Christmas was a royal goddamned pain in the ass.

Brian wasn't exactly Ebenezer Scrooge--there were many things he liked about the holidays--but he'd never been able to work up any real excitement over the classic traditions of the season. He liked the merrymaking and the parties, and he usually enjoyed giving presents to his few chosen friends, simply because he enjoyed seeing their delight at his clever selections. But the rest of the sentimental crap was right up there with football games and dating on his list of favorite things to do. Still, Christmas was only a few weeks away, and in his current situation he had failed to purchase even one gift for anyone on his list. Alone for a rare half-hour before Justin returned from his mother's, he sought to remedy that oversight.

He blinked at his computer keyboard and awkwardly pecked at the buttons with the not-so-nimble fingers of his left hand. Now that Ted had kindly transferred the mouse to the left side for him, he was finally attempting to access the Internet, and discovering how exasperating it could be. Trying to manipulate one-handed was bad enough, but when a right-handed person had to resort to using the left one, it was next to impossible. It had taken him over ten minutes to get to the right screen of the F.A.O. Schwartz online catalogue where he planned to browse for something for Gus.

And Rufus wasn't helping, although he suspected the cat thought he was. The silver fur-ball kept trying to weave himself between the keyboard and the screen, silently demanding attention as he stared at the human with a look of long-suffering neglect. For the umpteenth time since he had sat down, Brian scooped up the boneless drape of cat and plunked him unceremoniously on his lap. The rough little tongue scraped across the back of his hand with slavish affection--or maybe it was hunger.

Despite his annoyance, Brian chuckled. He wasn't sure what it was about the little fellow that gave him such delight. He had never owned a cat before, never really been around them very much, so everything Rufus did was a new revelation. His delicacy and fastidious habits fascinated Brian, who swore to anyone who would listen that he was sure the cat was queer.

When he was growing up, Brian and his sister had never been allowed to have a pet of any kind. His mother detested mess, and animals were considered dirty and undesirable. One time, Claire had brought home a stray dog, a golden mutt she had found in the alley, and because Jack had been taken with it, it had been admitted with reluctance. But after only a few days, the gate had "accidentally" been left open, and the dog was never seen again. Claire had cried for days. Brian himself had known better than to give any part of his heart to something that he would have to lose.

As Rufus settled on his master's lap, Brian returned to scanning the preschool toys displayed on the screen. He was looking at several junior art sets--it stood to reason that Gus would inherit his mother's creativity--and was debating over which motorized riding truck he wanted, when the loft door slid open and Justin floundered in, his arms laden with a large cardboard box and several plastic bags dangling from his wrists. He pushed the door closed with his elbow, breathing heavily. From the way he was bundled up, it must have been very cold out, Brian deduced. He eyed the baggage curiously.

"What's all that?" he asked, frowning slightly at the disturbance. "Your mother cleaning out her garage?"

Sunshine lived up to his nickname and beamed at him as he dumped his armload on the sofa. "Sort of," he affirmed, crossing to the computer and giving Brian a quick peck on the cheek with very cold lips. "She's been going through our Christmas things, and she had plenty of decorations to spare."

Brian winced at the chilled touch and then frowned. "Christmas. . . decorations. . .?" he asked dubiously.

Justin was looking at the computer screen. "Oooh, is that for Gus, or for me?" he pointed one gloved finger at the Crayola Art Kit on display. "Doing some shopping?"

Brian, not deterred, glanced over at the pile on his sofa. "Get that shit out of here," he ordered.

Justin chuckled as he peeled off his jacket and unwound his scarf. "I figured this place needed some brightening up, a little holiday cheer." He crossed to the sofa and began pulling things out of the box.

"Well, you figured wrong," Brian responded, wondering what the hell had gotten into Justin. "Is there some manic Christmas elf hiding in your brain, ready to spring out at the first chorus of 'Jingle Bells'?"

Justin held up a hideous tinsel-draped artificial poinsettia centerpiece and proceeded to rest it on the end table. "I have lights and ornaments for the tree, and candles, and--"

"Justin, read my lips. N. O." Brian reached for his crutch as Rufus jumped to the floor, and stood up. "You know I don't decorate the place."

