"I'm coming as fast as I can." The downstairs buzzer was still ringing when Brian finally punched the button, not in the greatest of moods. "Who the hell?"

"It's Jennifer . . . Taylor," came the cultured voice, "sorry to drop by unannounced."

"Yeah. Come on up," Brian cut her off curtly. He heaved the door to the loft open, resenting the intrusion on his privacy. It was rare to have an afternoon to himself.

Calm, collected and perfectly coiffed, Jennifer emerged from the elevator. As if picking up on Brian's thought, she asked. "All by yourself? How come Justin deserted his watchdog post--where is he?"

"Not quite sure, but I think it has something to do with rearranging some of his courses or else being banished, for good, from the hallowed halls of PIFA."

"Not a hard choice for him, I'm sure, you or PIFA," she commented dryly. She stepped inside the loft, carrying with her a variety of shopping bags and boxes.

"Sorry I can't give you a hand - don't have one to spare," Brian intoned, leaning on his crutch as he moved out of her way. "Kitchen?"

She only nodded, then watched him as he made his way to the raised counter and plopped himself on one of the bar chairs. "You're doing quite well," she noted matter-of-factly.

"Quite well compared to what?" He stopped, remembering his own mantra, Self-pity is bullshit. Instead, he opted for the direct approach. "So, Mrs. Taylor, why are you here?" He still refused to call her Jennifer, even though the relationship between them had normalized much in the past year. Fuck, he thought, she was virtually my mother-in-law until . . . She had made a point to visit him in the hospital and later in rehab, but this was her first visit to the loft since his release home almost two months ago. And this, he was sure, had to do with turf.

He saw her gaze raking around the loft. The hospital bed had been returned just last week, with him resuming permanent residency back in his own bed, more often than not with Justin sleeping beside him. As he followed her gaze, he was aware of Justin's discarded clothes strewn across the foot of the mattress, and he knew she was drawing the obvious conclusion.

"I wanted to see how you were doing," she said. "Brought some things for you and Justin. Mostly," and she looked him square in the eye with that unflinching openness that always managed to unnerve him, "I wanted to see the two of you together."

It was a strange thing for her to say, and he mulled it over for a moment before replying. "See us together? Why? Besides--define 'together'."

"I could. But my definition is not the one that counts. Yours is the only one that counts." She waited for her meaning to sink in. It did.

"And what about Justin's definition?" Clearly in discomfort, Brian shifted in the chair.

"Justin is already 'together' with you, insofar as it's up to him, Brian. But it isn't, is it?"

Recognizing her momentary advantage and granting her the first round, he decided to call a tactical retreat. "I'm not going to sit here and discuss your son, or us, for that matter, with you." He slid off the chair, catching his balance with a hand on the counter, then, leaning heavily on his crutch, he began to pace.

Like a wounded lion, Jennifer thought watching him, waiting. As if the mask has momentarily slipped, and beneath the power and danger lies, naked and exposed, the vulnerability and pain. Human, after all. She decided to raise the stakes. "If you won't discuss it, I will. I have watched you--the two of you together--since that time I first laid eyes on you at that Gay and Lesbian art show." In truth, she had first laid eyes on Brian's nude picture, lovingly drawn by her son. At the time she'd wondered whether nature had been that generous to Brian, or if it was infatuation that had guided Justin's hand to exaggerate the details. Since then, of course, she had been treated to a few naked-Brian encounters, rendering the question moot.

Focusing her attention back on the present, she continued. "This isn't necessarily my definition of maternal bliss but, much that I hate to admit it, you two belong together. Justin knows it, and hopes beyond hope that he hasn't come by this knowledge too late. The question is, do you know it? Can you believe in Justin, can you trust him? Can you bury the past, live beyond it?"

"Mrs. Taylor," Brian's voice was getting dangerously low as he stopped his pacing and faced her. "Some things cannot be laid to rest, while still bleeding. The past is present," his voice broke as he choked on the words, and until I can perform post mortem on my dead, my self, I cannot move on and reside in the present . . .

He felt his emotions leaking out of him like from a broken vessel, escaping like free, undisciplined spirits to mock his self-control. Tears of anger burned his throat, threatening to spill out with the flood of emotions. The vise of a sudden headache tightened around his temples and he began to hyperventilate as he tried to catch his breath.

Stunned by his reaction--so unlike the Brian Kinney she'd known--Jennifer tried to come to him, calm him, offer a hand. His words were harsh and rushed as he stopped her, "No, don't touch me! Leave me alone!"

For all her calm, she was about to panic when the loft door slid open, and Justin walked in. His smile of greeting quickly turned into concern as his eyes took in the scene, and Brian's state. He rushed to the older man's side. Embracing him with both arms, transferring his weight to his own shoulders, he began to steer Brian toward the living room sofa. Once seated, Brian grabbed his forehead with his good hand, his gaze unfocused as he stared at Justin. There was no sign of recognition in the vacant eyes. And that's when the tremors started. It began in his shoulder, moving down his affected arm, making the muscles tighten and shake as the spasms shot through them with frightening frequency. He gasped in pain and bit down on his lip as he hugged his arm with his good hand, trying to contain the damage and the shame.

