It had been obvious that this year the plan would need a little altering. Tooling around town visiting one and all was simply not going to work. And he wouldn't even think about the usual festivities of the evening. So weeks before the holiday, around the time Justin wheedled him into having a tree, he began planning an official Kinney Open House--or, Open Loft, as the case may be. He had sent out invitations, by mail, e-mail, and word of mouth, to everyone he considered more than casual acquaintance, asking them to stop by on Christmas Day. He had employed the services of several catering firms for finger foods, desserts, even a liquor stock that he would be forced to eschew. Additional decorations had been provided, courtesy of an eager and artistic Justin, and as the event came together, he found he was actually looking forward to it.

After a quiet and private breakfast, Justin had helped him to dress in an elegant black velvet suit that he'd had before the stroke, with a red satin shirt under the jacket. The pants, peg-leg tight, were hard to fit over the brace on his right leg, but they managed. When he dabbed on Lindsay's gift cologne, Justin had nearly gone into orbit, raving over the aroma, and his reaction had tickled Brian's ego. He looked and smelled good, and he knew it.

Everything was in place, and it was just before the stated start time for guests to begin arriving, when the muscle spasms began in his shoulder. At first, he tried to ignore the stabs of pain shooting down his right arm, but they were soon too severe to be denied.

Justin, fine-tuning the buffet table, glanced up sharply at his bitten-off cry of distress. The pain was attacking on two fronts now--his shoulder was throbbing and his right hand was cramping, twisting into a contorted claw that was sending jolts of agony through his wrist and into his forearm. The spasms were so intense they made his eyes water as he staggered to a chair and sank down heavily, his crutch crashing loudly to the floor.

"Brian, what is it? A cramp?" Justin hurried over to him, but the minute he reached for Brian's arm, he met with resistance. It hurt too badly to bear touching.

Desperately, Justin tried to work out the kinks, as he had done before, but although it seemed to afford a slight relief, it wasn't having the usual effect. "You need to take your pain medication, and a muscle relaxant," he said softly, sharing the agony.

Reluctantly, Brian nodded his head, dreading the dull lethargy that the pills would produce, the sleepiness they would engender. At that point, he had no choice, although he cursed his body for betraying him once again. His shoulder felt somewhat better, but his hand was still bent and aching, the pain consuming his attention. He struggled to master it.

Gradually the agony subsided to a dull ache, and when Michael and Ben arrived the worst of it was forgotten in the flurry of excitement. Michael was sporting a new leather jacket and preening like a damned peacock--or was it a peahen?--and Ben looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary and Brian could just imagine why. Swallowed the peahen was more like it. They all made nice and exchanged gifts and Mikey said he and Ben would be back later that afternoon with his mom and Vic, after they'd had the traditional Novotny dinner. Brian took a small cup of the spiked egg nog as Justin saw them to the door.

It was a few minutes later when the next visitor appeared, and this time it happened to be Brian's mother. He was slightly surprised to see her--although he'd invited her, he hadn't really expected her to come over. But here she was, packages and all, and he discerned, from what she said, that she'd even taken a cab from home. He was amazed; even more amazed when she pulled out a small gift for Justin, too. She presented it to him tentatively, a lovely book of art prints that raised Brian's suspicions. Just when and how had she learned so much about him, he wondered, suspecting that the two had talked sometime without his knowledge. It made him edgy, but Justin's bright smile of gratitude kept his mouth closed about it.

For Brian, she had a dark blue cable-knit sweater and a large tin of homemade cookies. As they made small-talk, he had Justin retrieve her present from the pile under the tree. Handing it to her with a smile, he watched her unwrap the large gold foil box of Godiva chocolates.

"I remember one Christmas," he began, "when I was about eight or so--" he noticed her sharp intake of breath, the glaze over her eyes, and he was surprised by it. He realized that she was bracing herself for his memory, and it occurred to him that she anticipated another horror story. Was he, he wondered, that cynical and mean, in her eyes? He went on. "I went to that Cheap Charlie's--you know, the overstock place down on Patterson? I got you a box of candy--I think I paid about 79 cents for this humongous box--and I remember, when I gave it to you on Christmas morning, you opened it up, and. . . you offered me the first piece out of the box." He saw the puzzlement in her expression, and hurried on. "I thought that was so cool, so nice. . ." Then he trailed off, seeing her features soften, relax as she smiled at him.

"Well, I'm not going to offer you first pick of these," she remarked casually as she picked up a piece of the Godiva and put it in her mouth. "You might take my favorite." Then she extended the box toward him. "But you can have the next one."

He laughed as he took a nut cluster. "You're all heart, Mother."

Fortunately for his saccharine level, his buzzer sounded at that moment, and it was Lindsay and Melanie with Gus, which took the focus off of him and onto his son. With Gus around, nobody else had a chance for very much interaction, and his mother seemed genuinely delighted by her grandson. Eventually, he managed a private moment of conversation with Justin. "Have you been talking to my mother behind my back?" He kept his voice neutral. Justin's eyebrows shot up.

"I wouldn't call it 'behind your back'," he responded defensively. "She's called a couple of times when you were resting. And when you were in the hospital, we had a few brief talks. Not usually all about you," he finished archly.