"Well, this year will be different," Justin maintained. "We'll get a tree--it can go right over there," he pointed to the space in front of the window, "and we can--"

"No, we can't, and no, we won't. This is still my fucking place, not yours." Unreasonably angry, Brian maneuvered his way over to the sofa and sat on the unoccupied half. "Take all of this back to your mother's and have your fucking holiday gig with her."

He shut his eyes to block the sudden look of hurt he saw on Justin's face. He had a momentary image of Justin's Christmas Past--what it must have been like for him at the holidays when he was a kid. He must have had a regular Brady Bunch time of it, full of decorating the tree, baking cookies, coming down on Christmas morning to a room filled with happy cheer and mountains of presents. Mommy and Daddy smiling and taking pictures, as excited as the kiddies.

Brian's memories were hardly comparable. For him, the holidays had meant Jack having another excuse to get drunk, of him staggering in at any hour, bellowing obscenities and, more than once, crashing into the Christmas tree and knocking it over. Memories of his mother dragging him to church, dressing him in velvet only for his father to taunt him and call him 'Little Lord Fauntleroy.' Cookies were something his mother pulled out of a box and Christmas dinner was usually burned to a crisp waiting for his father to come in and eat it, absorbed as he was with the football game on the television.

Yes, there had been presents--new clothes, a few sensible toys. But Claire always got the stuff that he wanted, and the baseball gloves and construction trucks never thrilled him. He never got what he asked for from Santa, regardless of what it was. His parents bought him what they wanted him to have, and his mother told him very early on, when he was probably about five or so, that Santa Claus was a myth. Once or twice, he had struggled to make things for his parents, or had saved up his allowance and bought something he thought they would cherish--but the results were always studied indifference or outright mockery, so after a while he simply stopped trying.

As he got older, his mother began drinking almost as much as his father, although she didn't get nasty with it. She would sit around and cry and feel sorry for herself, the self-pity making him angry. The dysfunctional Kinneys were at their best--or worst--at the holidays.

Justin shoved the packages aside and sat down next to him on the sofa, close because there wasn't much room. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I know you don't usually have a tree or anything, but I thought this year. . . .. I thought it might be cheerful." He hesitated. "I really wasn't doing it for myself."

Unsettled by his proximity, Brian rose, rejecting the hand that Justin offered to help him up. He limped back over to the computer and attempted to settle back into the desk chair, but the casters kept sliding on the bare wood floor, and he couldn't get it steadied. Giving up for the moment, unwilling to accept help and unable to seat himself, he propelled himself over toward the refrigerator and clumsily opened the door. Throughout the ordeal, neither of them spoke, and there was a tension in the air you could cut with a knife.

Brian felt like a heartless bastard. He knew Justin was only trying to be kind, but fuck kindness. When was the kid ever going to learn that being kind never got you anywhere in this life?

God, I sound like my father. . . Brian brought himself up short. He always liked to ruin Christmas for everyone, never gave a fuck about his family or anyone except himself. He saw again the sunny grin Justin had worn when he'd arrived, so full of his surprise, so excited. And just like Jack had the ability to wipe those smiles off my face when I was a kid. . .

He glanced back at the sofa where Justin was still sitting, fingering some kind of little angel ornament. And he sighed, resigned. He closed the refrigerator door firmly.

"Just a small tree," he conceded. "A table-top tree."

Surprised, Justin looked over at him. "You mean it?"

Brian hobbled back toward the computer. "I said it, didn't I? Come here and help me with my shopping."

Eagerly, Justin jumped up and held the chair steady for him.

The following day was Tuesday, one of Brian's lighter ones. His physical therapist came to the loft in the morning, and after a couple of hours of exercises, he was free for the rest of the day. By the time Justin had helped him to shower and change into fresh clothes, he was perfectly content to simply veg out and take it easy until dinner.