At a loss for a moment, Justin reached for intuition. He slid into a sitting position behind Brian, his arms and legs spooning the tall frame from the back, and began rocking, calming him. His right hand massaged the tensing muscles in Brian's arm, fighting the spasms and muting the pain until the tremors subsided and the other's entire spent body slumped into Justin's embrace. Easing him back on the leather cushions Justin climbed out from behind him, careful not to stir him from his semi-somnolent state. He ran his fingers through Brian's sweat-soaked hair, stroke his face, and retrieved a light blanket to cover him. Only then did he remember his mother.

She had been standing all this time, motionless and spellbound, at the far end of the loft; silent observer to what exactly she couldn't name. A barrage of emotions attacked her, warring for recognition--if she wanted to see her son and Brian together, she's certainly been presented with an eyeful.

Fury animated Justin's features as he turned on his mother. "What have you done to him? Why did you come? And how the fuck dare you upset him so much?" He almost struck out at her, voice escalating. "Leave. I want you out of here right now."

"I'm not going to." Pale and shaken, she stood her ground. "I'm here on an odyssey for the truth between you and Brian. Not speaking the truth--not speaking to each other at all--is what's gotten the two of you to this point. It has to stop. And I'm here to help it along, whether you approve or not."

"This is none of your damn business. Butt out of my life, and start by treating me like an adult."

"You're not. Neither of you is."

"She's right, you know." Stunned, both Taylors turned to Brian who was still lying on the sofa, clear-eyed now and fully awake. "Please, Jennifer, stay." Brian calling her by her given name was not lost on Jennifer. She only nodded and walked up to him, propelled by a surge of hope as she saw the openness on his usually unreadable face. "Can I get you anything? I know that I need something after you nearly scared me to death... " It was a clear peace offering.

"Oh, it's just a few little items I added lately to my repertoire of tricks. Muscle spasms, uncontrollable swings of emotion, embarrassing public displays--anything to spice up life after a 'slight cerebral event'." Behind the light tone lurked anger and despair. And a hint of astonishment at the need to reckon with the new, compromised self his body has presented him with; Brian Kinney, the no-longer-perfect specimen.

"It's transitory, Brian. With time and rehabilitation it will pass. And you will be restored to your old, swaggering, in-your-face self we all know and love." Justin stood behind him, absently rubbing his shoulders and neck. "In the meanwhile, you have to take your pills and eat something." And before Brian had a chance to articulate his displeasure with the notion of nourishment, he added ominously, ". . . and I'm not beneath force-feeding you, if I have to. Will you help me, Mom?"

She stood by watching, somewhat at a loss, as Justin helped Brian up and over to the dining area. The tactile kinship and intimacy between the two was palpable and clearly distinguishable from their combustive sexual chemistry. She sighed and moved forward with renewed determination. Yes, she was pushy, but she was pushing them in the right direction.

They were nearly finished with their meal when Justin decided to pick up on the conversation. "So," he hesitated, turning to Brian, "what were you two talking about?"

"The past. The walking dead," even as he said it, Brian knew the reference would be foreign to Justin. But memories from over a year ago came flooding into his mind--his concern about Justin's recovery from the bashing, his talk with Sigmund, his psychiatrist trick-turned-friend, and the subtle ironies of fate. He was no handsome prince any more, and his Rupunzel did escape from the tower anyway, only to come back of his own volition. "Your hair is getting soooo long," a smile warmed his eyes looking at Justin, his hand reaching to brush the smooth blonde locks.

The apparent non-sequitur raised Justin's alarm, but one look at Brian reassured him that, at least for the moment, all was well.

Determined to get them back on track, Jennifer spoke. "We talked about trusting and taking chances. Risking to feel. I asked about the two of you together."

Shocked by his mother's daring, still Justin had eyes only for Brian. His gaze was riveted to the other's perfectly shaped mouth, tight-lipped now into a straight line as Brian pondered Jennifer's words. Justin could feel himself will Brian to speak. Any version, any phrasing, any script would do; it wouldn't have to be the exact words he'd waited to hear for so long . . . Anything that would signify Brian's willingness to allow Justin back into his life. Fuck, he thought with sudden free and off-the-wall association, I wish I could do Vulcan mindmelds, telepathic suggestion and all that other good sci-fi shit. 'My mind to your mind, Brian . . . Ohmmmm.'

Clearly, something of Justin's emotion reached Brian. He chewed on his lip for a moment, than the moist lips curved into a smile as he pointed nonchalantly toward the bedroom. "I have a ton of unused drawer space, why don't you move all your shit back in here? You're too old to live with your Mommy, and besides, I bet she's damn tired of doing your laundry."

All three of them sat for a moment, speechless. Justin recovered first, jumping to his feet. "I'll start bringing my stuff over right now, before you change your mind." He was all sparkling blue eyes and grins, the seventeen-year old of long ago who had set out to claim his queer world and woo his King of Hearts within it. Sunshine.

"I won't change my mind." Brian reached up and pulled the younger man into a passionate kiss.

"Guys, guys, don't you want dessert?" Jennifer interrupted them sweetly. Dear God, she thought, they're not going to consummate their new . . . understanding right here on the floor with me watching.

