Brian liked the idea well enough--so removed from his Irish-Catholic past and Liberty Avenue present it almost felt like an anthropological expedition--but insisted on being back, alone with Justin, for ringing in the New Year.

They soaked in the Jacuzzi, slept, and cuddled in front of the fireplace throughout a day as slow as molasses and as sensuous as a summer breeze on bare skin. With their impatience growing, they decided to leave the mountains and return to Pittsburgh on the first day of 2003, and called Gunther and Michael to make arrangements.

The darkness outside was punctured by stars and the last wedge of the waning moon by the time they began to get ready to go out. Sitting on the oversized bed, they dressed each other with slow and meticulous care, hands brushing each other's lines, lingering on exposed patches of warm skin, fingers running through unruly strands of hair. Finally, Justin paused and stood between Brian's legs, facing the other perched on the edge of the bed.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"I'm always quiet. You are the chatter-box. Besides, maybe we've said it all, know it all by now?" The attempt at joking crashed hard into Justin's frowning disapproval.

"It . . . it almost feels like we're saying our goodbyes to each other." Eyes lowered, Justin added in a whisper. "I couldn't bear that."

Brian captured the younger man between his arms. "I'm not going anywhere." He rested his head against the other's chest and was totally still for a moment, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat. "It's different, though, when you have already died once. None of that bullshit about your life passing before your eyes, no bright lights, no fucking fanfare and the song of angels awaiting on the other side. Just a sudden nothingness. Lights out." He shuddered. "So, maybe we should say goodbye more often, just in case we run out of chances. But you wouldn't know what I'm ta . . ."

His hand, rubbing the nape of Justin's neck, froze mid-motion. "Oh-my-god, Justin, but you do know . . ." Coma, the 'other' petit mort they'd both experienced, the intimacy of near-death forging another link in the strange chain that seemed to have bound them together from the start.

"I do know what it's like to have almost died. Almost. But I'm alive--and so are you--and we've moved on." Justin leaned his head back into the stroking palm. "C'mon, lets bid farewell to the old year and greet the new one. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us."

Following Gunther's directions, they found the Lancaster Inn without any problems. As they pulled up in the Jeep, a small, wiry man adorned with moustache and beard appeared at the entrance and greeted them with broad gestures and a deep-throated 'Hello.' His manners didn't hint at whatever he was making of the two of them--kin, patient and caregiver, friends, or more--as he jovially ushered them into the generously proportioned dining hall. The large, raw maple-wood table was set for fourteen, with most of the guests, some couples, some families with children, already seated and sipping their drinks. The host, who introduced himself as Otto Schultz, was providing a running commentary on the history of the inn and the area around it. Hesitating for a moment as he took in Brian's slow and awkward progress, he offered to show them around the common areas of the inn, but the two politely declined.

Perfunctory introductions were offered around the table in that casual way of stranger meeting stranger, sure their paths will never cross again. Drinks were poured, the dinner bell rang, and they all settled down for what turned out to be a two-hour meal, with an endless stream of dishes appearing from the direction of the kitchen, to be passed around, sampled, savored and discussed by the progressively overstuffed diners. It was foodstuff designed, in its time, to satisfy the appetites of hard-working farm folk--chicken corn soup and pot pies, roasted pork garnished with schnitz and knepp, dumplings and chow chow relish. The dishes were served with apple cider and red wine as the conversation around the table grew louder and its flow looser among the guests.

Brian was barely picking at his food--novelty aside, the heavy German cuisine was not to his liking, although he watched with barely concealed glee as Justin ate his weight through the countless courses. He only hoped the younger man's metabolism would serve him into his middle age.

By the time the traditional shoofly pie with vanilla icecream was served, Justin was too full to swallow and Brian was ready to leave. They made their apologies cushioned with profuse compliments and a good tip, and were on their way.

They moved to the bedroom and, switching on the TV to watch the Times Square festivities, Justin remarked, "Dick Clark must be an alien, with a life span of 250 years. That's the only way to explain why he still looks so good in his 70's--a mere teenager on his home planet."

"Yeah well, you know what they say. There is a picture of him somewhere going to hell," Brian commented wryly, but the expression on his face said he wouldn't object to striking a similar deal himself.

The midnight hour was fast approaching, and by unspoken consent they decided to wait for it fully dressed and proper. Lowering himself with a grunt to one of the plush armchairs, Brian reached for Justin's arm and pulled him into his lap. "Did you enjoy your time here, Sunshine?"

"I did. It was like a 'timeout,' a snowbound camp for the Wayward Boys of Liberty Avenue. Quite remedial, actually," Justin ended with a fake British accent. "But I'm ready to go home." As long as home is with you, he underscored the thought with a kiss to Brian's temple.