Brian met his eyes, trying to discern what was behind them. He didn't know whether to be disturbed or not, whether or not he considered it to be somehow stepping over an invisible line. Finally, he decided the hell with it and shrugged his shoulders. "Just wondering," he remarked.

Justin grinned. "She reminds me a lot of you."

Truly shocked by that, he was about to respond when Gus came flying toward them with a squeal of delight and threw himself bodily at Justin. Brian let the moment pass and moved over to his other guests.

Later in the afternoon, there was a lull between visitors and Justin found himself alone with Brian. It seemed a good opportunity to give him the small gift he had made for him. Money was always and ever a problem for Justin, so he had spent every spare moment creating gifts for most and borrowing from his mom for those who wouldn't appreciate his creativity. Brian had been a special challenge, since he didn't feel that another piece of his artwork would suffice, and what did you buy on a budget for a man with such exquisite and expensive taste? He had been hesitant about giving him anything that would be construed as too intimate, and anything with sexual overtones would be presumptuous, so he had wound up with a simple project he had undertaken in his sculpture class. Ever critical of his own work, especially in a medium he wasn't proficient in, he was almost reluctant to present it. Brian, however, scoffed at his worry as he knelt on the floor beside the sofa and handed over the package.

"You didn't need to give me anything," he pointed out in what Justin thought was a slightly cavalier tone. But when he peeled off the gold foil wrapping, his eyes lit up with delight. "It's Rufus!" he exclaimed.

The ceramic cat was nearly life size, a painstaking rendition of a silver and white striped tabby with twinkling green glass eyes and perfect feline musculature. One dainty front paw was uplifted, clawing at the air as the figure sat back on his haunches and regarded the observer with dignified grace. Looking at it again, through Brian's eyes, Justin decided it had come out better than he'd thought, and he smiled at the pleasure it had brought.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You like it, huh?"

Brian's eyes were warm as they met his. "It's beautiful." The adjective was spoken softly and with an inflection that made Justin's heart jump unsteadily. Leaning forward, Brian cupped the back of his neck with his good hand and drew Justin in for a kiss. It started easily, almost casually, but as their lips met something unplanned occurred and suddenly there was heat and passion, escalating as Brian's hand trailed down Justin's spine and drew him closer, tighter. Justin felt as if all the air in his lungs had been sucked in and he was breathless, quivering, as their tongues met and began a mating dance that was so achingly familiar and completely exhilarating. He felt his cock stiffen and his balls draw up in arousal as he ground his lips against the other's with a lust he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. He was ready to tear off his clothes and climb into Brian's lap and sit on that glorious cock, impale himself with an urgency that had no rhyme or reason. It never ceased to amaze him, the power this man had over his body, the strength of their passion.

The buzzer sounded as another guest arrived downstairs. Justin broke off with a sharp cry of dismay just as roaming fingers squeezed the cheek of his ass. Brian's eyes were glazed as he pulled back, his mouth damp and swollen. Justin saw exasperation and something else he couldn't quite define as Brian reached for his crutch and got ready to rise. Justin made a hasty, covert check and was pleased to see the bulge below Brian's waist.

"I'll get it," he offered, but Brian shook his head.

"I heard about your conference with Vance the other day," she began, her calculating eyes meeting his. "Pretty magnanimous, weren't you?"

He stretched out his leg; the brace was beginning to pinch. "What do you mean?"

"The way I heard it, you offered to lend out some of your accounts to other execs. I just thought... it's not your usual style," she fished.

His grin was sardonic. "Just some of the accounts. And to execs who are hand-picked by me personally. Who, in turn, have to run any and all proposals past me. Temporarily, only, of course, until I can get back in full-time."

She bobbed her head. "Ah. I see. In other words, you pretend to be a team player without losing your advantage."

He lost the grin. "Actually, I am being a team player. It's my team. I'm partner now, so if Vanguard loses money, I lose money."

"Vance was impressed, I think, whatever your rationale." She hesitated. "Are you giving any of your work to the new guy?"

Brian scowled. The decision to hire a temporary contractual ad man to fill the void his absence had created, had been made when he was still out of the loop, in the first weeks after his stroke. "You talking about the new wunderkind Vance brought in?"

"Yeah, Lorne Grayson," she confirmed.

Brian squirmed. "Why does that name sound familiar? Rings some kind of distant bell," he mused.

"He was All-American at Penn State a couple of years back. Twenty-three, a real dreamboat in a jock-ish kind of way. Manners to die for, and he's sharp. But he's really, really nice, a good man."

Brian glanced up sharply at her. It wasn't like Cynthia to heap praises, especially not on someone other than him. He sensed a note of infidelity he didn't care for. "How sharp?" he asked brusquely. Fuck, Vance had used the same term to describe him, this homogenized, hetero, white-bread frat boy-football hero who'd been brought in to replace him. He didn't need the competition, not right now.

"The clients like him," she hedged. "He's had a couple of spectacular ideas. He's a hard worker and puts in hours you wouldn't believe."

"Ambitious," he remarked, summing it up.

"Yes, but he's just starting out," Cynthia pointed out. "He's still fairly green. I've been--" she broke off, as if sensing she'd said too much.