"Yeah, Bri, you have that lean and hungry look. Let me feed you some ice-cream," Justin teased as a knowing smile passed between them. They were rapidly receding into their private world, and Jennifer knew it was her cue to leave. There was just one more thing.

"Brian, I have something for you," she stood, handing him a long, slim package. Realizing his difficulty in opening it, she tore the wrapping and opened it herself. He reached with his left into the box, carefully lifting the item nested in it, and rotated it in his hand. It was a cane, hand crafted of polished mahogany and tall enough to accommodate his height. It was clearly chosen with care and special ordered. But it was the handle that caught his attention - it was the bronze cast figure of a crouching lion, its magnificent head crowned in a virile mane, eyes intent on some invisible prey, body woven of strong, elongated muscles ready to pounce. Power and beauty.

Justin's breath caught as his fingers entwined with Brian's to feel the polished bronze warm to the touch. "It's a work of art," he sounded almost reverential. "Power and beauty. Like you."

Grabbing the handle, Brian straightened the cane and placed the tip on the ground. He turned to Jennifer with a small grin, "Wanna help me try it?"

Closing the distance to his side, she hesitated for a moment, "May I?" as she reached for his paralyzed arm. He nodded his consent and she held him under the elbow, helping him rise to his feet and find his balance. Then, slowly, he shifted his weight to his right leg, supported by the cane on one side and her strength on the other. Taking a step forward with his good leg, swinging the affected one behind. His fingers molded in a perfect fit around the proud lionhead and the bow of the musclebound predator's body. "Thank you," he smiled at her. "I was getting more than ready to shed the crutch, and go with a more . . . swinging image." Perhaps family would be another concept he would have to revisit, he made a mental note to himself. If one was destined to have a mother-in-law . . .

Because it was Tuesday and Ben didn't have a class until 2:00, and because on this particular Tuesday everyone else had other obligations, it had been arranged that the good professor would take Brian to his physical therapy and see to the care and feeding of the compromised Liberty Avenue regular. It was a situation not entirely to Brian's liking, but one that he was forced to accept, nonetheless.

Being a responsible and obligatory kind of guy, Ben arrived at the loft mere minutes after Justin departed for school, at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, smiling and friendly and ever so ready to assist Brian. His cheerfulness drove the still-groggy former stud to growls and snarls.

It wasn't so much that he minded Ben in particular, it was the disruption of his normal routine, Brian told himself. He was used to Michael and Justin being his primary caregivers, felt comfortable enough having them do things for him that he couldn't do for himself; it was somehow demeaning to accept assistance from anyone else.

"Do you take milk in your coffee?" Ben asked from the kitchen area, where he had offered to get Brian a cup of his favored java.

"God, no. Black." First cup was always black and strong. With emphasis on the strong.

Stepping lightly for so large a man, Ben approached the bed with the mug. "Here you go, then."

Brian carefully lifted it in his left hand and took an immediate sip. Hot but not scalding, just as he liked it. Ben, he thought acerbically, would make someone a very nice wife. Oops--he already has. Mikey. Strange, though, Brian had always thought of it the other way around.

Unfortunately, he had to pee, so he proffered the cup back to Ben and muttered his excuses. He threw back the covers and clumsily got himself out and stood awkwardly on one foot while he reached for his cane. His nakedness bothered him not a bit--he'd never been modest or reluctant to be undressed in front of anyone, but his halting gait and disgraceful shuffle did bother him, more than he liked to admit. He saw Ben's guarded look, as if weighing whether or not to give him a hand. Apparently opting on the side of independent living, Ben stayed where he was as Brian slowly made his way to the bathroom to relieve himself. Single-handedly.

His appointment wasn't until ten, so there was ample time for him to clean up a little and select an appropriate outfit. Ben wasn't rushing him, and it was a good thing, too, because Brian refused to be rushed in the morning. He had expected a certain degree of tension, the discomfort of strangers placed in an intimate situation, but there was really very little of that. After all, Brian mused, we've already experienced the ultimate intimacy. Two years ago, or was it three, at the White Party, had he ever expected a day like this would come? A momentary interlude, Ben one of his thousand and forty tricks, nothing particularly memorable about it. Just another fuck. A pretty good fuck, as he recalled, but that was neither here nor there. Ben was Michael's now, lock, stock and--he smirked--barrel.

Grudgingly, he had to admit the man made a good nurse. He seemed to have a knack for knowing what to do and when to do it. And his size was an advantage; his height and strength a resource to be drawn on. Brian eyed him curiously as he helped to fasten the brace on his leg.

"You're good at this," he remarked pleasantly, attempting to express his gratitude.

"I've had practice," Ben responded grimly. "Two years in the buddy system to several guys with HIV."

The revelation surprised Brian. "You did that?"

"Yeah. Putting in my donation, so to speak. Banking time that I'll undoubtedly have to draw on some day."

"Jesus." The reality of it hit Brian like a wave of cold water. He considered, wondering momentarily if Ben was "banking time" with him in exchange for a later donation. The thought made him laugh darkly. "Well, don't count on me returning the favor--I doubt I'll be in any condition to wrestle your ass in and out of the tub."

