic," whatever the fuck that meant. They refused to give any kind of prognosis; it was "too early to tell."

Lots of fancy words. Lots of information that meant nothing, said nothing. Lindsay began to cry and Michael nearly lost it himself. He clutched Ben's arm and took deep, choppy breaths, somehow still unable to take it all in, to accept that this was really happening. He knew it would hit him later, but for the moment he could only feel stunned disbelief, an overwhelming sense of unreality, a nightmare from which he would surely awaken. Life without Brian Kinney was simply not imaginable.

After the doctor had gone, Michael drew on an inner strength to stand and speak calmly to the others, unwittingly taking charge with an authority he didn't realize he possessed. "Lindz, there's no point in you hanging around here. The doctor said they don't expect any major changes for a while. Why don't you just go home and try to get some rest, come back tomorrow when you're fresh? You, too, Ben--you've got classes in the morning, don't you? Go on home."

Ben looked concerned. "What about you?"

Michael blinked slowly. "I'm. . . I'll just stay a little longer, then I'll go home and tell Emmett what's going on." He managed a small smile for Ben's sake. "I'll be all right."

A taunting voice rang in his head: "Save the heroics for the goddamned comic books, Mikey." He shoved the painful memory aside.

Lindsay put a hand on his arm. "Don't stay too long, Michael. You're not going to do Brian any good if you wear yourself out, honey."

"I know." He patted the hand on his arm, then turned to hug Ben tightly. "Talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

After a while, they left him alone at the bedside, relying on their instruments to warn them of any noteworthy change in the patient. As Michael regarded his friend, his companion of so many tormented years, he began to feel the weight of reality settle in.

Brian could die. This might actually be the last time he would have with him. The injustice of it stung deeply. It wasn't fair--life wasn't fair, and neither was death. How and why had this happened to Brian Kinney, of all people?

How. . . . He thought about that, honed in on it. Wondered, almost abstractly, if Brian had brought it on himself. He had been pushing the envelope of safety for so long now, his perilous lifestyle so much a part of him, that something cataclysmic was almost inevitable, Michael realized with an abrupt insight. He remembered Brian telling him about Melanie's insistence about life insurance for Gus--her conviction that Brian was a time bomb waiting to implode. Brian had been indignant and offended by the sentiment at the time and, truth be told, so had Michael himself. But had her fears been justified?

There had always been an element of self-destructive rage in Brian Kinney, Michael acknowledged. That very topic, rage, kept him sharp and even fascinating in its own way, yet also endangered him.

Michael didn't have to search hard for memories of Brian's self-destructive urges; they were legion:

Brian Kinney--the 14-year old boy who had deliberately taken on the school's biggest bully, a boy thirty pounds and four inches bigger than himself, who'd gotten the shit kicked out of him and then laughed about it.

Brian Kinney--the teenager who had driven his '73 Cougar so fast and recklessly until a spin-out and collision with a tree had destroyed the car and almost cost him his young life, sparing him on a fluke of Irish luck with only a broken wrist.

Brian Kinney--the college student who had chugged down enough alcohol on a dare to land in the hospital with alcohol poisoning on one occasion, and on another to have his stomach pumped after ingesting an accidental overdose of barbiturates.

Brian Kinney--the new father who had climbed onto the parapet of the hospital roof and threatened to fly off to Never-Never Land like he was some fucking Superman.

Brian Kinney--the thirty-year old man who had decided to indulge in the "joys of scarfing" to achieve the ultimate orgasm, and had nearly asphyxiated himself to an early grave.

For as long as Michael had known him, it seemed he had been deliberately trying to sabotage his own life. And, just as on that night when Michael had barely prevented a tragedy in the loft, he became angry, not at a mysterious fate or the vagaries of human fortune, but at Brian himself. Because this time his self-destructive ways had possibly netted them both The Big One.

Michael stood by the bed, not realizing that tears were running down his face. "I hope you're satisfied." he said softly, harshly. "You may finally have gotten what you wanted. What you expected, you damned asshole! You want to die so badly? Is that what you want?"