"Helping him out?" he finished, now even more disturbed. "Showing him the ropes?" His cutting smile was back. "Maybe grooming your new boss?"

Her expression was wary. "You're my boss. Brian, I worked too hard to be a partner's assistant to give that up."

He laughed, a harsh sound. "Come on, I know the game. I don't blame you for hedging your bets. If, for some reason, I can't come back a hundred percent, can't fully resume my place, you've got to have a backup plan. And going with a winner is the obvious choice, isn't it?"

He saw the hurt in her eyes, but also the look of entrapment, or was it guilt? No reason for her to feel guilty. He'd have done the same thing in her position. Then he noticed her eyes focusing on his hand, the right one that lay immobile in his lap, and he realized it was beginning to spasm again. There wasn't any pain yet, just the jerking motions that made him look like a retard or something. Swiftly, he reached to cover it with his left, to hold it steady. The words he was about to say died in his throat. Somehow assurances that he wasn't far from resuming his rightful place at the agency seemed futile in view of his present condition. As he hesitated, she spoke up.

"Brian, Lorne is just a temp. No one's looking to replace you." She looked up at his face. "Least of all, me."

"It's okay," he assured her, hearing the smoothness of his lie, the polished veneer at which he was so good. "I'm not blaming you. There's no blame in looking out for number one--I've always lived by that creed."

While they'd talked, more guests had arrived, and now he stood, gripping his crutch and getting awkwardly to his feet. "Excuse me a minute, will you? I see my duties as host are called for." He smiled at her. "Try the pate--they tell me it's excellent."

Justin was straightening the buffet table, chomping down on a deviled egg and picking at the tray of assorted canapés as he surreptitiously watched over Brian, who was beginning to look a bit the worse for wear as the evening approached. He was glad that there was only another hour or so to go and that most of the invitees had already been and mostly gone. There was only Emmett and Ted left, with Michael stopping back after returning Debbie and Vic home. As Ted occupied Brian across the room with a conversation that Justin deduced was about his financial situation, Emmett strolled over to the table and picked up a pickle spear.

"These are Schickel's, aren't they?" he asked, nibbling at one end experimentally. "You can taste the difference."

Justin smiled sympathetically at him, remembering the agony Em had endured when his lover George had passed away. Strangely, Justin had a new empathy with Emmett these days. "Yeah, they are," he answered softly. "Wouldn't use any other kind."

"Well." Emmett sighed heavily. "It's only giving money to that damned bitch now, I suppose, but there's still something that makes me prefer them. 'The pickle that people prefer,'" he quoted nostalgically, with a soft laugh.

Emmett glanced over in the direction of Brian and Ted as they both heard Brian's raised voice proclaim, "Fuck it!" over something Ted had said.

"Honey, that man is in a mood today," he fussed. "So much for Christmas cheer!"

Justin's concern escalated. If Brian's stress was apparent to the others, he must not be imagining it. "I think he's overdone it today."

"Well, I'm sure you know how to put him in a good mood again." Emmett beamed conspiratorially at him. "I'm sure you're going to have a good time tonight cooling that particular fire."

Not quite understanding, Justin stared at him blankly. Before he could respond, Emmett came over and laid an arm around his shoulders. "We all think it's just marvelous the way you've been managing here, honey. And Lord knows, Brian's not the easiest man to keep satisfied. Good thing you're young!"

As the intent penetrated, Justin found himself dumbfounded. They all thought that he and Brian had resumed their relationship--that they were fucking. He supposed it was an obvious conclusion; he was practically living here, and the history they shared had included every intimacy known to gay man. But it was a farce. They didn't actually share anything. Nothing substantial, anyway. The shock was sobering and made him unsteady.

Having no wish to share the private side of their relationship with Emmett or with anyone else, for that matter, Justin tried for a neutral smile and said nothing.

He ached for that intimacy that Emmett presumed. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, could feel it every day as he handled Brian physically and emotionally. He admitted that they had made some progress, and he acknowledged that he was grateful for whatever favors Brian was willing to bestow, but when would it change? When--or was it if--will they get back to where they belonged? Everyone saw it but Brian. But everyone else wasn't the one he had so casually thrown aside like yesterday's laundry. Everyone else wasn't the one he had hurt.

Still, even with the guilt, Justin knew it had been a two-way street, that he had himself been hurt and angry and confused over Brian's inability to commit, to work at forming a real relationship with him. No one seemed to understand that side of it. Even now, when he was working so hard to make it up, it was Brian who was keeping him at arm's length while he made up his mind what he wanted.

He was young, and patience wasn't his strongest virtue. Weeks seemed like years sometimes. Yet he knew he had to hold on and be as patient as possible. Only time would resolve things, but he got so tired at moments like this, when he wanted it all, wanted it now, wanted them to be where everyone seemed to think they already were. He felt despair well up and he moved away from Emmett. With a mumbled excuse, he headed into the privacy of the bathroom and shut the door.

He failed to acknowledge the stress involved, did not take into account the grueling work of presenting himself and camouflaging his problems and masking his concerns. That was simply a part of life, wasn't it? Surely nothing to get winded about. But the day's stressors had taken their toll and he couldn't even begin to contemplate the issues he had confronted and had yet to deal with. It was enough just to get through and make it until bedtime.