Justin entertained himself being the Ghost of Christmas Present and fiddling with the tree he had gone out and bought that morning while Brian was working with the therapist. The entire experience was still a load of shit as far as Brian was concerned, and he tried to ignore the enthusiastic activity. Using his wheelchair, he busied himself in the kitchen, and a brief perusal of his former liquor cabinet netted him a half-filled bottle of expensive Johnny Walker Red Label that he'd once bought for entertaining.

Eureka! With a surreptitious glance at the preoccupied elf, he unscrewed the cap and kicked back a small slug. Whooo...! It burned his mouth and made his breath catch in his throat. It had certainly been a long while since he'd treated himself to a drink.

Knowing that his keepers would object to a little harmless imbibing, he shoved the bottle down between his hip and the side of the chair, then casually covered it with a small blanket. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, although he denied that he was hiding anything. He had every goddamned right to take a drink now and then. Even the doctors had said that alcohol, in moderation--a glass of wine or an occasional beer--wouldn't do any harm. He was off most of the meds, as if that would have made a difference, he smirked, and he wasn't going to tolerate the bullshit of total abstinence of all his bad habits.

He had quit smoking, had not gone back to it after the enforced restrictions of the hospital, and truly didn't miss it. He'd never been a heavy smoker, anyway, so it didn't matter much. He figured there would be occasions when he'd want one, and when he did, he'd bum from someone as the need arose. He had quit using recreational drugs--okay, maybe mostly because he'd been getting pretty much anything he wanted with a prescription, and he felt fine without them, particularly given his immediate lifestyle. There had been little need to pump himself up with any of the alphabet soup of enhancers he had heretofore employed.

Most of all, he had given up his most cherished vice--one that he fully expected to resume at some nebulous later date, when he felt he was ready--sex. He didn't think about that particular sacrifice too deeply; he would deal with it some other time.

So all that was left was his fondness for the occasional tipping of the old bottle. Not a major no-no. It wasn't as if he wanted to get drunk or anything, but he enjoyed the taste and the way it perked him up, that was all.

Justin was cussing out a string of lights he was trying to fasten to the three-foot tree. Brian wheeled over to the scene of the activity and snorted.

"I bet you never did that before, did you?" he asked with smug superiority.

"It's all tangled...." Justin complained.

Brian knew that with two good hands he could have had the string tangle-free in minutes, but he was loathe to attempt it with only his left. Many was the year he had helped trim his family tree, the lights somehow always falling to him. Jack was never around, and his mother didn't know shit about such things.

He pushed at the left wheel of his chair, spinning himself away with a fierceness he didn't expect. "Deal with it."

"I was thinking about baking some cookies," Justin called over as Brian transferred himself--and his bottle--to the sofa. "My mom's got a killer recipe for sugar cookies. . ."

"Awww," Brian mocked. "And we can leave some out on Christmas Eve for Santa." With Justin safely behind him, he took a quick nip of the Johnny Walker before tucking it under the pillow on the corner of the sofa. It went down smoother this time, its taste achingly familiar and somehow comforting. He picked up the remote and clicked on the television, skipping over the soaps and an old movie to settle on CNN and the latest headlines.

"It looks like shit!" he heard Justin exclaim after a short interval of nothing-happening-in-the-world-that-he-gave-a-damn-about. Curious, he twisted around to view the pleasantly decorated little tree, which appeared perfectly fine as Christmas trees went, and Justin simply standing there with his face all screwed up into a frustrated pout.

"Looks okay to me," he remarked casually.

"It's all crooked, and the balance is all off, and there aren't enough lights, and--" Justin bit his lip, breaking off his tirade.

Artistic temperament, Brian concluded, stifling a grin. But then he reconsidered as Justin stomped over to the refrigerator and added, "I can't do anything right!"

"Justin. . . " Brian reached for his crutch and pulled himself to his feet. He was surprised to feel slightly woozy. Well, woozier than usual. Cautiously, he sat back down. "Come here," he demanded.

Milk carton in hand, Justin reluctantly approached. "What?" he asked fretfully.

"The tree is fine. What's the problem?" Some inner sense was telling him this wasn't such a minor concern. There was a demon at work here, and he spoke patiently, truly curious.