"Sometimes all that's needed is a quiet spell of companionship," Ben said softly, "or relief for the primary caregiver."

"You'd want that? Me, being with Mikey?"

Ben looked uncomfortable with the subject. "I know if it came to that, you'd be there for him, and I'd be grateful for it."

Brian shifted to recline against the propped pillows. "Never thought I'd be in this situation--needing so much help. You must get sick of sharing Michael's time."

Ben's tone was neutral. "Not really. You two have something very special. Something I'd never want to disturb."

The fucking nobility would have annoyed Brian coming from someone else--he'd have dismissed it as phony--but somehow, coming from Ben, he believed in its sincerity. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist a barb, a feeble attempt at superiority. "You couldn't if you wanted to."

He thought abruptly, illogically, of David Cameron, the "good Doc," who had tried and failed so spectacularly. People had believed Brian was jealous of him, begrudging Michael a devoted lover, but it hadn't been that at all. From the onset of that ill-fated infatuation, Brian had known that David was wrong for Michael, that ultimately he would bring grief and pain. He had no such objections to Ben, despite his HIV status and its possibly greater potential for harm.

Yeah, I'm such an expert on relationships, he scoffed silently at his own ruminations.

Wisely, perhaps, Ben chose to change the subject, inquiring about Brian's physical therapy program.

"A lot of it's no different from what I did in the gym," Brian explained, "except they adjust for the right-sided weakness."

"It's not so much a matter of strength, though, is it?" Ben asked.

"There's definitely weakness," Brian admitted, despising the term yet using it a second time in deliberate defiance of his aversion. "It's not so much that the muscles won't work, it's that they won't do what I want them to. One of the main objectives of the PT is to prevent atrophy and avoid wasting on the . . . affected side," he explained, lapsing into the jargon that had now become part of his vocabulary. "In addition to building up the non-affected muscles that are assuming an additional burden." He sighed. "There's also the attempt to re-train--create new neural pathways in the brain, but that's a process with a much slower return. Might take years."

Ben grinned at him empathically. "Well, you've made tremendous progress. And at least you have years."

The comment made Brian's complaints seem petty. He grimaced and got up, moving out of the bedroom and carefully making his way down the ramp and over to the kitchen area. "Want a bagel?" he offered, snagging the bag with his left hand.

Absently, he began to straighten the counter, put away the mess Justin had left from his own breakfast of cereal and toast.

"Kid's such a slob," he muttered, more to fill the silence than from any real complaint.

Ben helped himself to one of the onion bagels and got the tub of soft cream cheese out of the refrigerator. "Michael told me Justin's moved in full-time," he remarked, his tone denoting approval.

Brian paused in the act of picking his own bagel. He considered his living arrangements as a possible topic of pillow talk between Mikey and Ben and experienced a moment of unease. Then he shrugged--when had he ever cared what people thought or said about him? Not for a long, long time...

"Yeah." He hoped the short response would put an end to it. He detested gossip, unlike many of the nelly queens of his acquaintance.

But Ben seemed determined not to drop it. "Makes sense. He was here most of the time anyway."

"And it will give Michael more time to spend with you," Brian retorted bluntly, putting his own spin on Ben's acceptance.

The professor smiled wickedly. "Yeah," he affirmed, picking up Brian's short-speak.

But now it was Brian who was reluctant to drop the subject. For the first time since his impulsive invitation to Justin, he paused to wonder what Michael did think of it. Not that he sought or even needed Mikey's approval, he assured himself, but he had always been loathe to alienate his best friend over anything. Michael's reaction to the new arrangement had been completely casual with an undercurrent of acceptance, so Brian had assumed he was okay with it. Now, he considered what he may have said out of earshot. Gossip. . .

"Mikey told you, huh?" he prompted, digging non-verbally.

Ben's eyes were steady on him. "He worries about you, you know that. Michael's a natural-born worrier."

"Always has been." Oh, the stories I could tell you. . . Brian shook his head. Gossip. "And like any good super-hero, he believes he can rid the world of imperfections, single-handedly."

"You mean he can't?" Ben countered, smiling as he took Brian's bagel from his awkward fingers, sliced it open and smeared the halves with cream cheese.

"A world without imperfections. . . how dull would that be?" Brian mused facetiously.

"No place in it for our kind," Ben remarked, droll, and Brian knew exactly what he meant. On that point, they were in complete agreement.

"Still," Brian equivocated, returning to their primary topic, "One of these days, Mikey's going to worry himself into an ulcer." Pausing for dramatic effect, he added, "or have a stroke." He had a sudden whimsical image of the two of them parked side by side in wheelchairs, drooling. Abruptly, he decided it wasn't funny at all, and the concept of this curse being visited on his best friend sickened him. He stood up and moved restlessly, using the counter for support.

His voice came out harsh. "Justin and I are doing fine. Assure my friend of that, will you?" he said with an air of finality. In an abrupt mood swing, he wanted no further discussion and certainly none of Ben's well-intentioned concern. He was fed up with everyone's concern over his state of being.