"It's a little scary too, though," the other countered in an admission that would have been rare for him until recently. He didn't elaborate on the 'scary,' but Justin had no difficulty in finding a list of topical candidates to fill in the blanks for the sentiment.

With a loud 'Hramph' Max came to his feet and pushed his large, square head between them, vying for attention. For a while they played with him, rubbing the ridge of his nose and scratching behind his erect ears, and he rewarded them with a wagging tale and the chattery dog 'talk' characteristic of his breed. If we had a house, we could have a dog, Justin ruminated for a wistful moment as he watched the happy union of man and dog. Then he cut the thought, excised it from his mind--the word 'we,' by rights, shouldn't even be in his vocabulary.

The ever-present clocking of time on the screen called them back. With five minutes left, Justin hurried to the kitchen and returned with the opened bottle of champagne and two glasses. They both stood, their voices climbing louder with the countdown, escalating into a whooping sound as the ball dropped. They mouthed "Happy New Year" to each other in tandem, emptied their glasses, and met in a passionate full-mouthed kiss that tasted of expensive champagne and heady hopes for 2003. Justin lifted Brian's arms around his shoulders, embraced the taller man's waist, and slowly swayed their matched bodies to the tune of Auld Lang Syne blaring from the tube, underscored by Dick Clark's endless drivel. It wasn't exactly a dance, but it was close enough, as they were both caught up in the old fashioned song, the rhythm, the warmth of their bodies joined into one.

Moving slowly, Justin backed his partner into the chair and descended on his knees before him, hands impatiently fumbling with buttons, zippers and clasps keeping him from his lover's bare flesh. Then his gaze traveled to Brian's face, and he stopped. The other's eyes were opaque and unfocused, their hazel muddied into dull brown. Justin knew the look well, had the opportunity to learn it over their years together. Brian was in a dark place--the same place he'd periodically retreated to even before his stroke. A black hole, soaking up his energy, zapping his life force. Locking him in, banishing all others out. And Justin dreaded it, knew of no way to combat it.

"Right then," he said to no one in particular and pulled back up the zipper of Brian's fly. "It's late and we're both tired. Long day ahead tomorrow." He knew he was babbling, but it was better than trying to look into Brian's eyes. Instead, he nudged him to his feet and steered him to the bathroom, to get ready for the night.

ABC was just about to replay the dropping of the ball for the tenth time when Brian finally climbed into bed, his half-closed eyelids heavy as lead. Justin, naked and barefoot, made the final rounds to check doors and turn off lights. Passing from room to room he paused at random spots linked, inexplicably, with current images. His fingers brushed surfaces, memorized textures, recalled the two of them touching, laughing, making love--his honeymoon. He would never call it that, would never formulate it in words to anyone else, but he would always remember it.

On his way back to the bedroom he picked up the bottle of champagne. Some days he felt too inadequate to deal with the complex world of Brian Kinney. He needed another drink--he needed all the help he could get. Within minutes he climbed into bed, already feeling a pleasant, numbing buzz as he spooned Brian's sleeping form from behind. He was aware of closing his eyes and then he, too, was out cold.

Justin woke with a jolt, surrounded by total silence. Disoriented, he listened for a moment but could only hear his own wildly beating heart. His arms were empty of the solid reality of Brian's body, the deep indentation in the other side of the bed the only witness that Brian'd been there.

He tumbled out of bed, nearly falling on his knees, and scrambled to the bathroom--the first logical place--to look for his partner.

In record time he covered the first floor, his steps escalating into a run, voice calling out Brian's name with a growing ring of panic. In a full circle of search he made it back to the bedroom and grabbed some clothes, his hands shaking so badly he could barely pull on his sneakers.

Next, he headed for the pool, almost too afraid to look into the blue depth. Finding it empty, he paused for a moment's relief and gathered his thoughts. Clearly, Brian was not inside the house unless he was intentionally hiding--not a likely scenario. That would mean that he ventured outside--as to why, where to and how, Justin couldn't even attempt to guess. But then, he also couldn't have gotten too far.

It was the wee hours of the night--the pool clock showed 3:00 a.m.--and with a sudden stab of guilt Justin realized that had he not been deep in sleep somewhere between slightly tipsy and wasted drunk, Brian could not have left on his mysterious trek without waking him. He stopped the indulgent self-accusation with a shudder; right now, he had only one priority--to find Brian as fast as he could. Hastily wiggling into his jacket Justin began to check all the doors leading outside. He found the door opening from the kitchen to a small herb garden unlatched and, hands trembling again, he pushed it open.

