Since his return home, his loft had become a giant fishbowl, a magnet for friends and acquaintances. All of the Liberty Avenue Irregulars stopped by with varying frequency, rarely bothering to announce their intentions in advance, at least not to him. They came by day. They came by night. They came by car. They came on foot. With the initial novelty of being home well worn off, he had become a little sick of it, even if they were well-intentioned.

Fortunately, though, Christmas preparation was now slowing down the traffic. People had places to go, shopping to do, parties to attend. This year, for the first time since he could remember, Brian was spared the seasonal hustle-bustle, and he discovered that he preferred it that way. So for most of that week, it was simply him and Justin and Rufus, days filled with doctor and therapist appointments, slow walks around the neighborhood when it was warm enough, visits to the rehab center's gym and pool when it wasn't. At night they watched corny movies on his new DVD player, or challenged each other or a visitor with board games. It was a pleasant change. Domesticity and Brian Kinney--who would ever have thought?

That Friday evening, Ben and Michael had stopped by for a while after the stores had closed, staying around to watch the end of "Animal House"--which all three men couldn't believe Justin had never seen--then kissed good night and went home.

Justin helped him get ready for bed, then conked out early himself for a change, actually falling asleep before Brian managed to doze off.

Sometime before dawn--the sky was just beginning to streak with light--something pulled Brian from sleep, and he lay there, momentarily disoriented, wondering what had awakened him. A sideways glance at his clock informed him it was barely 7 a.m. It took a few moments for him to identify the noise that had brought him to consciousness. Blearily, he lifted his head and, using the trapeze bar above his bed, managed to pull himself up, fully alert now.

From the upper level came the sounds of powerful retching, punctuated by soft moans. He didn't see Justin in the bed, so he assumed it was coming from the bathroom. Concerned, he reached for his crutch and pulled himself to his feet. He cursed the slowness with which he moved, unable to do any better, and went up the ramp and through the bed chamber toward the bath.

Naked--and Brian knew he usually slept in shorts and sometimes a teeshirt--Justin was crouched on the floor in front of the toilet, hugging the porcelain, vomiting into the bowl. His face was damp and pale, his hair tumbling over his forehead. His limbs were quivering.

"Justin! What's wrong?"

Red-rimmed eyes met his in startled alarm, then blinked dispiritedly. "It's okay. I just got... sick. It'll be. . . okay--" The last word was punctuated by another cramp, and he turned his attention back to the bowl, heaving unproductively.

With movements as efficient as he could manage, Brian opened the medicine closet and rooted through the shelves. He grabbed a bottle of Kaopectate and a clean plastic spoon from a box and shut the mirrored door.

"Here--stand up, I can't reach you."

Trembling, Justin managed to control his heaves and rose unsteadily. Brian handed him the bottle and spoon and as soon as his hands were free, he grabbed his black cashmere robe from the nearby hook. Carefully, he draped it around Justin's shoulders, advising, "Take two spoonfuls of that--it'll help." He pulled the front of the robe closed, remotely regretting the coverage of all that beautiful bare skin. He pushed aside any residual lascivious thoughts as he tugged the robe into place. "Sorry I woke you," Justin's hands trembled as he rinsed his mouth at the sink, then poured the medicine and put it to his lips. "It just. . . all of a sudden. . ."

"Did you eat something that didn't agree with you?"

"I don't think so--" Justin doubled over with another cramp and bit off a moan. Brian took the bottle and the spoon, one by one, and sat them on the counter. "It feels like a stomach virus."

"Go on, get into bed," he suggested. As Justin staggered out, he followed, keeping pace behind him with a herding gesture, although what he could have done had Justin begun to topple, he did not know.

The cramping seemed to have ebbed for the moment as Justin climbed wearily into the huge bed and struggled with the duvet to cover his legs. The sight of his bed always gave Brian a strange feeling--a sense of anticipation mixed with dread, a familiarity and a kind of tugging at his emotions that he couldn't--or wouldn't--identify. Justin being in it seemed to make it more right, more normal somehow.