Ben seemed to cue into his sudden back-pedaling and merely nodded philosophically. "We'd better get going or you'll be late for your appointment," he advised in a soft tone.

Brian stood at the window, staring out with morbid fascination at nature's unfolding drama being played out before him. First the clouds, grey and heavy, had moved in, swift and deadly with their ponderous intensity. Almost before he could prepare himself, as the winds intensified and the barely budding trees bent under their onslaught, his ears picked up the distant sound of thunder, and far-off lightning speared the eastern sky. The sound and light show grew closer, and the rain had begun gusting down, attacking the window glass with a ferocious assault.

His mouth went dry, his gut cramped painfully. He wanted nothing more than to get into bed and pull the duvet up over his head, to cringe under the covers like a terrified child. Instead, his heart pounding and his palms sweating, he forced himself to stand and watch, as if somehow by enduring his fear he could make it go away, conquer it.

Such a foolish thing, such a pathetic thing, to be afraid of a thunderstorm. To stand at the window and brood like Heathcliff upon the moors. He gripped the top of his cane, as if gathering strength from the bronze lion under his fingers, as if the animal were a totem from which he could extract a measure of power. He blinked his eyes rapidly, struggling for control of his ragged emotions.

As he surveyed the city street in the ghostly twilight, he wondered, almost with a clinical detachment, if this was what it had looked like on that barely remembered September evening. Had this been what his neighbors had seen when they looked down to spot a rain-soaked dark lump on the sidewalk? What had it felt like, to be out in the midst of it, probably running for the shelter of his building? Had he been afraid, then?

No. That Brian Kinney had not feared a simple storm. That Brian Kinney had feared nothing. Had felt nothing. He had walked with a swagger and moved about in the world as its rightful inheritor. That Brian Kinney had been a different man.

The thunder crashed again, closer this time, and he flinched, instinctively recoiling, gripping the cane head tighter. The sudden movement made him momentarily light-headed, but he fought against it and regained his equilibrium just in time to see the brilliant flash of lightning that followed the concussive blast. Its light stung his eyes, burning itself into his psychic retinas, bringing with it a torrent of memories, impressions of pain and confusion and... anger. Yes, there had been anger. Rage....

He should move away from the window, go find something to do, to occupy his thoughts and distract him. But he continued to stand there, resuming his pensive fixation.

Had that oh-so-different Brian Kinney been better or worse? Ah, there was the question! He acknowledged the fact that change was inevitable; it was a constant in life. Without changes, stagnation set in, and he had been ready for some variations on the theme of Brian Kinney. Yet the changes that fate had made for him were certainly not those he would have made for himself. He resented that, most of all: that his options had been taken out of his control, that he had been forced to adapt to this altered lifestyle.

In the kitchen, Justin had just finished loading the dishwasher and cleaning up; now, he came to stand at Brian's side at the window. "You've been here quite a while. See something interesting out there?" he asked lightly.

"Rain's letting up." Brian shifted his weight and prepared to move away. He was tired of standing, anyway, and tired of moping. "Think I'll call Michael... "

Justin attached himself to Brian's side as he crossed to one of the armchairs. My little shadow, he thought ruefully.

"You can't. Don't you remember? Ben took him to the Poconos for his birthday."

Damn! No, I didn't remember! With some annoyance, Brian cursed his faulty short-term memory problem. Facts just had a tendency to slip away from him all the time. It was irritating as hell and made him feel stupid. And he detested feeling stupid.

"Yeah." He frowned critically at Justin, his mood sour. "And what are you doing here? Why don't you go out tonight." It came out more like a demand than a suggestion.

"I thought I'd watch TV... " Justin began.

Brian scowled as he settled himself in the chair. "Christ, Justin! It's Friday night. Go to Babylon. Go to Woody's and shoot some fucking pool! Or, better yet, fuck a pool boy. Get a life! One that contains more than the care and feeding of Brian Kinney!"

Justin wore an expression of shock, but his voice, although strained, was teasing. "Altruism does not become you. Besides, if I wanted to go somewhere, I would."

"Like hell you would," Brian shot back. "You're just afraid of tarnishing your choirboy image. You're the one whom altruism does not become."

Still trying to maintain a lightness, Justin leaned over and hugged him. "It's not altruistic to prefer being with you, is it?"

Deliberately cold, Brian's eyes bored into him sideways. "Save the romantic schmaltz for the little boys who believe in that shit. God, you're pathetic."

Justin drew back as if he'd been struck. "Cut it out, Brian," he warned ominously. "What the fuck's wrong with you tonight?"

Brian didn't answer, clamping his lips shut. He wanted an argument, recognized his need to lash out, to hurt, and it startled him with its intensity. Grimly, he attempted to backpedal. "Nothing... nothing's wrong." I'm a fucking cripple, my whole life's shot to pieces, now I'm losing my fucking mind, but nothing's wrong, Sunshine. I can't even stand the sight of a thunderstorm without freaking, can't get dressed and run off to Babylon and pick up the hottest guy there, but, hey, that's life, no use feeling sorry for myself. And no reason why you should dump your life in the toilet in the process. "I just think you should have some fun, that's all," he finished.