The first sound to hit him was a low growl, and several yards ahead his eyes made out the dark silhouette of Max's head. The dog, a barely visible apparition of dark on dark, rose to his full height with ears erect, tail straight and back rigid in a universal stance of warning.

Packed snow crunching under his rubber soles, Justin ran in the dog's direction. Beside a row of boxwood bushes, he finally located the object of his search. Slumped into a deep well of snow accumulated on the seat, Brian huddled on the small gardener's bench paralleling the boxwood hedges, his body leaning against the wrought-iron back. All he had on was his cashmere robe, a pair of unzipped jeans, and a blanket hastily thrown around his shoulders; his feet, no socks, were encased in a pair of untied Nikes and nested in a bank of powder-dry snow on the ground. Max, who'd stopped growling, stood in front of him and leaned against his knees, silent sentinel to his self-chosen solitude.

Justin rushed over and bent down to sit on his haunches beside Brian, touching him with frantic hands. He shook out of his parka and arranged it over the broad shoulders shivering under the comforting contact. Brian just sat in utter, compliant silence, neither acknowledging the intruder, nor admitting him into his private world. Justin was all over him, brushing snow flurries off his hair and lashes, rubbing the ice-cold hands resting idle in Brian's lap, grazing the chilled cheeks with his own warm lips. "Brian, what are you . . ?" he began to ask, then stopped. He received no answer, nor, realizing Brian's near-catatonic state, did he expect one.

Scrambling to his feet, Justin began to pull up the other's unresisting body. Facing Brian and bracing him with both hands under the taller man's armpits, he helped him stand. His gaze fell on the other's face--the lines of the classically chiseled features were a study in shadows, the dim rays of the waning moon revealing only the barest hint of their beauty. Justin searched the eyes, fearing the deep, light-devouring darkness he'd seen in them before--but this time, Brian's huge, dilated pupils were bright and full of expression, and twin runes of the brightness, reflected silver in the moonlight, ran from his eyes down his cheeks. Justin touched his finger to the other's face, tasting the salt of grief, and felt tears collecting in his own eyes in response. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and pointed toward the warm, fully lit house. "Want to go inside? Three a.m. is no time to enjoy the landscape."

Brian's hoarse, whispered voice shocked him. "'In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.' F. Scott Fitzgerald. Very well put." His gaze, for the first time, focused on Justin with full recognition. Exhausted and cold, he leaned his forehead for a moment against Justin's, then added, "I'm done out here. Let's get the fuck out of the cold."

Max's voice rose several decibels to the next level of 'dog-speak,' alerting the obtuse human to the fact that there was an outrage at their front door, threatening the pack and requiring immediate action. And that he, Max, was more than ready to perform the heroic duty of defender he was entrusted with--was the short human similarly battle-ready?

Wrapping himself in Brian's discarded robe Justin padded toward the entrance, one hand grabbing Max's collar to bodily restrain him. "Son-of-a-bitch," he stopped his grumbling as he peeked through the stained glass, "if it isn't the 'Dynamic Duo'? What on earth are they doing here?" His free hand fumbled with the key, the other tightened his grip on the large Shepherd ready to lunge as he swung the door open.

Carrying a halo of snow flurries whipped by the freezing wind and bundled up like Nanook of the North, Michael and Ben spilled into the hall. Michael wore one of his trademark grins but Ben's expression was a chilled frown, indicating that his presence might not have been fully consensual. Barging past Justin, Michael was calling out loud as he searched the place, "Brian, Brian, yo Brii-an, where are you--the cavalry is here for the rescue."

Justin ran after him, grabbing his arm and bringing him to a momentary halt. "Shut up, Michael, he's still asleep. And--what is it you're rescuing him from?"

"Major snowstorm, forecasted to last the entire day," Michael answered as he shook off the restraining hand and forged ahead, the other two men in tow. "Place ain't half bad," he remarked in passing, "good old Vance has done well for himself." He found the master bedroom, tore in, and with a final, excited "Brian!" threw himself on the king-size bed, almost landing on his friend. Reaching over, he planted a full-mouthed kiss on the sleepy man's lips.

As the kiss lingered, a momentary shadow of discomfort darkened Ben's face before his usual, amused and slightly benevolent look returned to veil his feelings. Emerging groggily from the assault, Brian finally stirred, opened his eyes, and just stared at Michael. He pushed him back at arm's length and asked with a slow, punctuated growl, "And what the fuck are you doing here?"

"There's a major Nor'easter heading this way--snow, ice, sub-zero temps--we just thought we'll come to retrieve you, make sure you get home in one piece." Puppy-eyed grin firmly back in place, he added, "after all, isn't that what best friends are for?"