Justin sat at the other end of the sofa and scrubbed his hands over his face. "It has to be perfect. And I screw up everything."

Self-pity was boring, but Brian didn't think it was just that. "Why does it have to be perfect? It's a fucking Christmas tree."

"My father always had the lights on just so, and he fiddled with it for days to get everything just where he wanted it. By Christmas Eve, it was a masterpiece." Justin managed a small smile as he remembered, a wistful smile.

"That's fucking. . . anal," Brian giggled. He frowned in concentration. "Was he like that with everything?"

"Pretty much," Justin conceded.

That must have been tough. No wonder the lad's such an over-achiever. Brian hesitated, then spoke. "Well, this is your tree, not your parents'. It should only have to please you."

Justin's eyes glanced over at him, sparkling. "Ours," he corrected. "It's our tree. It's yours, too." He grinned gamely, his good nature returning.. "Even if you didn't help with it."

"I lent it my living room," he pointed out, resting his tongue impishly in his cheek. "Now go clean up the mess you made." Dutifully, Justin rose, pausing to ruffle Brian's hair before returning to the tree.

Apparently, Brian mused, life at the Taylor house wasn't so Brady as I imagined. Jack may have been an asshole in his own right, but Craig Taylor was simply another kind of dickhead. Brian's parents, for the most part, had let him make his own mistakes, let him find his own way. No parental guidance, but no parental pressures, either.

He visualized Justin's father fussing with a Christmas tree for days, moving ornaments, draping tinsel, and a snuffle of laughter bubbled up. He pulled out the bottle of scotch and took another swallow, feeling it mellow him out.

"God, they're still running that damned spot. . ." he mumbled. Justin tuned his attention to the ad on a local station.

". . . Brenner's is the Salad Dressing that will have you. . . dressing for dinner. . ." On screen, a muscular guy with long black hair in a tuxedo sat down across a candle-lit table from a woman in a gown with a plunging neckline and upswept blonde curls. They gazed into each other's eyes as if they were drowning in orgasms. Justin smiled in amusement.

"One of yours?" he asked.

Brian continued to giggle. "For the het masses. Isn't it divine?" He struggled to sit up straighter on the cushions. "Must be two years old. 'M surprised Vance hasn't updated the campaign."

"Well, it's your account, isn't it?" Justin didn't know too much about Brian's business, but he had heard Gardner assure him once, back at the hospital, that his accounts were on a temporary hold.

"Was," Brian corrected. "Haven't got no accounts now. . . just call me a no-account." He laughed again, that same weird, high-pitched laugh that caused Justin to take a closer look at him.

Something was off. . . Suspicious, he crossed to the sofa. "Are you all right?" he asked dubiously. As he bent over to touch Brian's arm, he got a whiff of the odor clinging to him.

Brian swung his good arm out of Justin's reach and frowned. "Fuck off."

But it was too late. Not only had Justin smelled the alcohol, but as Brian moved, an empty bottle of scotch rolled off the sofa onto the wooden floor. Stunned, Justin could only stare at him.

"Where did you--?" he began, but Brian was struggling to stand up and he automatically tried to lend a hand.

"Gotta pee." He tried to free himself of Justin's aid and grabbed his crutch, "Let go--I'm no baby." Looking none too steady, he managed to take two crooked steps toward the ramp up to the bathroom as Justin merely hovered at his side, not daring to touch him for fear of unbalancing him. He couldn't believe Brian had done this--how long had he been secretly drinking? Was this the first time, or had he missed it on previous occasions? A million startling questions flew through his mind as he damned the man's self-destructiveness. He damned himself, too, for not seeing it, for not keeping a closer eye on his charge.

Brian paused, as if forgetting where he was headed, then he went to move again. It appeared to Justin as if he tried to lead with his right leg, then stumbled when it wouldn't budge. His arm flailed out and the crutch crashed to the floor. Justin tried to grab for him but his backward momentum was too great and he went down before it could be prevented, landing half on his back and half on his left side, his good arm pinned under him, his legs twisted.

"Ohhh--shh-iiit!"