Justin knelt by his chair, sitting back on his haunches. "Why don't we both go out... we could go to Woody's for a while..."

That prospect gave Brian no cheer. Being seen in public still wasn't on his Top-Ten Things to Do list. Besides, this wasn't about him. An evening playing nursemaid was hardly what he had envisioned for Justin.

"No." The short word was final, a dismissal. Gingerly, he pulled his right arm across his chest with his left hand, then reached down to rest the lame fingers on the top of Justin's head. "Go get yourself some cock. You'll feel better in the morning."

Justin stood and Brian saw his lifeless hand flop downward, felt the weight as it dangled in front of him. The look on Justin's face was a mixture of pain and resolution. "Okay. Fine. Good idea. I need to take a shower."

It's happening again--it's starting all over. All the anguish of those last few months with Brian before he had left with Ethan, came crowding back. The rejection, the frantic lifestyle, the dismissive attitude whenever he attempted to steer the course of their relationship. Why would Brian think he wanted to go out and get laid, wanted the very scene he had eschewed and which had split them apart last year? Had he learned nothing? Was fucking and sucking still all there was, all there was meant to be? Fury made him scrub roughly at his skin, and not all of the water running down his face was from the shower. He loved Brian beyond belief, but the man certainly had a way of pushing his buttons, saying and doing exactly what triggered Justin's rebellion.

I know that--and I knew it and came back anyway, so why does it still bother me? Why do I let it bother me? And Brian knew how to push his buttons, and certainly pushed the good ones, too. He could almost read his mind, and in an instant be the most considerate, thoughtful person Justin had ever encountered.

His mind slipped back to those horrible days when he had thought he would never be able to use his hand again, never draw again, when his art was locked up inside him unable to get free and his own agony was so intense he wanted to die. Brian had been so solicitous, so caring and supportive. He'd even gone out and bought him a computer program, which had ultimately led him to recover his art. He had Brian to thank for every improvement he had made, for every step on the road to his eventual rehabilitation both physical and emotional.

Now, what must Brian be going through, when his own recovery was so cloudy and indefinite? The doctors had warned them about depression, about mood swings and inevitable changes. But Justin needed no physicians to tell him about it. He'd been there. He knew what Brian was feeling, first-hand.

He realized suddenly, with a flash of insight, that it was really two problems he was dealing with here. The first was Brian, with meeting his needs and simply being there for him, assisting when he could, encouraging or sympathizing as the occasion demanded. Sometimes it was hard to cope, to keep it all in perspective and deal with the day-to-day trials and pitfalls that arose. Generalities didn't cover it all, sound advice and admonishments were too banal and all-encompassing. Ultimately, you had to rely on intuition and personal experience, applying it all to the curious entity that was Brian Kinney.

The second problem, perhaps the more significant at the moment, was them. Not Brian alone, not himself, but their relationship. What it had been, what it was, what it might become. The problems they had encountered in the past had nearly torn them apart--hell, you might even say had torn them apart, at least temporarily. They could not afford to make the same mistakes again. And he wouldn't allow Brian to repeat those same patterns of behavior that had led to his own error of abandoning what they had. The stroke might have partially vanquished Brian Kinney, but it was not going to destroy their love for each other.

Emerging from the shower stall, he dried himself off, noticing that Brian had entered the bedroom. Justin began to shave, watching covertly in the mirror as Brian silently undressed and maneuvered himself, naked, into his bed. His movements were slow and awkward, but Justin took pleasure in how much easier he could manipulate himself, how much improvement there had been in the weeks--no, months--since he had been in rehab. He had made tremendous progress, at great cost and struggle, and Justin rejoiced for him in that, felt a measure of pride in the small part he had played in its accomplishment.

As he watched Brian struggle into bed and pull up the duvet, Justin felt himself get hard. Some things never change...he smiled at his own reflection. Brian was still the sexiest man he had ever known. And with that perception, he knew how to proceed.

He wiped the remaining foam off his face and sauntered out into the bedroom. Brian was lying on his back, his half-lowered eyes trying to look anywhere but at Justin, and failing. Justin grinned with a self-assurance he didn't feel and approached the bed, pulling off his towel as he crossed the room. It drifted in a soft white cloud to the floorboards.

Without a word, he climbed onto the mattress and scooted on his knees up to Brian's side. He had the other man's full attention and surprise.

"What are you--?"

"You said to get myself some cock. That I'd feel better in the morning."

Brian flashed a question at him without speaking.

"I want your cock." Bending over him, Justin took his startled mouth with a penetrating kiss. There was a momentary resistance that he ignored, deepening the contact and effectively silencing any protest as he ground their lips together and slipped his tongue into the open cavity of Brian's mouth. With one hand, he pinned Brian's good wrist to the bed, while his other slid behind the captive man's neck to hold him fast.

"You're going to fuck me all night long," he proclaimed, coming up for air. Without giving an opportunity for a response, he blanketed the lips with his own again, putting all the pent-up fire and passion into it that he had held back for so long. Raising Brian's neck slightly, he let his head dip backward as his lips trailed down to lick his chin and nuzzle the elegant throat. To hell with delicacy, with cautious lovemaking that spoke of diminished capacity and handicaps. This was Brian Kinney, top dog, primary stud of Liberty Avenue. Justin would not treat him as anything less.