Justin just watched as Brian, visibly relaxed and much less querulous, leaned back on the pillows. He swallowed hard, stole a furtive glance in Ben's direction, but remained silent.

"Mikey, it's only snow, not exactly a rare event in Pennsylvania. You're soooo pathetic," Brian grumbled, but there was a smile on his face as he ran his fingers through his bed-hair. "Now why don't you file out nicely from the bedroom and let me get up and ready."

"Want help?" The question was blurted out in tandem by Justin and Michael, widening the grin on Brian's face. "Must be an echo in here," he deadpanned, "now get the hell outta here--all of you. Can't I ever piss in privacy?"

It was noon by the time they were all packed, fed, and ready to go. Justin wrote a note of thanks to Gunther and Brian padded the envelop with a token of his appreciation. They were already in the hallway, Ben helping Justin to load the Jeep, when Michael raised the question. "Why don't you ride with me? Justin and Ben can follow in the other car."

Brian just stared for a moment, then swallowed hard to control his annoyance. "And why would I do that? Justin and I came here in one car, together. We'll return home the same way."

"But, you would be safer with me, besides . . ." Michael began to argue, only to be cut short by an exasperated retort.

"We're not even going there. The answer is no. End of discussion." Feeling his temper rise, Brian headed for the door, Max following close on his heels. He bent to hug the dog, roughly tousling the long, rough mane adorning the strong neck, whispering his private words of goodbye. The other two men returned, done with loading the car, and they all headed out. Justin patted Max one last time, cast a long, lingering glance at the place, and locked the door behind them with a sigh.

The world outside was all shades of white--the heavy virgin snow accumulating pristine white on the ground, the puffy flurries falling so dense they drew a solid chalky curtain around them, the sky an ashen pale promising more snow.

Ben pulled out first. Before shifting into gears, Justin placed a hand on Brian's knee and said with a smile, "Thanks."

The answer was fully expected. "Thanks is bullshit." But then, with a smile of his own, Brian amended, "You're welcome." Turning on the high beams, Justin pulled out to follow the other car, a warmth spreading through him that had little to do with the Jeep's heating system.

Deftly, he threw it into the back seat and waited by the open passenger door as Brian maneuvered himself into the vehicle. It took a few minutes for him to get himself arranged and comfortable, but Justin made no move to help him, knowing any offer would be refused. It was freezing cold and the wind caught his hair, blowing it in his face and stinging his cheeks. Finally, he shut the door and went around to get back behind the wheel.

They had only been back from their mountain odyssey for a week and a half, long enough for Brian to settle back into his routine and for Justin to resume classes at PIFA on a somewhat diminished schedule. It was Thursday, and in Justin's new abbreviated semester schedule, one of his free days. It was also one of Brian's therapy days at the hospital, where he used the hydro-pool and the special equipment to strengthen his muscles and retrain his arm and leg. Justin was glad he'd worked out his new schedule the way he had, because it left him free to chauffeur Brian to and from his appointment, and gave them a chance to spend some extra time together.

Sometimes Brian returned from therapy tired and grouchy, but today he seemed to be in a good mood and not as exhausted as usual. Justin turned and smiled at him as he put the car in gear and turned up the heater.

"Home?" he asked. "Or would you like to stop off somewhere and get some lunch?"

"Neither." Brian's expression formed the ghost of a smile. "I had another destination in mind."

"Okay." Justin pulled out of the circle in front of the hospital and moved into the traffic. "Where to?"

"I want to see your studio."

"My--?" Justin hesitated, surprised by the response.

"Yeah, you know--that place I'm paying for. I'd like to see what my money's going for."

Swiftly, Justin's mind swept over the layout of the building. "Shouldn't be a problem." Secretly, he was tickled that Brian was taking such an interest, that he cared. He sincerely doubted it had anything to do with the monetary investment.

"After," Brian continued, "I'll treat you to lunch. There should be a hot dog stand on the campus somewhere," he quipped.

"I'd be honored," Justin joked back.

It was an old building in what had formerly been an industrial area that was now in the midst of being refurbished and refined as an adjunct of the campus, with student housing and services going in, older architecture mingling with newer places. A huge, three-story sprawling brick dwelling, it had started out as a warehouse, been converted into studios, work shops, and apartments about ten years ago. There was a delivery ramp on the side of the main entrance, and it was up this ramp that Justin led Brian. He carried the gym bag, which Brian had insisted on bringing along, and slowed his pace to match his companion as, shivering, he pulled open the heavy door and held it until Brian entered.