There was no answer, no response in the still face. Grief broke over Michael as he bent over the inert form. "Don't you dare give up! Don't you dare think you can just check out and leave us all to mourn you! Goddamn it, fight, Brian! You're Rage, not Captain Astro! You can't let anything stop you or take you down, you hear?"

Even though it was early, barely 7:00 a.m., Ben was surprised to find that he wasn't the first arrival. Ted was sitting beside Michael in the waiting lounge of the ICU, and Debbie was approaching from another direction, bearing a tray with three paper cups of coffee. Michael saw him and stood up in surprise, came toward him.

"What are you doing here?" He reached up and hugged Ben, clinging with a fierce desperation.

"Emmett said you stayed here last night. I was worried about you."

Debbie came over to them, handed Michael a coffee cup and gave Ben a tense smile. "Hi, Ben. You want this other coffee? It's got cream and sugar--"

"No, Deb, it's okay, you drink it. I had some at home." With an arm around Michael, he led him back to the row of seats. "How's he doing?"

"No one says much. He's still unconscious."

"But," Debbie injected, "he's had some, you know, responses. . . voluntary movements, which they said is a good sign." She tried to smile, but it wasn't very bright, and he noticed tears in her eyes. "I'm goin' over in a little while and stay with Gus, so Lindsay can come over. Her daycare is closed today."

Ben nodded. He really adored this big-hearted woman who seemed to take them all under her encompassing wings. He understood that she and Brian had the most history of all, and that this must be affecting her greatly. He turned to Ted.

"Ted, when did you get here?"

"Couple of hours ago. I couldn't sleep, anyway, after Em called and told me, so I figured I'd come down and keep Michael company." Understated, as always, Ben reflected; it was so like Ted Schmidt to think of others before himself. He was a good friend to all of them, but especially to Michael. He gave the man a smile of gratitude.

Michael turned to him. "They don't know how long this might go on. They say they have to wait for the swelling to go down. It could be days before we know anything."

"He's gonna make it, sweetie," Debbie asserted. "He's young, and he's strong and healthy. He'll be okay." There was a slight twinkle in her eyes. "Only the good die young. God doesn't want the bad ones," she teased. There was a catch in her voice, and Michael turned and patted her hand to show he understood.

"What are you going to do about the store?" Ben asked, ever the practical one.

"I don't know. I haven't thought about it," Michael admitted.

"Well, I was thinking, driving over here," Ben said slowly. "You can close up today. I'll run by and put a sign on the door, if you want. Then I can arrange to take some time off, get someone in to take over my classes -- it's no big deal. I'll keep the place open for you."

Michael looked incredulous. "I can't ask you to do that!"

"You're not asking, I'm volunteering. Look, I'm no good at doing nothing, sitting around waiting isn't my thing. I need to do something, that's just the way I am. Let me help, please!"

Michael hugged him. "I love you. . . ."

"Thank you, Ben," Debbie said softly. "Vic can come over and help you out, relieve you if you want. I know he wouldn't mind."

Ben nodded. "Well, that problem is solved. Anything else?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't think so. I've got Brian's medical Power-of-Attorney, and Ted's got his financial Power-of-Attorney, so that covers most of the bases." He smiled. "Oh, and Emmett's got his fashion Power-of-Attorney, in case we need it."

They shared a brief laugh. "Brian would kill him," Ted mused.

"Okay. . . well, I'm going to get going," Ben affirmed. "I'll call you later. You've got your cell phone?"

"Shouldn't you get some rest?" she whispered to Michael. "Why don't you go home for a while?" He looked as if he were half-asleep sitting there.

"I'm afraid if I leave, something will happen," he admitted. "Stupid, I know."

She nodded, understanding, studying the inert form in the bed. Brian's beard shadow was evident, his hair tousled, his beautiful, expressive hands lying so frighteningly still on top the blanket. The head of the bed was raised and he looked as if he were merely asleep, reclining back in peaceful repose. That image was tarnished, however, by the invasive IV dripping into his left arm, the electrode wires affixed to his head and body, the beeping and hissing of the diagnostic panel to which he was attached. The reality was bitter and painful.