So when Michael indicated it was time for their departure, and Ted and Emmett stood up to leave, he could smile with genuine pleasure.

"So, where are you girls headed now?" he asked.

Ted looked at Emmett for confirmation as he answered. "We'll stop by Woody's for a bit, then it's on to Babylon, I guess."

"Ben's going to meet us at Woody's," Michael confirmed.

Emmett suddenly clapped his hands together. "I know!" he exclaimed. "Why don't you and Justin come along? Wouldn't you like to get out of here for a little bit?"

Michael was shaking his head. "I don't think--"

"Oh, sure," Emmett pressed. "We could pull out the old wheelchair, it wouldn't be any trouble, honey," he said to Brian. "It would be fun--like old times."

Woody's in the wheelchair--that sounds like just what I need. Brian winced. Justin, who was over in the kitchen putting things away, glanced over warily but said nothing. Before Brian could respond, Michael spoke up. "Don't even think about it," he told Brian sternly. "You've had enough for today. You need to get some rest."

The put-down, well-intentioned as it was, made Brian's hackles rise. No one--not Mikey, not anyone--told him what he could or couldn't do. "Excuse me?" he said icily. "I'm not a fucking child, Mikey." He pulled himself up and faced his friend with all the authority his height demanded. "If I want to go to Woody's, I'll fucking go to Woody's."

Emmett had blanched, knowing he had inadvertently started the issue, and Ted looked embarrassed as hell. Brian didn't know what Justin's reaction was because he was out of the scope of sight. Deliberately, he focused on Michael. Suddenly all the anger and frustrations of the day boiled down to his ability--or inability--to do what he wanted to, and Michael was the scapegoat caught in the vortex of his emotions. "But I wouldn't want to impose on your merry fucking Christmas celebration. Y'know, I think you're actually enjoying this, aren't you, Mikey?"

Michael looked shocked, but his voice was harsh. "Enjoying what?"

"Not having me out there to compete with any more. All of you fucking losers don't have Brian Kinney on the playing field right now. But just wait--it ain't over 'till it's over, friends." Fuming, completely irrational now, he stomped as best he could while limping over to the door and slid it open on its track. Three shocked pairs of eyes bored in on him with varying degrees of hostility and anxiety. Justin had stopped whatever it was he was doing and crossed to stand behind them, wearing an expression of fearful consternation.

Emmett cleared his throat. "Okay--time to go," he said evenly. "Justin, you comin', darlin'?" He snagged Ted's arm and pulled the dumbfounded man along with him through the door.

"Christ, Brian, you're some piece of work," Ted managed to mutter as he followed Em and they headed for the stairs.

Of the trio, only Michael remained, glaring at Brian with pain and fury in his eyes. "You're still an asshole," he shouted, "if that's what you really think."

"Get out, Michael. Go play." Brian's voice dripped sarcasm, but it was weary, too, the bulk of his anger dried up by the outburst. As the rage in him cooled, the first tendrils of fear began to set in. He could not have explained why he'd said what he did, could not have justified it had he been called to do so. It had simply hurled out of him, the product of too many hours of being nice, being gracious and hospitable. Too many hours of attempting to ignore his infirmities, of denying his present reality. If he had to be totally honest, he was sorry he had said it, but since he didn't do apologies, he would never admit that fact. He just wanted Michael to leave. He just wanted to be alone.

Michael just stood there with naked pain in his eyes, staring at Brian. "I never competed with you," he said finally, quietly. "I may have competed for you, but I never competed with you. But you're right about one thing--it ain't over." He turned to go, but spoke again over his shoulder. "And you're wrong, if you think I'm enjoying any of this shit."

In the silence that followed his departure, Justin walked over and slid the door closed. Brian looked at his taut back as he moved. "Aren't you going with them?"

Justin didn't glance at him as he moved back toward the kitchen. "There's too much to do here."

"Fuck the fucking mess! Go, if you want." Brian limped slowly over toward the alcove where his hospital bed had been strategically hidden behind a folding fabric and chrome screen for the party. Justin made no reply, so he tried to ignore his obvious presence as he eased himself gingerly onto the mattress. He was so tired he wanted to cry. Too tired to even undress, yet he needed to get out of the brace and the constriction of clothing. Feebly, he started to unfasten his jacket, staring down at the buttons in front of him as his eyes blurred.

And suddenly, Justin was there, his fingers making quick work of the difficult fastenings, skimming the jacket from his shoulders, then pulling the tail of his shirt from his waist and starting on that set of buttons, slipping the satin from him with gentle care. Brian relaxed and let him do it, too far gone to protest, even welcoming the assistance. He eased back and lifted his hips as Justin removed his trousers and shoes before unstrapping the heavy brace and freeing his aching calf. The leg was swollen some and red where the straps had pinched, and he felt Justin massage it with comforting strokes before using the cream from the bedside table to soothe the pain from the red spots. Lying there undressed and unfettered felt decadently wonderful, and the stillness and peace between them was further balm to his wounded spirit. He closed his eyes and felt as Justin pulled the blanket over him, felt the sensitive hands tuck it up around him, smooth the fabric over his chest, and before another grateful thought could enter his mind, he was completely and totally asleep.