The hallway was all dark wood, with decorative woodwork that bespoke an earlier age. The lighting was dim but sufficient, and there was a faint smell of mingled odors of varied uses--paint and woodsmoke, cooking aromas and paraffin, solder and linseed oil. A large suite of rooms on the right as they entered was home for a day care center, and the sounds of children laughing could be heard in the hall. Justin's space was at the end on the left, and he produced a key and unlocked the huge, seven-foot high mahogany wooden door.

Inside, Brian was surprised to find it extremely light and large. It was a corner of the building, so there were windows on two walls, facing the west and the south. Huge, tall windows with outer grills for protection, let in the dominant light. The floors were old light oak polished to a bright shine. Along one wall was a waist-high counter of speckled formica and a deep industrial-sized stainless steel sink. The brick walls were painted a neutral beige and the one sheetrock wall was bright white. The ceilings were high, probably ten or twelve feet, and fluorescent tube lights were suspended about a foot below the apex. Two grey stone posts intersected the open space to lend support to the ceiling.

Apart from the basic structure, Brian noted the touches that he assumed Justin had already added. A futon with a blonde-wood frame and a black cover sat against one wall. On the counter sat a small microwave oven, and a mini-fridge sat on the floor at the end of the counter. There was a small dinette set consisting of a round butcher-block table and two cane-back chairs in one corner. In the central part of the huge space were two easels--one with a large sketchpad resting on it, the other with a blank canvas. Several more blank canvases were piled against one wall, along with a cardboard box of what appeared to be art supplies.

"You've done a lot of work in here already," he commented, slowly exploring the studio. "Where'd you get all the furniture and stuff?"

"My mom, mostly," Justin admitted sheepishly. "She bought the fridge and microwave, donated the futon and the dinette set from her garage."

"Mmn." Brian's tone was noncommittal. "I gather she approves?"

"She thinks it's super. And Michael's going to help me bring over my computer next weekend. That way, we can work on Rage over here and not get in your hair at the loft when we start the next issue."

In my hair. . . Brian felt a twinge of regret. The entire setup seemed just a bit too cozy, too... homelike. "You could practically move in and live here," he remarked, keeping his tone casual.

"I was thinking that," Justin admitted. "Maybe not permanently, but sort of, like, when I'm not at the loft, instead of going to my mom's." Grinning, he went over and plugged in a small electric heater. "Look," he enthused. "I bought this at the Goodwill store. It gets cold in here, even with the heat on."

At least it wasn't the kerosene type, Brian reflected. He had always been wary of space heaters, but the electrical kind seemed safe enough. He indicated his gym bag with a flick of his head. "I bought you something, too. Put that up on the table."

"Another present?" Justin asked eagerly. He followed the direction, placing the bag on the table and watching Brian as he opened it and rooted within, producing a small plastic bag.

"All for you," he smiled, his voice promising a tease.

Curious, Justin reached in and pulled out something soft in black felt. Slowly, he unfolded it, still not quite tumbling to what it was. Then it became clear, and his laugh was loud and sincere.

"It's--a beret!" he exclaimed.

Brian took it from his hand and lifted it onto Justin's head. Awkwardly, with one hand, he arranged it properly. "Now you're really an artiste."

"Justin Van Gogh." He giggled. "Damn--there's no mirror in here!"

Brian dug into the gym bag again and pulled out a small square one. "Here."

"You really do come prepared!" Justin looked into the glass and subtly rearranged the hat, tilting it rakishly toward his forehead. "Yes? Ze like?" he asked with a phony French accent.

Brian's smile was genuine and bright as he studied the effect. The black against the pale of Justin's hair was stunning, and the damned kid was so cute it made his belly flutter. "Very much. Ce magnifique. You must wear it all the time."

Justin leaned forward and threw his arms around Brian and kissed him. "Thank you."

The impulsive gesture that Justin began was hardly enough and Brian deepened both the embrace and the kiss, taking the French lesson a step farther and inserting his tongue in his partner's mouth. They continued for long moments, basking in the mutual pleasure.

It was Brian who broke the contact, who lowered the foot of his crutch to the floor and stepped away, glancing back at Justin with a devilish grin as he crossed to the easel with the sketchpad. "No artwork, though. No pictures."

Justin laughed, the sound raw and shaky. "No, not yet. I haven't had time."

"You have time now," Brian pointed out, still completely in control and steady. He glanced suspiciously around the studio. "Fuck! I know what's missing here."

Justin grinned, knowing a Kinney prelude when he heard one. "What's that?"

"There are no pictures of my cock. You always have pictures of my cock."

"Something should be done about that." Justin decided to play straight man, so to speak.

"Now's your big chance." Brian reached down and untied the string of his sweat pants, as Justin moved in close and slipped his hands inside the waistband and pulled down the jersey fabric.