She spoke softly, as if in the presence of a corpse, her tone aching. "I just keep imagining him lying out there on the street. . . alone, helpless. How long? An hour or more, they said."

"Maybe longer. They don't know for sure." Michael's voice was husky, guilt-laden. Given the storm, no one had seen him fall to the sidewalk, no one had noticed him lying there until the rain let up and people started looking out their windows. Only then had an ambulance been summoned, and he been rushed, unconscious, to the hospital. That delay, they had learned last night, may have cost precious time that would count in his recovery.

"Damn! It's just not fair!" Lindsay exploded. "Not him." She steadied herself, clearing her throat. "Sorry."

Michael managed a wry smile. "Go ahead, vent. You're allowed. We both are."

Tactfully, she changed the subject. "I saw Emmett down in the lounge. Has everyone been notified? Did you call his mother?"

"Not yet. I was hoping to have more to tell her, " Michael admitted.

"Well, maybe you should, anyway," Lindsay advised. "I'd offer to do it, but I think she'd take it better from you."

"No, I will." He sighed, dreading the task, she knew.

She hesitated before naming the next name. "What about. . . Justin?"

Michael glanced at her in surprise. "Why? I haven't seen him in months, and he certainly wouldn't care," he said bitterly. "Besides, I don't know where he is, or how to get in touch with him."

"I do," she volunteered tentatively. "He's back with his mother." She saw Michael stiffen.

"He left that kid, too?" His scorn was evident, the 'too' quite obviously a put-down.

Ignoring his tone, she persisted. "I think he should be told. I think that's what Brian would want."

Michael scowled. "I have to go call Mrs. Kinney, and then I'm going home for a while. You've got my beeper number?"

No. . . not right. Something not right. . . simplicity never was. . . . Guilt engulfed him, sinking his little raft. Can't stop, can't cease the struggle, idyllic as it seemed. To end the struggle would be to give up, to fail. Must not fail. Must be strong.

But nothing made any sense; rational thought eluded him, thinking was too great an effort. Easier to float away.

Images came unbidden in random flashes: Incomplete and sometimes unidentified faces and places, even feelings; emotions crowded in one after another with dizzying speed that left him breathless and confused. In a sense, he knew he was asleep and dreaming; in another, it seemed to be his only reality. It wasn't unpleasant and there was no pain, only a dull throbbing in his head, a feeling like being under water.

Drowning! His raft had capsized! He struggled for air, felt water on his face, sluicing over his body. He tried to move, to stroke through the current--or, was it only in his mind?--yet his body felt leaden, wooden, his eyes too heavy to raise the lids. His stomach cramped; he felt nauseated.

A thought came unbidden: Oh, shit--what the hell did I take now?! Assuming, of course, that he had downed some rotten shit that was giving him these bizarre hallucinations, that prohibited his free movement. Panicking, he struggled for memory.

He recalled being at work. . . the new account, Janecki Pasta. How the hell do you build an ad campaign around a Polish spaghetti company? He left the office to work at home. . . a storm was coming up. . . .

Memory failed from that point. Had he stopped off at the baths, or at Woody's? Had he scored something to dull the edges?

The fog in his mind intensified and the clarity he fought to grasp receded again into the miasma of incoherence. Again, weird images came marching by--a white, bloodstained tuxedo shirt, a white silk scarf with rust-colored stains that he wrapped ceremoniously around his neck. He was trying to attach it to a tree branch, but he was too short to reach it. Anguish consumed him, and somewhere in the distance he heard the strains of a violin concerto being played, a mournful dirge. Justin was gone and he was alone. . . so alone. He felt a flicker of self-pity and pushed it away, turning it to helpless rage. Rage. . . .

He was Rage, flying over the city, turning somersaults that made his head spin even more, made the sickening lurch in his stomach intensify. He landed, staggering, and Zephyr was there to hold him steady, to put a hand on his arm. He turned, gratified, and kissed him full on the mouth, kissed . . . Mikey. . . his large brown puppy-dog eyes shining up at him with adoration.