Justin answered the phone on the first ring, afraid it would wake Brian. There was noise in the background, loud music blaring. The voice on the other end was Michael's.

"Justin?"

"Yeah." He whispered it.

A pause. "Is he all right?"

Justin smiled softly, not surprised, but appreciating the fidelity of this particular friend of Brian's. "He's asleep. He practically passed out right after you left."

Another pause. "Good." Then, "When he wakes up, tell him I'm still pissed as hell at him." It was said with affection.

"He knows." Justin hesitated, then, "He didn't mean it, Michael."

"I know." There was an audible sigh. "I'm glad you were there. With him, I mean."

Justin gave a rueful laugh. "Where else would I be? Where else is there?"

Silence, except for the music, now blasting "...I love the night life--I love to boogie--on the disco--highyyyywayyyy...." Finally, "Right," Michael said heavily.

"Thanks for calling, Michael." The smile touched Justin's voice, an uplifting note of gratitude.

"Okay. Take care."

"Bye." Justin put down the receiver, sat for a moment with his hand still on the phone. Then he rose and went in to sit by Brian's bed.

He sensed someone nearby, someone watching him; it was an unseen visitor from his vantage point, so he twisted as best he could to face the other side of the bed. Sure enough, there was a chair drawn up to the bedside, and Justin sat upon it, silently observing him. As his eyes adjusted to the sight, Brian saw that he was crying, silent tears filling his eyes and tracking down his flushed cheeks. For an instant, he panicked, felt a wave of fear and dread. "What's wrong?" he mumbled. "What's happened?" Michael, he thought, illogically the first one on his mind. Or who? Someone hurt? Something's happened.

"N-nothing. .. ." Justin swiped awkwardly at his tears, looked chagrined and embarrassed, and Brian relaxed. It was just an emotional thing, Justin unhappy about something... that was all. He relaxed, soothed. He cast about for something that Justin might be sad about, and remembered he hadn't given him his present--in all the hoopla, he had never had a chance. But Justin surprised him by coming over to the bed and putting his arms around Brian's shoulders and hugging him tightly.

Thoroughly confused, Brian looked askance at the blond head leaning against his own. "What's this?" he asked, bringing his left arm up to return the embrace. He cries. He hugs me. What the hell is going on with this kid?

Justin's voice was muffled. "I was just sitting here looking at you and thinking how happy I am. How grateful I am that you're here, that you didn't--" He broke off, emotion choking him. Before Brian could respond, before he could even take it in, Justin went on, his voice fierce. "It's the best Christmas... "

Brian felt his own eyes fill, overcome with the ridiculous sentimentality of it. That someone's happiness would be so affected by him, by his merely being alive, was truly incredible and completely overwhelming. He was touched, simply and purely touched, and he wasn't sure how to cope with it. It was like that time, he remembered, when he was planning to move to New York, and Justin had been so woebegone, so incredibly sad and terrified at the prospect. He had tried, then, to be cold, distant, to impart his philosophy to this oddly sentimental, artistic kid, and failing, had merely held him, tried to soothe that palpable ache with a gentle touch, so confused by the difficult emotions being stirred in him.

Now, two years and so many crises later, he could empathize more readily, could understand what Justin was feeling a little easier. But the magnitude of his own importance in Justin's life was still a constant revelation and a source of amazement. He could chalk it up to youth, to that first great love that only comes once in a lifetime, or so he was told, but he knew it was more than that. It was a sum greater than its parts.

He tightened his hold and buried his face in the softness of Justin's neck, the smell of tobacco and the sweet-smelling cologne Justin favored invading his nostrils. "You're such a twat! I thought you were crying because I didn't give you a Christmas present." He spoke softly, affectionately, his tone teasing.

"You're my present." Justin pulled back and rewarded him with one of his sunniest smiles. "I don't need anything else from you."

"No? That's good, because Ted tells me I'm nearly broke!" Brian laughed, excusing himself for the exaggeration. Actually, what Ted had said is that he would be broke soon if he didn't stop spending money like it was water. And in two weeks he'd have his quarterly bonus from Vanguard, so that would appease his parsimonious accountant. At Justin's sharp look, he waved a hand dismissively. "No--that's a joke. Seriously, I did pick up a little something for you. Look in that drawer over there." He gestured toward the nightstand.

Justin's eyes met his soberly, but twinkling. "Brian--you got me a condom. How thoughtful."

Brian's laugh was genuine. "Go on--look. It's an envelope," he hinted. "Got your name on it."

Curious, Justin opened the drawer. "Oo-kaay," he muttered dubiously, and lifted out the grey vellum envelope bearing his name. His eyes on Brian, he fingered it, feeling something lumpy inside. "What is it?" he croaked.

"Open it and see, already!"

Inside was a sheet of paper and a key. On the paper, Brian had written down an address. Justin recognized the street as one over by I.F.A., just a few blocks north of the campus. His first thought was that Brian had rented an apartment for him, and it made his heart sink into his shoes. He doesn't want me here.

Then Brian spoke. "Lindsay saw it and assured me it's perfect. You keep bitching about not getting enough time at the school's studios to get your work done, so I leased a place for you to work. Your own studio. You're on your way up in the world, Mr. Taylor."