Justin's hands were cool against his hips and the chill in the studio surrounded him as the pants were lowered with forthright approval. Brian took a step back as the unveiling reached the strategic point just above his already burgeoning cock, deliberately slowing down the pace and taking control.

With just a minimum of help from Justin when absolutely necessary, he managed to get undressed, removing shoes and socks first, then his sweater and the sleeveless teeshirt he wore beneath it, and finally the pants and the underpants he wore in deference to changing at the hospital. He deliberately made a show of it, pleased to recognize that he had regained much of his former panache. Despite the brace on his leg and the uselessness of his right hand, he could still act the part. For the moment, he felt as if he were his old self again, desiring and desirable, almost fully in control. Look at me, he shouted silently, triumphantly. Want me. Take what I have to give you.

Justin was stooping on one knee, a few feet in front of him, still in position from when he had helped remove the footwear. His gaze was everything Brian could ask for, reflecting admiration and pure unfettered lust. With a throaty chuckle, Brian lifted his arms from his sides, the right one only slightly lower than the left.

"Are you coming or going? Or coming, and then going? Or coming, and staying...?" he echoed his initial come-on softly, and was rewarded by one of Sunshine's most dazzling smiles as he mirrored the memory. Justin rose and came to him, met him with equal fervor and enthusiasm.

As Brian bent over and nuzzled his ear and neck, nipping at the soft flesh, Justin tore off his own clothes, shedding them with hasty, eager movements. As he peeled, Brian devoured those areas bared, getting rougher as patience waned and hard need took over. And the more he demanded, the more Justin surrendered, matching him mood for mood.

It never ceased to amaze him, this other person's ability to always be and do what he wanted, and yet never seeming to sacrifice any pleasure of his own. It was as if they were so finely matched, so innately tuned to one another that no matter what was required by one or the other, they both equally enjoyed the process of getting there.

Brian broke off the assault long enough to step over to the table and dig into his gym bag for an ever-present condom, a staple item always kept in an inside pouch. Justin followed him, wrapping his arms around Brian's waist and leaning against his back as he fished for the prophylactic, trailing wet kisses down his spinal column before Brian turned back around and resumed his own single-minded campaign.

"You want me to open up the futon?" Justin asked breathlessly.

"Fuck the futon." Brian's voice was clipped, harsh as he backed Justin toward one of the stone posts a few feet away. Without being told, Justin rotated and spread his legs apart, clinging to the thick pole and offering his ass for Brian's use.

Of all the sex partners Brian had entertained in his crowded and promiscuous life, none had ever matched him like this one, either in intensity or variety. From that first, dubious time, there had been something special about Justin Taylor, something more than the fact that he was an innocent virgin hell-bent on discovering the wonders of gay sex. It was more than could be explained by logic or psychology, more than even words could try to express. It was a thing of the heart, or the soul, an indefinable something that Brian had never been able to put into coherent thoughts, much less words. No one had ever commanded him, with or without apparent intent, like this. He'd never wanted to keep coming back for more, ever more, with anyone else before Justin. He didn't understand it, not fully, he just accepted that it was true. Apart and aside from everything else, not counting personality or any other facet of their relationship, if one dared call it that, the sheer, raw, animalistic sex drive they shared was in and of itself awesome and incomprehensible.

By leaning his weight against Justin's back and carefully bending his waist, Brian managed to balance himself on his good leg and shove his sheathed cock into the waiting ass. Despite the chill of the room, he was sweating profusely now, spurred on by the inarticulate noises Justin was emitting as he thrust deeply and roughly into him. One of Justin's hands reached back and clenched at his hip, the fingers digging desperately into him. Brian used his left hand to brace himself at the post, his nearly-useless right arm crooked around Justin's waist, pulling him closer, tight-fitting them together as they moved in cadence.

"Harder--" Justin urged, panting roughly, complementing the claim Brian was putting on him. Stimulated beyond mere pleasure, Brian felt himself on the verge of orgasm, gasped in exhilaration at the sheer joy of the act.

"God! You're--" he felt the seed begin to shoot out of him, and he groaned, low in his throat. ". . . love--you. . ."

He didn't even realize he'd said it, so lost was he in the heady rush of his climax. He felt Justin's body jack-knife, stiffen in amazement, and he clung to him, afraid that if he let go he would fall over. As the momentum drained from him, as he began the perilous descent from the mountaintop, he shuddered.

Justin swiftly managed to turn himself around and lend the support of his arms and body, taking Brian's full weight against him as he leaned his back against the pole. Gently, he kissed Brian on the lips, a soft caress after the roughness of the sex.