"You okay now?" he asked, hearing his voice sound gruffer than he'd intended.

"Yeah. But--" Justin broke off, hesitated, then went on, "could you maybe just sit here and talk to me for a few minutes?"

With a tolerantly amused smile, Brian sat down on the edge of the mattress. "You want me to tell you a bedtime story?" He glanced up at the ceiling and mimicked a story-book voice, "Once upon a time, there were two little queers. . ."

"Papa Queer and Baby Queer," Justin fell into the telling, his smile widening.

Brian reached across for a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at the cooling sweat on Justin's forehead and upper lip. "You want me to call your mother?"

"She took Molly to New York to see the Radio City Christmas show this weekend," Justin explained. "Remember? That's why I said I'd stay here and take care of things. Besides, I don't need my mommy. I'm not five years old."

"Are you sure you're not running a fever?" Brian ignored the urge to tease as he laid the back of his hand against Justin's brow.

Justin opened his mouth to answer, to deny, but a sudden cramp doubled him over and, like a shot, he was jumping out of the bed and staggering for the bathroom. Brian stayed where he was and heaved a tremendous sigh.

Another fine mess we've gotten ourselves into, he mused, exasperation bubbling to the surface and eclipsing concern. Talk about the blind leading the blind! He didn't know how he would manage all by himself. If he could manage by himself. Well, why the hell not? his inner voice argued. He was getting more capable every day, more independent. He would simply have to manage.

By 8 a.m., Justin was running to the toilet every fifteen minutes or so. During one of his bathroom jaunts, Brian limped down to the desk and placed a phone call. It rang only twice before the chipper female voice answered with a cheerful hello.

"Deb? This is Brian." Briefly he explained the situation, and Justin's condition, to her.

There was only the slightest moment of hesitation. "I've got a shift in half an hour, but I could call in, if you boys need me."

"I think I can manage, if you tell me what to do," he insisted.

"I know you can manage, baby, I just wondered if you'd want to," she said warmly, and he could hear her smile. Deb was practically the only person he allowed to call him 'baby.' He'd learned a lot of years ago that it did no good to protest otherwise. He smiled, too, at her sentiment.

"We'll be fine," he answered indirectly.

With frank understanding, she said softly, "Paybacks are hell, aren't they, kid?" Then, when he didn't answer, she cleared her throat and went on, businesslike, "Okay. Keep giving him the Kaopectate--every hour, two spoonfuls. Make sure he gets lots of fluids--water's best, or ginger ale, if you have it. Tea, chicken broth. Keep him warm and dry. Nothing heavy on his stomach, just soup and crackers, like that. If he doesn't start to improve by tonight, I'd get him to a doctor tomorrow, but he should be all right. There's a heck of a lot of this stomach flu going around--half my crew's been out with it this week."

"Thanks, Deb. And, Deb. . . don't tell Mikey, okay?"

He heard her short laugh. "Understood. I'll check on you later, o'right?"

Hanging up the phone, he drew in a deep breath. He could do this. He could do it. He needed to do it. But Debbie was wrong--paybacks weren't always hell. He owed it to Justin, for all he had done for him in the past weeks; but it made him feel worthwhile, too, to be able to provide a payback.

Justin shivered and pulled the edges of the robe tighter across his chest as he climbed wearily back into the bed. The soft black material felt soothing against him, still held the aroma of Brian's cologne and body odor. He couldn't believe Brian had just taken it down and put it around him--he felt himself go slightly hard just thinking about, remembering it. That large hand gliding easily over his shoulder, and he had seen the banked desire in Brian's eyes, too, when he'd touched him, and later, when he'd wiped his face.

He was amazed at himself, that he was actually thinking about sex when he felt totally like death warmed over. But still, it was nice seeing Brian concerned about him again, showing in tactile ways that he cared. He couldn't deny that it gave him a thrill, both emotional and physical.