Completely terrified, Justin half-screamed, half-sobbed his name once, then went down on his knees beside the fallen man. He didn't know where to touch first, what to do. Brian lay there, conscious but dazed, his eyes still unfocused from the whiskey, his chest heaving.

"Are you all right? Does anything hurt?" Justin asked, his breath catching in his throat. He knew that if Brian had injured his right side, he probably wouldn't even feel it.

"Gotta. . . pee. . . " Even as he spoke the words, Justin saw the wetness leak out and stain his sweatpants. "Nope. . . not any more." Brian rested the side of his head against the floor and closed his eyes, the picture of tranquility.

None of the lifting techniques Justin had been taught were any help with a completely noncompliant body--one that was drunk and unable to help. He managed to roll Brian onto his back and to feel along his right leg and arm for possible fractures. Nothing appeared to be injured, on either side, probably the result of the alcohol making him relaxed, Justin concluded. But he couldn't let him lay there on the hard floor, in wet pants, and although he struggled and maneuvered him into a sitting position, there was no way he was going to get him up off the floor by himself. Sober, he might have been enough help to accomplish it, drunk, he was like boneless putty.

"Lemme. . . alone," Brian insisted, waving out with his good arm and attempting to lie back down again.

"You can't stay here on the floor," Justin snapped, frustrated. This was way more than he had signed on for, way more than he should have to put up with. He was going to have to call someone--but who? Not Michael, that was for damned sure. Michael would think it was all his fault. Emmett, maybe? Emmett was big enough, strong. Ben would be good, but Ben would tell Michael, and--

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. A cheerful voice, calling, "Anybody in there?"

Shit! Shit, shit, and double-shit!

"Michael--come in!" Justin called out, struggling with Brian to keep him from collapsing down again.

The loft door slid open and Michael took in the scene with one-second of dawning alarm. "What the hell--?"

"Mikey!" Brian turned in his direction and grinned hugely. ". . . All fall down," he murmured. "And all the king's horses, and all the king's men. . . "

"He got hold of some whiskey," Justin said quickly, his face flushing at the telling as Michael rushed forward. "I didn't even know he--"

". . .couldn't put Humpty-Dumpty together. . . again--" Brian went on, as he threw his good arm around Michael's shoulder and pulled him close, clung to him.

"He fell--I don't think he hurt anything--and I couldn't," Justin was saying at the same time.

"Okay, it's okay," Michael soothed, his eyes softening, even as he took in Justin. "You're okay, let's get you up."

"He wet himself--he was heading for the bathroom." Justin pulled himself together and took a deep breath. "I'll get his right, you take his left."

"All the king's men. . ." Brian giggled again, then let out a sharp cry as they got him to his feet. He was dead weight as he hung between them, neither of his legs working properly on their own.

"On the bed," Michael instructed, turning slightly and leading the way toward the hospital bed. Between them, they wrested him across the short distance and got him onto the mattress. As Michael arranged his arms and legs, Justin went for fresh pants and soap and water. When he got back, Michael had stripped off the soiled garments and together, they swiftly cleaned and changed the unwieldy participant.

"Did he hit his head when he went down?" Michael asked.

"No, I don't think so. He went on his side. I had no idea he had--I don't know where he--" Justin responded, still trying to apologize for being negligent, still feeling like a fool for not having known.

"Mikey. . ." Brian turned his head toward the living room. "See the tree? Justin got a tree." He grinned at Justin. "It's a Christmas tree. A perfect Christmas tree."

Overcome with emotions he couldn't begin to define, Justin turned away, feeling tears threatening to spill over. He needed a moment alone, needed a moment to calm down and collect himself. He was furious with Brian; he loved him so much it hurt. He was still feeling the aftermath of terror, reliving that fall and the cold knowledge of what it could have done, relieved that it had not. Feeling inadequate to deal with either the drinking or the getting him up after. And then--to have Brian heaping praise on the tree, bragging on it to Michael--he didn't know whether to slug him or hug him.

Michael sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through Brian's hair. "I wondered how long it would be before you fell off the wagon," he said softly. "You're going to hate yourself when this wears off."