Recovering slightly, Brian realized that Justin was still hard, still incomplete. His good hand rested on the younger man's shoulder, massaging gently. "I think... why don't you open that futon now?" he remarked in as casual a tone as he could muster. "We have a job to finish."

With clumsy haste, Justin opened the frame of the futon and spread the mattress out, topping it with a thick down quilt he had tucked on the floor under the frame. Behind him, Brian continued to touch and nuzzle him, providing a maddening distraction. Justin's knees were beginning to buckle when he finally collapsed on the bed and reached eagerly for Brian in a desperate embrace. He needed to get Brian off his feet and comfortable, knowing that the man would push himself beyond his limits to accomplish what he wanted.

As Brian stretched out on the thin mattress, Justin sat up quickly and reached down to unfasten the straps of his brace. He knew Brian wouldn't need it for right now and was ultimately more comfortable without it on. His hand stroked the calf lovingly as he doubled over and began trailing moist kisses up the inside of the bared leg, moving past the knee and up the thigh, his fingers and lips taking the same path with concentrated affection. Brian's cock was spent now, glistening moistly against his belly as Justin's tongue rooted in the region between his legs.

He heard a soft chuckle of amusement. "Hey. . . enough about me," Brian murmured. "Your turn, Sunshine." With deft deliberation, he moved, flipping Justin over on his back and sliding down to tickle his navel with his tongue.

Justin giggled, his own cock at maximum attention and more than ready for relief. He shivered as Brian's mouth descended and took him in, arched his hips in automatic response.

It hadn't been that long since they had resumed their physical relationship, but Justin was learning quickly how to deal with Brian's handicaps, how to compensate without being obvious about it. The last thing he wanted, the last thing Brian needed, was to sense any lack of efficiency or prowess. Justin considered it his part of the deal to make sure there was no sense of loss.

At first, it had terrified him. He'd been afraid he would hurt Brian, that Brian would hurt himself, that the exertion would be too much, that an untoward movement would cause a cramp or spasm, that Brian would consider his deficiencies unsurmountable and, frustrated, give up, shut down, close off. But skill and experience on Brian's part and an uncanny ability to compensate, to anticipate and to unobtrusively smooth over any awkwardness on Justin's part, had put to rest any fears he might have entertained. He had learned the new rhythms, and instinct and familiarity had done the rest.

Now, despite the patience of Brian's efforts, he sensed the need for some haste in finishing the exercise. Where once he would have stretched it out, made it last as long as possible simply because he could, Justin now abandoned his self-control and let the tremors course through him with a rush to fulfillment. He felt the urgency of his orgasm splinter his endurance and his focus, let it happen with an ecstasy that overshadowed everything else.

No one had ever made him feel like this. He didn't think anyone ever could.

He let his arms encircle Brian's shoulders, clung weakly as Brian pulled himself up to bestow delicate kisses to Justin's neck and face. Heart pounding like a jackhammer, Justin basked in the afterglow of their union, delighted by the unpredictability of his lover. Brian could go from rough and tumble predator to quintessential Lothario in no time flat. Sex with him was forever an uncharted region that always satisfied.

Practicality, however, took precedence as Justin snatched at the comforter and pulled it over them both. The sweat was cooling on their skin and he wanted to prevent a chill, although sometimes he suspected Brian had a built in personal heating system. Perfunctorily, he tucked himself into the languid body of his love and snuggled gratefully in the soft embrace.

Brian snuffled. "Consider the place properly christened," he mumbled in satisfaction.

"You make it perfect," Justin whispered, his lips against Brian's ear. You give me this place, and then you give me yourself. And I know which of those gifts I appreciate the most, which has the most value. He could feel the deep, steady heartbeat against him, sense that the tension had drained away and left Brian loose and relaxed. Justin wished it could stay like this forever, a life without worry or concerns, no struggles to recover lost ground, no sadness. . . .

You're being a ridiculous little nelly, he chastised himself with amusement. It's enough simply to have moments like these, mere oases in the desert of life. They are precious because of their rarity.

As he lay there, holding fast and regarding the man in his arms, he remembered the moment earlier when Brian had exploded the words that had sent him reeling, that had flooded his mind with passionate ecstasy: ". . .love--you . . ." Words, he was sure, that Brian didn't even realize he had uttered in his extreme moment of release.

Justin smiled, remembering the first time Brian had said the words, that first night of his life, the declaration coming on the heels of another climax, prompted by chemical and alcoholic consumption combined with emotional overload that had effectively vanquished the great Kinney's controls. And Justin, inexperienced twit that he'd been, had taken the words at face value, had even bragged to Daphne that Brian had proclaimed his love for him. How incredibly naive he had been!