He heard Brian talking on the phone, and hoped that he wasn't calling someone to come over and help. Justin might not feel up to par, but he could still pull his weight, could still do what had to be done for Brian. To ask for help would be to admit defeat; his father had taught him that.

Sometimes a man needs to know when to ask for help. The words whipped back at him in his mind. Brian had taught him that. Or tried to. He seemed to keep forgetting the lesson, kept trying to follow his old man's principles, even though he believed Brian was right.

Take Brian himself, for example. Justin knew it wasn't easy for him right now, having to keep taking help from everyone. But he knew he needed it, and he accepted it, albeit reluctantly. He respected that about Brian, admired it. My hero, he thought, recognizing the mental sappiness.

It was well past 9 a.m., and Brian usually took his breakfast before this. Miserably, Justin headed for the kitchen in a slow shuffle, surprised to find Brian there ahead of him.

"Deb says you're a fucking little faker."

Justin grimaced. "She does not." There was a kernel of defensiveness in his attempt at a smile, until he saw the grin on Brian's face. "Get out of here. I have to fix breakfast." At the casual mention of food, however, his stomach revolted and he felt the urge to vomit again.

"Go back to bed, or curl up on the sofa. I'm making some tea and toast. I'll call you when it's ready." He heard Brian's voice from behind him as he headed swiftly for the bathroom.

"Here--drink," he ordered, when Justin stumbled his way to the counter, curiously eyeing the cat dining there. "You've got to keep fluids in, and this is herbal. It'll help settle your poor widdle tummy." Brian's leg was beginning to throb, but he ignored it and limped to the table, settling down in a chair as Justin carried the mugs and the plate of toast over and sat across from him. He was white as a ghost, Brian noted clinically.

"Thank you. But you don't need to take care of me."

Without thinking, Brian grinned gamely and said, "I know how to take care of you, and it doesn't include fixing tea." The meaning hung there between them, both of them perhaps startled by the remark. Ducking his head, Brian concentrated on his tea and toast. Justin, too, studied the contents of the mug as if attempting to read the non-existent tea leaves.

"Is Debbie coming over?" he asked after the awkward pause had settled.

"No. She has to work."

"Well, don't you think--" Justin began. The look on Brian's face stopped him. There was a firm resolve in his eyes, but a glint of amusement, too.

"I told her we could manage."

Justin tried another tack. "It might be contagious. I don't want you catching my germs."

Brian barked a laugh at that. "I've had so many antibiotics pumped into me, a germ would run screaming in the other direction if it got within ten feet of me." He wondered why Justin seemed so uneasy with the situation, whether he questioned Brian's ability to cope. It disturbed him to be thought of as unreliable in that way. Pensive, he stood up and retrieved his crutch, limping away to flip on the television. He sat on the sofa, pretending to be absorbed in the morning newscast, and a weather report that was forecasting sleet and snow.

He glanced over at the table, where Justin still sat sipping his tea, looking like a pathetic little waif in Brian's own large black robe. He imagined he was still naked underneath it. The boy was as much an exhibitionist as himself, loved to go around with nothing but his skin. The memory of a similar large white terrycloth robe appeared in his mind, Justin's words: "You need help. . .?" as he unbelted the robe. Hot, steaming sex, a frantic coupling in an anonymous hotel room in New York City, himself driven to distraction by worrying over what trouble the teen runaway might have encountered. Relieved at having found him all right, he had been crazed, obsessed with possession and the physical release of his anxiety. Punishing Justin. Rewarding Justin. Being one with Justin. Shit, they had rutted like two animals in heat.

At the table, Justin bent over and clutched at his stomach, grimacing with a cramp. Brian heaved a sigh and called his name. He snagged a pillow and put it on his lap and then, when Justin approached, grabbed one pale arm. "C'mere. Lie down before you fall down."