"I's Christmas, Mikey. Gotta celebrate."

Michael didn't look amused. "I don't think so, champ. Your celebrations just got a whole lot tamer this year. You should be damned glad you didn't hurt yourself."

Brian shut his eyes, as if shutting out the sight would also shut out the words. "I'm tired."

His thumb rubbing gently across Brian's forehead, Michael soothed, "Yeah, sleep it off now. Just go to sleep."

Quickly, Justin blotted his face with a paper towel as Michael came into the kitchen. He didn't want to be seen crying. He looked up steadily at the older man. "You're so good with him," he said, and found he meant it.

"It's not the first time I've handled him drunk, or stoned, and it probably won't be the last, unfortunately." Michael put a hand on the countertop, and Justin noticed that it was trembling.

"This is all my fault," Justin said evenly. "I didn't even see him with the bottle."

As if prompted by Justin's glance at the empty bottle lying on the floor by the sofa, Michael went over and picked it up, reading the label. "I think this was about half full, last I saw it. Has he had any medication today?"

"No." Justin hesitated. "That I know."

Michael came back over and rested his elbows on the counter. "Don't begin to doubt yourself. You're doing fine." He sighed. "Nobody can control him completely, you know that as well as I do."

Justin felt a surge of pride and a sudden affection for this man he had considered an enemy. "Thanks. I think I needed to hear that."

"Well, don't get a swelled head about it," Michael retorted, reverting to the one he knew. "And try to keep the rest of his stock well hidden from now on." He turned, his eyes sweeping around the loft. "Nice tree," he said grudgingly. "First time I've ever seen one here."

Justin smiled, recognizing the unspoken approval. "I was getting ready to fix dinner. Do you want to stay?" he offered.

His stomach rolled over and the queasiness was the prequel to consciousness. As he opened his eyes, Brian felt a dull pounding in his head, mild but obvious. He was on his back, and there was a warm weight across his chest--he cracked open an eye and looked down to see Rufus stretched across him like a furry blanket, his whiskers and tail-tip twitching in languid sleep. Groggy, Brian lifted his hand to his head, swiped it across a mouth that felt dry as cotton. Dim lights were still shining around the loft, a lamp by the computer, blue neon from the sleeping alcove, the night lights on either side of the front door. The place was quiet, funereally so.

What was he doing in bed at--he glanced over at the clock by his bedside--8:43 in the goddamned evening? He knew it was evening, because the sky outside the windows was dark. Peering around through slitted eyelids, he located Justin at the kitchen table, hunched over a book and notepad.

His mind felt logy, like it had when he had been drugged in the hospital, like it used to when he would tie one on, and--oh, shit. The Johnny Walker Red. Memory of the afternoon rushed back at him, piece by amazing piece. Sitting on the sofa, brooding over Christmas and his life in general, his future in particular. Taking deep gulps of the hard stuff as he contemplated his past, present, and very unremarkable future with a desperation he hadn't felt since he'd come home.

Fuck, he hadn't drank that much--less than half a bottle, and he'd always prided himself on being able to hold his booze. It came with being Irish, he supposed, but it usually took a lot more than that to tip the scales. What the fuck had happened today?

In almost slow-motion recall, as if seen through a filmy curtain, he remembered getting up, trying to walk, and falling down. He supposed that was why, now that full awareness was returning, he could feel the aching that was making itself known. He felt bruised and stiff and sore all over, and he moved experimentally, feeling the left side of his body protesting. His arm--he turned his elbow inward and looked down, discovering a gradually purpling bruise along his forearm. His hip--gingerly, he shoved down the waistband of his sweatpants to uncover a large black and blue bruise there, too.

He clamped his eyes tight shut again. I don't think I want to know any more of this. Stupid, fucking bastard! He attempted to move and the pain in his hip made him whimper slightly. Although the sound was barely audible, he saw Justin's head pop up and he turned around, instantly alert.

Go away. Go away, I'm still asleep. See? My eyes are closed. Don't want to talk. He heard footsteps approach the bed.