"You--" Justin was speechless, stunned. "An art studio?" His voice squeaked. "Of my own?"

"For the next two years, anyway." Brian was delighted that his surprise had been so well received. "It's empty, of course--you'll have to bring in what you need. But there's a sink, and lots of open space and light, and Lindsay said a lot of your neighbors are students--" He broke off when Justin flung himself at him, knocking him back against his pillows, hugging him again in a stranglehold that threatened to cut off his air supply. "Oooff--" He laughed at the exuberance. "I guess you like it, huh?"

"Brian, I don't know what to say." Justin sobered slightly as he sat back and regarded him with awe. "I can't take--"

"It's a Christmas present, for fuck's sake! Say, 'thank you, Brian'!"

Justin managed a dutiful smirk. "Thank you, Brian." Then, "When can I go see it?"

"Lease starts the first of the year, but you can go see it tomorrow, if you want. It's vacant, and you have the key. The landlord said you can move stuff in before then, if you want."

"Wow. I never thought-- I didn't--"

Brian rubbed his fingers over Justin's arm. "There's something else, too. Sort of like a present. But I'm not sure if you can take another shock."

Justin's eyes glittered. "What?"

"Promise you won't have another attack, or you'll be having a stroke of your own," Brian warned. "Be calm, and I'll tell you."

"I'm calm," Justin promised, looking anything but. He was practically bouncing on the bed and his smile was beatific.

"The other day, when I talked to Gardner Vance, he offered me the use of his country estate up in the mountains. I took him up on it, and we leave Saturday for a little vacation. Get away from the routine, take a break. It's about two hours from Pittsburgh, a veritable mansion with an indoor pool, all kinds of accouterments. I was up there last summer for a company affair, it's really nice."

It took Justin a moment to digest, then he said, "We? Who's we?"

"Me. You. We."

"Just you and me?"

"No, half of Pittsburgh. Yes, that's why they call it 'getting away from it all'. I need a break, and I can't very well go it alone."

There was both longing and shyness in Justin's expression, and very apparent wonderment. "Like a vacation."

"Not 'like'. A vacation. We may not be able to go snowboarding, but I think we'll find other things to do."

At the mention of snowboarding, Justin's eyes sharpened. Then his expression softened and he entwined his fingers with Brian's. "I'm damned sure we will. I'm so--god, I'll have to pack, and we'll have to talk to your therapists, and--"

"Whoa! Settle down! You told me you were going to be calm." Brian grinned wickedly. "I can always take Mikey, you know."

"He's still mad at you," Justin said archly. "He called here earlier just to tell me to tell you that. And besides, I take better care of you."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Brian grinned as he imagined Michael's call, and knew everything was okay on that front, too. If Mikey called, he had forgiven Brian already. That was good. He picked up their joined hands and swung them back and forth. "Egotistical little brat."

"But I'm your little brat." Justin swung his legs up onto the bed and curled himself against Brian's side. "I love you and . . . thank you." The reasons for that gratitude remained unspoken as Brian drew him closer, hugging him against him. He was warm and fit snugly against him and the comfort of having him there felt especially good. Brian closed his eyes and thought about the day that had just passed.

Thinking back to that scene with Michael, Brian winced. "I guess I was pretty hard on my friends tonight," he remarked, trying to sound casual, but not quite pulling it off.

Justin hugged him. "They understand. You were just being Brian Kinney. I think they've come to expect it."

"I'm not sure if that's flattery or a put-down," he responded, glancing sharply at Justin for clarification.

Justin smiled. "Depends on who's looking at it. Don't worry. They knew you didn't mean it."

Brian settled back down, satisfied that Justin knew what he was talking about and grateful for being understood. The day had been full of ups and downs, good moments interspersed with some particularly bad ones. As he weighed and judged the points one against the other, he decided that there had been more good than bad, so it ended up on a plus note. Then he laughed silently at his own train of thought. It was something he had done as a little boy, charting up the good versus the bad of a particular day or week or vacation or whatever. He hadn't done it in many, many years. I must be regressing to my childhood, he marveled, amused at himself.

But hey-- whatever floats your boat, dude. With Justin still curled against him, with his fingers playing idly with the fine silk of Justin's hair, he drifted off, lulled to sleep.

On the morning after Christmas, they were not allowed the indulgence of sleeping late. The cleaning service arrived at nine and it was up and away from that point on. Justin took the Jeep and headed out on a pilgrimage to visit his new art studio, and to Brian's chagrin, his presence was replaced by a petulant Michael, who still seemed to have a hair up his ass after last night.

His snit, however, didn't last beyond the first five minutes. Brian knew him all too well, knew which memory tapes to replay, which comments would elicit that goofy nostalgic smile, and, in asserting his proper status, Brian felt a measure of abiding satisfaction. It was almost like old times, just the two of them joking and reminiscing over shared boyish adventures. Mikey confided that he was anxious to do another issue of Rage, so when Justin returned home all starry-eyed and bouncing off the walls raving over his new studio, the two comic partners began plotting the next issue, conveniently excluding Brian, who was relieved to have some time to himself. Strange that he had once resented their collaboration. Strange that he had actually felt jealous over them sharing time together. My, how times had changed, he marveled. Now, he was grateful for the opportunity to go off by himself and be virtually alone, even if they were in the same room.