"You are beautiful and you'll always be beautiful. "

The words brought calm. Dignity. The darkness settled again in a peaceful wave.

No! Something was wrong! He needed to open his eyes, needed to know what the fuck was going on here! He concentrated on pushing open his lids, on making himself wake up. Why couldn't he wake up? His heart pounded relentlessly; he could feel it in his throat. Was he dead? Was this what dead was like? There was a whoosh-whoosh in his ears, reverberating against his skull.

Wait-- He stilled, concentrated. Felt a pressure on his left hand. Sensation! Marvelous sensation! He wasn't sure, but he suspected it was real, coming from outside his mental prison. It lent him strength, and with effort he managed to move his own fingers, to affirm the authenticity of the mysterious weight on his palm.

And with as much ease as there had been difficulty before, he opened his eyes. The shock of light stabbed at him and made him blink. Confusion overwhelmed him. Where was he? What the hell was going on?

Nothing his eyes beheld made any sense, fit any natural parameters. There was no water--he had expected water. His gaze traveled downward, to where his hand lay on a too-white sheet. Darker, shorter fingers curled in his own.

Carefully, because if he went too fast he felt dizzy, his eyes moved up the trail from the hand toward a face. Michael? Mikey? What. . .? He couldn't even formulate the question; he didn't know what he was wondering about. It was just all too confusing and his head was spinning.

Oh, shit. He could feel the darkness crushing in around him again and he pressed his eyes shut tightly to ward off the disorientation. He clenched the fingers in his hand and fought the vertigo, feeling helpless and very frightened.

Whatever was going on, it wasn't good. Definitely not good. From a throat that felt dry and tight, he managed to rasp out a sound before the void descended again.

"No. . . . . ."

Michael nearly jumped up and high-fived it with Ben. It had been over 48 hours since Brian had been admitted, long days and nights of endless waiting.

The doctor went on. "The swelling has gone down quite a bit, his voluntary responses are more purposeful, and undoubtedly what you witnessed was a brief return of consciousness. He should be getting those more frequently now."

"So, he can definitely hear what we're saying?" Michael asked.

"Well, technically, he has all along, but we can't be certain how much he understands or has the ability to comprehend.

"Can you give us any idea of how the stroke may have impaired him?" Ben asked.

Frowning, the doctor motioned them away from the bed. Michael dutifully followed; Ben hesitated, frowning slightly, then joined them.

"It's too soon to tell completely," the doctor said softly. "The stroke was in the left hemisphere of his brain and it's affected his right side, paralysis in the arm and leg. As for cognitive functioning, once he regains full consciousness, we'll be able to test him." He looked pointedly at Ben. "It's not a good idea to discuss his condition in front of him."

Ben met the doctor's gaze. "He will have a right to know," he challenged.

"Our experience suggests that the stroke victim doesn't have the resources to process a lot of complicated information at the beginning of recovery. He needs to focus his attention on survival."

Michael reacted sharply. "Then he's still not out of danger?"

"His chances have improved, and will continue to improve, barring complications, as each day passes. He's still alive -- that's the main thing."

"Yes, but isn't it true," Ben asked, "that most people who suffer a first-time stroke do survive?" Implied was the desire for the doctor to deal with them honestly and with complete candor.

The physician shrugged. "It goes down somewhat with hemorrhagic stroke. His condition is still listed as critical. That's why we're keeping him here in the ICU."

"Is there anything we can do?" Michael asked, anxious to be able to contribute something, anything, to Brian's improvement.

"Be affirmative, relaxed, encouraging with him." He eyed Michael critically. "And get some rest, yourself. We've got a long haul in front of us, and your brother's going to need your strength."

"He's not-- " Michael began, surprised at the physician's assumption, then bit off the denial. Close enough. "Okay, thank you, Doctor."

He saw Ben smile as they were left alone in the waiting lounge, and knew he had found the reference amusing. "He's right, you know. You need to get some good, solid sleep, which you haven't had yet. Come on back to my place, take a Sominex, come back later. He's okay for now."