"You're awake." It was a statement, not a question. Reluctantly, Brian opened his eyes, warily regarding the blue ones focused on him a foot away.

"Sort of," he conceded.

"Feeling better?" The voice was neutral, just a hint of concern.

"Dandy." No, I feel like a fool. And I don't fucking like feeling foolish.

Justin poured water from a pitcher into a glass that was kept at his bedside, proffered the glass. "Thirsty?"

Grateful, Brian took it, wincing as he sat up straighter to drink it down. He hadn't bothered to pull up the sweatpants, and he saw Justin's eyes rake over the angry bruise there as he sat on the edge of the mattress beside him. Rufus meowed in indignation at being disturbed, and jumped down to the floor. Ignoring the agony and the accusation on Justin's face, Brian gulped down the water and handed back the glass.

"You gave Michael and me quite a scare." Now the accusation was apparent, but its sting was overwhelmed by the message.

"Mikey was. . . here." What started out as a question became a statement as memory gushed back. His legs not working at all. "You're going to hate yourself. . . hate yourself. . ." echoed off his pounding skull. Experimentally, he shifted his weight, moved his left knee up and down, flexed the ankle. It was okay, now. And hate was, perhaps, too delicate a word. Damnation might fit nicely.

There was something else--being cold and wet, having his pants removed. For a moment, he flashed back to a submerged memory, not sure if it were entirely recollected or imagined. Being lashed to a table, unable to stop shivering, fast movement around him, hands poking and prodding, stripping off his clothes--an $1,800 suit ruined. . .

His left hand lashed out, made contact with Justin's arm, gripped tightly, squeezed hard, connecting himself with the here and now. A muffled grunt wheezed from his throat as he clenched his eyes shut and rocked slightly back and forth, remembering the searing pain in his head, the stark terror of vulnerability. In a dim corner of his rational mind he knew he was scaring Justin, but he couldn't stop the sudden backlash, couldn't prevent the shaking that was part psychological, part hangover from the folly of his drinking.

Warmth enveloped him, touch grounded him as he was lifted around the shoulders and pressed to solid reality. His head dropped to rest on a bracing shoulder, his nose inhaling fresh skin and the subtle smell that was Justin. The image receded as he clung for dear life, not even caring if he appeared foolish. As the psychic pain receded, he relaxed, focused on the crooning voice in his ear.

"It's okay, you're okay, love, it's all right, everything's fine. . ."

The endearment unsettled him, forced him to regain his dignity, urged him back into balance. Still, he held on for a moment longer, grateful for the support and the brief continuance of contact without embarrassment or trouble. Slowly, almost regretfully, he pulled away, and scrubbed his hand over his face as Justin fixed him with a worried stare.

He wanted to express his gratitude, to acknowledge the understanding, but the words wouldn't come out. Gruffly, he cleared his throat and remarked, "That was fun. Shall we try for Asshole of the Year?"

Justin smiled tightly. "I'll make the nomination."

His memory was complete, now. He recalled trying to get to the bathroom, pissing his pants, all of it. And the knowledge was bitter as gall. His own arrogance had humiliated him. Here he was, trying his fucking damnest to maintain his independence, to reclaim the ground he had lost with the stroke, handicapped, a fucking helpless cripple, and he had managed to erase every fucking accomplishment with a few snorts of booze.

He couldn't afford it, and it wasn't worth it. Not now. Not in his present reality. Liquor was off the list. Obviously, his tolerance had diminished past the occasional glass of wine or a beer as dictated by his doctor. Being shit-faced was an indulgence for normal men, and he was far, far from normal yet.

He met Justin's eyes, and in place of apology or gratitude, he simply nodded soberly and tried for a weak smile. The look said it all, although he didn't realize that, didn't know that all of his emotions were reflected in that gaze.

Justin lifted his useless right hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. "Are you hungry? We've got some roast beef left from dinner. I could make you a sandwich."

Food sounded very good, very appropriate. Brian smiled. "Any of that chocolate cake left?"

"I think so." A twinkle gleamed in Justin's eyes. "And a glass of milk?"