Later, in the course of their relationship and their frequent sexual escapades, Brian had cut loose with the phrase on various occasions of lust, but by then Justin knew that it didn't mean anything, held no notable significance for the recipient of the sentiment. Hell, it wasn't even a sentiment, it was merely an insensible declaration of meaningless passion, perhaps spoken to enhance a spectacular fuck. And if Brian ever remembered afterward having said the words, he had never given any indication to Justin in the light of day.

It had thrown him today, though, because it was the first time since the stroke, since Justin had come back to him, that the familiar pattern had been repeated. In and of themselves, the words held no significance, but the fact that Brian was well enough to utter them again was more than cause for celebration. It was a tiny milestone, and probably marked only by Justin himself, but it both encouraged and delighted him, this positive step forward.

"You hungry?" Brian inquired lazily, looking perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

"I can wait," Justin assured him, softly stroking the broad back curved toward him. "Let's just rest a moment." He was confident that Brian would comply, would take the request as Justin's own preference. It was a small manipulation that accomplished Justin's private agenda. Nodding wearily, Brian closed his eyes and made himself comfortable.

While Brian dozed, Justin quietly got up and put on his clothes, then took out a small sketchbook and selected a Number Two pencil from the box of supplies. Propping the pad on his thighs, he scrunched himself into the chair by the table and studied the man lying on his back on the futon.

Without hesitation, he began a drawing, the image coming from both mind and eye to his hand with automatic motions. It was the first sketch he had made of Brian since the stroke, not counting the two small, dark portraits he had made in the desperate gloom of the ICU, drawings that he had never shown to another soul and that were hidden deep in a dresser drawer at his mother's house.

Those had been rough and ugly, done for the most part to try to exorcize the horror of what he was confronting in that hospital room, to work out on paper the feelings he could not express adequately in any other form. He had been so afraid, then, that he was going to lose Brian, and all the terror and sadness had come out in his art, in the stark renditions of the fragility of life. They were not pretty pictures and he could barely stand to look upon them now.

But this rendering was different. The daylight streamed in through the windows, bathing the sleeper in a wash of sunshine, streaking his hair with gold. As his fingers automatically drew what he saw with his eyes, his mind supplied the details that made the picture come alive. Observations that he could not have consciously made became noticeable.

In format, it resembled the first drawing he had made of a sleeping lover--Brian on his back, his face in profile. And subconsciously, he noted and recorded the differences. There were signs of the battles that Brian had recently waged, a deepening of shadow under his eyes, lines that hadn't been there three years ago. But there was also a softness that hadn't been there, a subtle loss of arrogance or anger that seemed to cleanse his features with a new beauty that was amazing for Justin to observe. This was, he concluded, a man who had changed--who was changing--perhaps some of it not so good, but also much of it for the better.

Justin worked steadily, concentrating on each detail as he recorded it, and although his subject was covered by a blanket, he removed it in his drawing, penciling in the naked form with familiar intimacy. He drew the broad chest, glistening with the faint shine of sweat from their lovemaking, focusing on each muscle group in sharp relief. When he got to the area below the waist, he smiled, recalling his original rendering of that glorious cock, how he had made it so much larger than life in his eager enthusiasm. This one, curled upward in a semi-erect pose, was far more beautiful, he suspected. Stunningly perfect, he drew it from memory with loving care and precision, a testimony to its strength and agility.

Suddenly, he became aware of Brian's gaze on him. He flushed and met the frank appraisal in those shattering orbs.

"You're drawing my cock," Brian observed smugly. "I can tell by that look on your face." Brazenly, he shoved aside the blanket, unveiling himself, then sat up and held out his hand for the book. "Let me see."

Justin reluctantly came over and sat on the edge of the mattress and handed him the sketch. How much, he wondered, would Brian see of his thoughts and observations?

Whatever Brian intuited, it must have pleased him, because he smiled, a soft, knowing smile. Then he cleared his throat and handed it back. "Amazing how you artistes can see through blankets," he remarked, droll and teasing.

"Starvation produces mirages," Justin told him, hastily closing the sketchpad.

"You were the one who wanted a nap." Brian struggled to rise; Justin smoothly lent a hand.

"I'm going to need more than a hot dog," he warned.

"We can stop at the Chinese Imperial Garden," Brian offered. "They have a luncheon buffet where I think you can get enough to replenish your artistic stomach."

Justin leaned over and gave him a hard, short kiss. "I'd love that! Hurry up--I'll help you get dressed!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN will be posted on Sunday, October 26, 2003

Return to Title Page                            Go to Next Chapter