With a slight awkwardness, Justin sat beside him and leaned over, resting his head on the pillow and drawing his knees up to his chest. Brian carded his fingers through the limp blonde strands of hair. "Relax. . . just relax," he murmured, stroking, soothing. He smiled softly at the weight and warmth against him and leaned back, taking his own advice. The television droned on.

Around lunchtime, a delivery boy--one of the waiters from the Liberty Diner--arrived with a large jar of turkey rice soup, compliments of Debbie. She had also sent a turkey on whole wheat sandwich for Brian, and a bag of fries. Brian thanked the guy and, when he tried to pay, was told it was already paid for. He threw in a large tip and sent his gratitude back to Deb.

Again, he managed to muddle through the preparations, such as they were, and even managed to coax Justin into half a bowl of soup and some whole wheat crackers. He was still looking peaked, but a little better, Brian judged.

Justin, who had been sleeping off and on all morning, studied him from across the table. "You got yourself dressed," he observed.

Brian grinned. "Mostly," he admitted. He had pulled on an old pair of grey sweatpants and donned a worn flannel shirt, still unbuttoned, and had managed socks but not shoes. He had cleaned up by himself, too, after a fashion, in the bathroom.

"I'm sorry--I would have helped," Justin began.

"Justin." Brian's voice was sharp. "It fucking doesn't matter. I'm okay. You're the one who's sick." He pointedly indicated the soup. "Eat your soup."

Justin managed a half-smile. "Or you'll tell Debbie on me?" he prompted.

"Bet your life." Brian picked up another french fry and nibbled one end in comic fashion.

"Aren't you going to take that robe off and get dressed?" he asked critically.

Justin bent up the collar and sniffed at the fabric. "I like it. It's comfy."

"It should be--it cost enough." Brian looked at him curiously. "Why do you keep smelling it? Are you trying to compete with Rufus?"

Looking embarrassed, Justin didn't answer. He leaned over and gave Brian a rather chaste kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for. . .today. For being there for me. You always are."

"Shut up and go plug in the tree."

As dusk settled outside and the twinkling lights of the tree winked on, Brian joined him by the window beside the little pine. He felt an incredible urge to simply put his arms around Justin, to draw him in and enfold him, but he couldn't do that. Not physically, and not emotionally. It was too soon for him to be thinking such things, he wasn't ready yet. He took a step backward and when Justin turned, he smiled wistfully.

"I need to make some phone calls." Purposely, he limped over to the desk and turned his attention to other things, practical things, things that didn't swamp his mind with provocative images and disturbing concepts. He would order in something light for dinner.

The Munchers' house was lit up like a--well, like a Christmas tree. Brian stifled a guffaw as Melanie's sedan pulled into the driveway. There were lights around the porch and door, lights on the bushes, even dripping white icicle lights hanging from the roof, and an enormous pine wreath adorned the door. He looked across the seat at Melanie and saw her grit her teeth and paste on a smile that was as plastic as the small Santa figure standing guard by the entrance.

"Here we are," she chirped pleasantly. She had been chirping pleasantly ever since she'd picked him up at the loft.

Brian had lost the argument with Lindsay regarding how he would spend his Christmas Eve this year. She had insisted that he come to their house for dinner and the festivities attendant around his son's anticipation of 'Sannacaws'. He would be there to kiss his son good night; he would share this meaningful occasion with them, and there was no getting away from it. When Lindsay put her foot down about something, Brian knew better than to resist too long or too hard. And if the truth be told, he hadn't protested too loudly. It sounded better than sitting at home alone while Justin dutifully made merry with his own family, and everyone else was wrapped up in their holiday plans. The topping note had been Gus's own invitation--or rather, his babyish assumption that his daddy would be there. Thank you for that, 'Mom.'

"How many weeks did it take you to do all that?" he asked, indicating the decorations with his chin.