Impatiently shoving down the covers, Justin momentarily released his overwhelmed partner and moved swiftly to straddle his loins. A surreptitious glance showed him that his actions were having a definite effect. He smiled cheerfully as Brian twitched and began to writhe as he continued his frontal assault, slipping down to access shoulders and chest, laving each nipple with his tongue, nipping with his teeth. Beneath his belly, he felt the great shaft springing to life, growing against his skin.

It felt as if a dam inside Justin had burst as he deliberately disregarded every inhibition he had been living with for all these weeks. This was his man, his lover. He shifted down further and claimed the burgeoning cock for his own, conscious only of his raging hunger for the other. Brian began a low-pitched keening, a sound Justin had never heard him make before, as he expertly tongued the sensitive tip before taking it all in, using every trick he had ever been taught by this master of the art, to give pleasure, to satisfy the most carnal of cravings.

A hand curled in his hair, its pull meshing with his own rhythm. Just as he had anticipated, control was wrested from him as the Brian Kinney he knew so well emerged and took over. Shoving Justin roughly to one side, Brian managed to climb halfway on top of him, balancing himself in a desperate bid for supremacy and normalcy. Justin watched as his partner became the thunder and the lightning that had speared the sky earlier. Forgotten were disabilities and handicaps, overlooked were any adjustments that were necessary because of them. A condom was produced and Justin dutifully unrolled it, playing with the sac beneath the encapsulated shaft. Heat coursed through him now, building and claiming every molecule in his system like a fever raging out of control. Sweat and goosebumps covered him as he prepared to give himself over with delightful abandon.

Brian was both rough and gentle by turns. He was the greatest fuck in Pittsburgh. Justin curled on his side as Brian's cock glided into him from behind. He threw his left leg over Justin's hips and clung to his shoulders as he thrust deeply with wild abandon and with great precision. One long, lean fucking machine.... A sob of laughter broke in Justin's throat. This was as close to heaven as he would ever come.

A roar of elation rose from behind him, and then, still filled by the indwelling shaft, Brian's fingers reached for Justin's own neglected shaft. The touch was electric and the pumping action caused a nearly immediate reciprocation as his seed spilled over the insistent hand. Panting for breath, badly battered and shaken psychically, Justin twisted around to bury his face against the smooth, glistening chest. A protective arm encircled him, held him close.

The intense intimacy undid him. He trembled as tears sprang to his eyes. The strong arm tightened, and he felt a slight pressure of a weaker limb joining the first from the opposite side. He knew, and appreciated, what an effort it took for Brian to make that difficult movement. He knew, too, the pride Brian took in being able to make it.

Gingerly, he shifted, to be able to look up into that beautiful face, relaxed now in repose, glowing in the aftermath of their union. And perhaps content, for the moment at least, that he was who he had been, who he would always be.

"I love you, Brian," he ventured, his voice a mixture of hesitancy and proclamation. "It's not all just about sex, you know."

Something guarded came up behind the gentle eyes, then they softened. "No, it isn't."

It was a tremendous admission, it was a big step forward. Justin's heart felt as if it leaped up into his throat. The cautious statement gave him the courage to go on.

"You're the only man I want. I don't say that casually--I mean it. But I also need something from you. I need you to articulate. We need... to communicate. Openly and honestly. I don't think either of us has ever done that."

The silence stretched out, and Justin began to suspect that he had gone too far, said too much, spoiled the fragile moment. Yet his logical mind told him that it must be resolved, once and for all.

Brian closed his eyes wearily--or was it, warily?--and nodded slightly. Then, "What you did... tonight... how did you know...?"

Justin understood the tangled question. "Whenever you shove me away, it's when you need me the most, isn't it?" he asked softly. "I don't understand why, but I realize it's what you do."

Again, Brian merely nodded his head, not much of a response, but a start. He leaned forward and tenderly kissed Justin on the forehead. "Sometimes you're too smart for your own good, Sunshine."

At that, Justin beamed. "Smart and sassy, just as you like 'em. And the night is still young..."

Brian grinned back at him. "You did say you wanted to fuck all night..."

"And all day tomorrow, and--"

"Don't push it, kid. Let's take one miracle at a time."

Justin's smile deepened at the insightful words as he settled in against his love. "I have complete confidence in you, Sugar-Plum."

Justin opted for a casual tone, but his heart was in his throat as he nonchalantly threw out the question over dinner. "I'd like to ask you out on a date Friday night. Busy?"

"Wh . . . what?" Brian's jaw dropped and the fork clattered from his fingers onto the plate. "Take me out on a what?"

"A . . .date? You know, just something people do, hetro, lesbo, queer or undecided." Justin was talking fast, stumbling through the words as if somehow the speed of delivery itself would elicit an affirmative nod from his prospective date-mate.

"And why exactly would we want to do that?" Brian didn't feel the need to elaborate on the obvious--that they were already living together, and had known, had fucked, each other for over two years.