By nine that evening, Brian and Justin were alone in the loft. Michael had departed after a hastily thrown-together dinner, and the idea--the desire--that Brian had been skirting around all day began to build to a feverish pitch.

Justin had settled at the computer to complete some work on the new issue of Rage that he and Michael had outlined that afternoon. Brian rose from the chair and headed haltingly for the bathroom; Justin swiveled to regard him in concern.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Dandy," Brian muttered casually. The walking was actually getting easier, so long as he took his time.

In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothes and regarded his naked self in the mirror. Outwardly, standing still, he didn't look too bad. Much of his muscle tone had returned, thanks to the diligence of his workouts; in fact, his upper body strength had improved, and he was pleased by what he saw reflected in the glass. Almost there.

Sitting gingerly on the closed commode, he considered what he was about to undertake. It felt right, to him, but he acknowledged that he had to be absolutely certain. And it wasn't just about him, he realized, with an insight new to his thought processes. He had to be sure that it was freely accepted and understood for the right reasons.

He had given the matter a lot of thought and he believed that the time was right, just as Sigmund had told him. "You'll know," the good doctor had said, just the other day. "When the time is right and you're ready, it will happen, my friend."

Absently, he fingered himself. God, he was so horny. Never in his life had he ever had such a case of blue balls, never wanted relief so badly--never was a time when he couldn't get all he wanted any time he wanted. And he had always wanted it, and always indulged that need. Simple pleasure, no regrets, no entanglements, no worry. How gloriously easy his life had been.

He felt his heart speed up, accommodating his anxiety. He felt like an awkward teenager again--no, scratch that. He hadn't been this frightened even then. It had been a delightful journey of discovery, accompanied by eagerness and excitement. This was starting over at thirty. This was intimidating. This was. . . shit. For the birds. Bird shit.

Fuck it. He was Brian Kinney, with all that name implied. What the hell was the big deal?

The bravado spurred him up and out of the bathroom. It carried him across the room that had formerly been his bedroom, where he regarded the unmade bed with a touch of annoyance. When would Justin learn to make a goddamn bed when he got out of it? The kid was a natural born slob sometimes. . . .

He went over the rationale in his mind one more time. It seemed straightforward and logical enough. He wanted Justin. He was almost certain that Justin wanted him. It didn't have to mean anything more than that.

It didn't have to. . . but maybe it did. Maybe he was assuming too much. Maybe he was asking too much. Maybe it would. . . change things . . . .

For the good, or for the bad?

He settled down on the bed. Its contours felt strange now, after the month of sleeping on the adjustable bed in what had been his living room. Strange, yet completely familiar, like coming home. Big and roomy, soft and dark with its black sheets and cover. Sensual. He could feel the power building just with the atmosphere.

Moving awkwardly, clumsily, he managed to turn on the wall lights, casting a blue glow over the bed. He could detect Justin's smell on the bedclothes, the fragrant man-odor that was so much a part of him, that conjured up memories of so many nights when they had lain entwined in this space. It felt good to be here again, even if only temporarily.

He could see Justin over at the computer from where he lay, and he allowed himself the pleasure of simply watching him for a few minutes, studying his profile set in concentration on his task. The features were mobile--a sudden impish grin, a scowl of annoyance, an impatient brushing of his hair from his forehead. Brian hungered, let it build, enjoyed the silent, covert scrutiny. He felt his cock begin to twitch and throb.

After not too long, Justin seemed to sense the eyes on him, or perhaps he realized how long Brian had been gone, and he turned, looking over toward the sleeping alcove. His gaze settled on the prone figure and locked with Brian's stare.

"Sunshine. . ." Brian said softly, and he could hear the catch in his voice, damned the pitiful crack like an adolescent in puberty. Come on, Kinney, be a man.

Concern and a kind of wariness warred in Justin's demeanor as he rose and came toward him. "What's wrong? Are you all right?" He stepped up into the alcove.

Brian wanted nothing more than to leap up and pull him down beside him, wrestle him playfully onto the mattress and assert his intentions. But it wouldn't happen, not tonight, perhaps never. He knew he dared do nothing that would allow his body to betray him, to demonstrate its weakness and pathetic awkwardness. Keep it simple.

He didn't know what to say or how to say what he wanted. Hey, kid, let's fuck. . . C'mon, Justin, let's do it. I'm horny and I want you. . . "Yeah. I'm all right," he said softly, hoping for a lightbulb to go off in Justin's head.

"Why are you lying in here? Do you want me to help you?" Justin hesitated, and Brian saw his eyes travel down the length of his naked body, saw the reciprocal desire flare brightly. Brian grinned lasciviously.

"Yeah. . . you can help me." He spoke softly, gingerly, as his heart continued to pound at his audacity. He was freaking, and damned if he knew why!

Justin looked confused, as if he wasn't sure he was interpreting correctly. Gamely, though, he came over and sat on the edge of the bed. "What do you need?" His voice, too, sounded husky, a little dubious.

God, this was so difficult! Thinking about it, planning it, it hadn't seemed that complicated. Brian vacillated between being flippant and smart, or simply telling it like it was, factual. He settled on something somewhere in between.