"You don't want to know." Melanie grimaced. "Tacky as shit, isn't it?"

He laughed sympathetically. It seemed he wasn't the only one who couldn't buck Lindsay Peterson. Or who loved her, he thought generously.

As he carefully attempted to climb out of the car, the front door opened and the object of their affection came bounding down the stairs with excited glee. She literally glowed with cheer as she gave him a hug that nearly knocked him back into the car.

"Careful, Mama--" he cautioned, regaining his balance. She swept up his crutch from the back seat and hovered as he limped toward the steps. The last time he'd been here, at Thanksgiving, he'd still been in the wheelchair. Now, making it under his own steam, however awkwardly, he felt a sense of accomplishment, a sense of pride in his progress. It wasn't easy, even with the railing on the left, making it up the four steps to the porch, but the women managed to give him just enough assistance to make it possible. By the time he reached the living room, he was glad for the opportunity to sit down in the nearest chair.

After the effort, it took him a moment to get his bearings and really take note of his surroundings. A huge, living potted tree was traditionally decorated and standing in front of the windows, and the entire room was festooned and ablaze with candles set up high enough that little hands couldn't reach. And just as he was gawking at the finished display of holiday cheer, the two year old whirling dervish tore into the room with squeals of glee.

"Dada--here! My house." Pudgy little fingers clutched at him as Gus attempted to climb into his lap.

"Merry Christmas, Sonny-boy," Brian laughed, ignoring the jolt of pain as a knee embedded itself in his left thigh.

"Gus--easy!" Lindsay reached for her son. "He's so rough," she remarked apologetically.

"You two are determined to make a dyke out of him, aren't you?" He gave her a stern frown. "And don't you dare say he's 'all boy,' you hear?"

Lindsay's smile was beatific. "I'd never say that. Gus is. . . well, he's his own person, whatever he wants to be."

"You look fetching tonight, Lindz," he told her, meaning it. She had swept her hair back and braided it down the back, and she was decked out in a gold satin blouse and brown slacks covered by an appliquéd red Christmas apron. As he'd noticed outside, she was fairly glowing, her smile warm and sunny.

"Sannacaws comin'," Gus announced, pushing at Lindsay to set him down. Blithely, she passed him to Melanie and grinned at Brian. "Dinner's almost ready. I just have to take the cornbread out of the oven."

As she headed for the kitchen, Brian glanced at Melanie in confusion. "Cornbread?"

"We're having chili. Isn't that the Christmas eve tradition?" She shrugged. "I just assumed it was a typical Christian thing."

Brian chuckled. "Not in my experience." He shook his head in wonderment at Lindsay and her sometimes strange notions. Melanie looked askance.

"It's not exactly the healthiest meal," she half apologized.

"Chili, Dada--Mommy got chili," Gus pronounced earnestly as Mel sat him down and he ran off to follow his mother to the kitchen.

As Christmas Eves went, it was neither silent nor calm. But it was bright--Gus saw to that. He was wound up and excited by everything, but he obligingly hung his stocking by the chimney with care, set out milk and cookies for Sannacaws, with a carrot or two for the reindeer, and presented his Dada with a homemade card with a candy cane fastened to the front. He came down from his bath smelling of baby powder and dressed in footed pajamas and looked good enough to gobble up, which Brian did attempt to do, much to the toddler's delight.

He kissed him goodnight in the living room, not up to climbing the stairs to his bedroom, then watched with amazement as the women brought out a mountain of presents, toys of every size, shape and variety, and arranged them under the tree. His own packages were added to the pile, brought in from the trunk of Melanie's car, and as the labors waned, he brought out an envelope from his pocket. He motioned to Lindsay to come get it.

"This is for Gus, too. His real present." The toys were just fluff. A few weeks before, remembering his own childhood Christmases, and how he'd never gotten anything he'd really wanted, he had asked Gus what he'd wanted.

"Remember what Gus said, the day I asked him what he wanted from Santa?" he reminded her now, as she looked curiously at the envelope.

"Brian, you did not buy him a horse!" she protested emphatically. Brian grimaced, remembering Gus, at the loft that day, the uncomfortable memory of his two year old son attempting to climb on his Daddy's back, asking for a horseback ride. Lindsay's face, stricken, as both adults realized that Daddy could no longer gallop around the loft bearing his son on his shoulders as he had before the stroke. With typical Kinney aplomb, Brian had pulled it off by convincing Gus that what was just as good as a horseyback ride was a train ride, as he settled the toddler on his lap in the wheelchair and chug-chugged him around the room pretending to be a locomotive. Now, he dismissed that embarrassing scene with a shake of his head.

"No, I didn't buy him a horse. But I do believe a kid should get what he wants. Open it," he insisted.

Delighted, he watched her gasp as she pulled out the gift certificate to a stable in the Pittsburgh suburb, to be redeemed for riding lessons at the kiddie academy there. "They said he's old enough to begin lessons in the spring," he told her, having checked it out by phone and Internet.

"Oh, my God, he'll love it!" she squealed. "This is terrific!"

Melanie looked up from the tricycle she was building in the dining room. "Isn't that kind of dangerous, at his age?"

"Now, Melly, don't go all Scarlett O'Hara on me," Brian winced. "My son's no Bonnie Blue Butler. You've been watching too much 'Gone With the Wind.'" He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "Although," he mused, "the analogy to Rhett Butler might be apt, if skewed a bit."

"I always thought he was straight," Lindsay murmured playfully. Then she leaned over and kissed Brian's cheek. "Thank you, Daddy."

Mel stood up. "I think I'm going to vomit. Or go check on Gus, one of the two." She headed up the stairs with a teasing wink at Lindsay.

Eyes twinkling, Lindsay picked up a small box from the pile and thrust it toward him. "This is yours. Why don't you open it tonight?"

He had not brought theirs, only the things for Gus, assuming they would exchange their presents tomorrow at the loft. But if she wanted him to have this now, he would graciously accept. He was never one to turn down a gift.

He sat it on his lap and tore off the wrappings. Inside the plain brown box was a purple cut-glass bottle with a thin silver chain around the neck. A small placket hanging from the chain was engraved with his first name. Curiously, he lifted the glass stopper, discerning that it was some kind of cologne inside, but none he had ever seen before.

The aroma was intense and altogether pleasing. Not anything he'd ever used, but somehow exactly what he would have selected. "Mmnn... what is this?"

"You," she said simply, then went on to explain. "I got it at a new shop downtown. The woman who runs it is a witch--well, she's Wiccan. You tell her about the person and she mixes a fragrance specifically for them. She asked me for your first name, your nationality or heritage, and told me to give her four words, or traits, that would describe you. Then she mixed this up."

Intrigued by what he considered a brilliant advertising concept and impressed by the accuracy of the result, he grinned. "And what were the four words you used for me?" he asked flippantly, expecting a rousing put-down. "Rude, narcissistic--"

"No!" She slapped at his knee. "I said," she looked thoughtful, as if trying to remember, "Passionate. Creative. Honest. And giving."

Several smart remarks were on the tip of his tongue, but he found himself unable to voice them. He wasn't quite able to process it properly. What had become of his image? Well, it is, after all, Lindsay, and we all know, boys and girls, that she adores me. He covered his discomfort by taking another whiff of the scent, and nodding. "I like it. Very much." He leaned forward and kissed her. "Thank you."

The tender moment was interrupted by a soft rap at the door. He winced. "That will be Justin with my golden chariot to carry me home." He saw Melanie heading down the steps to get the door as Lindsay stood. "I'm glad we had tonight, Brian. It meant a lot to Gus--and to me."

He met her eyes. "Yeah. To me, too." And he realized that he meant it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN will be posted on Sunday, October 5, 2003

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