"I have to know. I thought maybe you'd like to discover the answer with me." Fear sharpened his tone.

And remarkably, Justin understood. Brian had known he would. He could have chosen anyone to experiment with; he could have tried an anonymous trick, or he could have asked Michael, whom he trusted with his soul. But of them all, of everyone he knew, Justin was the most like himself, the only one who would understand, who could empathize with his situation and whose reactions would be the correct ones.

Justin barely nodded, the tiniest bobbing of his head. He reached over with one hand and cupped Brian's jaw, then stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. "I'm ready, if you are."

Brian felt a wave of relief, of gratitude. It was a precious moment of perfect understanding that he would never forget, as long as he lived. He levered himself up to a sitting position with his left arm and managed to manipulate his right across Justin's shoulder, resting it there. He let out a long, shaky breath and inhaled deeply. "Okaay. . ."

Justin shed his clothes as they began to kiss, long, slow, deep kisses that escalated as they slipped into old, familiar patterns of arousal. It was hard to tell which of them was more eager, more ready as they melted together and touched all the remembered erogenous points of the other. It reminded him of the time when Justin had just regained his memory after the bashing and had implored him to be gentle.

Brian lay on his back as Justin trailed his tongue down his quivering torso, as his hand took possession of Brian's cock and stroked it gently. With a groan of exhilaration, Brian was relieved as it responded to the coaxing, hardening and thickening with each pull. His own left hand moved restlessly over Justin's naked flesh, delighting in its texture and form, heaping more stimulation on the ever-growing pile.

Heat consumed him as the erotic manipulation increased, grew more demanding. When Justin's warm, wet mouth replaced the hand that had been lavishing attention on his poor, neglected cock, he thought he'd go over the edge right then. Grimly he bit his lip, holding off, holding back... waiting.

Urgently, he pushed at his partner, sluggishly maneuvering them into the position he desired, arranging them on their right sides, spoon-fashion, as he tight-fitted himself against Justin's ass. It was Justin who remembered the condom, who turned and reached into the drawer, who accomplished its fit as Brian giggled self-consciously, abashed at having almost forgotten in his heat and his haste. Justin grinned back at him, that sunny smile that he remembered so well, his sweat-beaded face flushed pink, his eyes gleaming.

"I taught you well, Grasshopper," Brian intoned, his own smile and glimmering eyes matching as he palmed the proffered blob of lube Justin poured out. He was fully confident now and satisfied that this was no mere mercy fuck. Justin was enjoying it as much as he was, getting as much as he was giving.

Despite his handicaps, they were discovering their rhythm now, playing old, intimate tunes with an assurance born of familiarity. As Brian slid himself into the slick, tight channel, he felt a wild thrill of accomplishment, a territorial authority that took his breath away. Yes. . . the pleasure. . . and the pain. . . the pleasurable pain. . .! It was everything that he was, everything that he would ever hope to be. In the hot, hard abandonment of sex, he was Brian Kinney again, he was whole and complete.

It did not take long. It was molten lava and it was fast. He seemed to spasm forever, gushing forth for an eternity of intense and insane ecstasy. Dimly, he heard Justin cry out, knew that he, too, had achieved his goal, and Brian took joy in that, as well. They were quite a pair.

Panting, gasping for breath, Brian began the fall back to earth, the descent into normalcy. His head was spinning as his heart slowed to its regular beat and his cock deflated, slipping out of its cozy home. Other than the average post-coital ennui, he felt fine--more than fine. Triumphant. Exalted.

Justin twisted around to face him and put his arms around his waist, ground their lips together for one more passionate kiss. Brian cupped the back of the blond head with his left hand, his fingers tangling in the soft, damp hair. His feelings were very close to the surface; he felt raw and exposed, open and vulnerable.

There was a delighted gleam of triumph on Justin's face as he pulled back and regarded Brian happily. "You're still wonderful, you know that?"

Curiously, inexplicably, Brian's eyes filled with unshed tears. The full-scale acceptance was more than he had expected or perhaps deserved. It was somewhat frightening how close he felt to this person, this. . . partner, how well Justin seemed to know him and see him for what he was, and to somehow accept him, warts and all. The moment demanded honesty.

"I was. . . a little. . .frightened," he admitted. "I wasn't. . . sure. . . "

Justin's smile brightened even more, if that was possible. "Well, I guess we laid that particular ghost to rest, didn't we?"

"You did." It was true, he believed. He wasn't sure the outcome would have been the same with anyone else. Not this time. Not now.

Once again, Justin proved that he understood. "I'm just pleased that you trusted me enough. That means a lot to me."

Brian was overwhelmed by the sincerity of the words. "Thank you. . . "

Justin's eyes twinkled with his own unshed tears. "Anytime, baby." As he moved over slightly, he added, almost hesitantly, "Would you like to sleep in here tonight?"

And Brian smiled. "It's my bed, remember?"

Tension lessened, Justin smiled back. "Oh. . . yeah. So it is."

In answer to the question, Brian reached down and pulled the blanket up over them, settled down on his back, and closed his eyes. Justin curled against him, his heart singing an alleluia chorus of satisfaction and gratitude. His world, too, was complete.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN will be posted on Sunday, October 12, 2003

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