"It's . . . it's just a thing we've never done," the persuasion drained from Justin's words, crumbling into an indecisive mumble. Discouraged, he added, "Forget I asked."

Brian looked up, gave one of his lopsided grins, and simply nodded. "Okay. Why not?"

Throwing all pretend decorum to the wind, Justin jumped up and came around the table to hug the other. "You mean it? You'll really do it? I'll be here after classes on Friday to pick you up."

Justin parked the Jeep as close as he could to Carnegie Mellon's Center for the Performing Arts. They'd just finished dinner at one of the small, nonpretentious ethnic restaurants that popped up around campus. The Ethiopian cuisine had met with Brian's approval, who, even at the best of times, was a picky eater and stern food critic. Justin had opted for a casual place with minimal trimmings and a college atmosphere--someplace he could afford, that wouldn't be too 'romantic' for his skittish date.

The play was to be a surprise, although now, as they made their way through the ice-patched walkway to the campus theater, Justin felt the first twinge of doubt gnaw at his insides. He suddenly wasn't all that sure that either one of them was ready for The Laramie Project, given their shared history of the prom and its aftermath.

The theater foyer was already packed; word of mouth helped sell out the performance that was certain to receive the enthusiastic support of the university's liberal arts patrons. They stood around for a minute, canvassing the milling crowd, then Justin parked Brian at one of the lounge areas and left to buy a program. Returning with a triumphant smile, the program, and two buttons proclaiming Love Thy Brother, he paused at a distance to take in the familiar form. Brian sat in one of the leather armchairs, his aloof nonchalance compromised by a telltale unease that stiffened his back and froze his expressive face into a mask. He wore the wheat colored cable-knit sweater Justin had given him the day before--a rare gift, if discounting the pieces of artwork Justin was wont to create not only for Brian, but with Brian as subject and muse. His blue jeans were form fitting, hugging the long and lean legs, marred only by the hard squareness of the metal brace showing through. The Pradas were replaced, for once, with heavy boots to navigate the snowy January streets. With his black leather jacket and a cashmere scarf thrown around his neck, Brian looked like a natural among the young, casual throng of students and faculty-- except, Justin thought with a flush of pride, Brian was more handsome and elegant. Then again, even Justin suspected that he might not be the most unbiased judge of his lover's comparative merits at this time.

He walked over and had just handed the program to Brian when a familiar voice called him, "Justin--Hey, Justin!" It was a short, stocky guy with a clownish face, grungy jeans outfit, and a good-natured glint in the small but intense eyes. He was waving with both hands as he pushed his way toward them, grinning as he finally reached them. "Fancy finding you here, Jus . . ."

"Yeah, all of PIFA's gay 'intelligentsia' seems to be putting in an appearance tonight--is it for extra credit or something?" Justin joked, placing his arm on the other student's shoulder as he half-turned toward Brian. "Daniel, this is my friend Brian. Brian--Daniel is an art history major at the Institute."

"Hi, Daniel," Brian sounded bored, clearly not in the mood to make new friends.

"Hello, Brian, nice to meet you." With a raised eyebrow, Daniel looked at Justin. "Special friend?"

"Very special," Justin responded with a wink, his arm embracing the sitting man's shoulders and pulling him closer.

"By the way, Jus, have you signed up yet for 'Arts Abroad'? I'm leaving for Strasbourg in February, but you'll probably be heading for the Masters of Florence. Right?"

There was a moment of awkward silence. "I'm not going. Not this semester," Justin answered curtly, visibly uncomfortable. The shoulder under his hand stiffened and Brian looked up at him, a clear question in his eyes.

Just then, to Justin's relief, the foyer lights began to blink, signaling that the play was about to start. Daniel dug into his coat-pocket for his ticket and patted his friend's arm. "See you later, and enjoy the show--if 'enjoy' is the politically correct term to use in this context."

Reaching for Brian's hand, Justin helped him to his feet and handed him his cane. Self-conscious, Brian made his way inside without leaning on Justin, aware of Daniel's stare boring into his back, scrutinizing his slow progress. He thought of PIFA's young art students, their shared passions and delicate sensitivities; he thought, unbidden, of Ethan and the not-too-long-ago past. He felt jealous, angry and threatened, insecure and defiant all at the same time. Then his gaze strayed to his partner--the younger man's face was glowing, his excitement giving out almost-visible sparks. Damn Ethan, Brian clamped down on the insidious whispers of self-doubt, and fuck self pity. It still makes my dick soft. Taking the younger man's hand, he smiled at him. Justin was there, with him--on a date, no less--and that's all that mattered. The present.

It was really a very simple production. No stage sets except for a few props, no music, no tricks of lighting; just eight actors playing some sixty characters, slipping in and out of roles with as little as the addition of a jacket or scarf, a change of posture, a pair of glasses. The good townspeople of Laramie, Wyoming, retelling in original interviews with members of the Tectonic Theater Project their reactions to the life and death of Matthew Shephard. Nineteen years old. Student at the University of Wyoming. Gay. Beaten and left to die a gruesome death for it. The fear, the bigotry, the hatred that can boil under the surface in a town like Laramie. In any and all of our towns. Pittsburgh.

Soon after the opening lines, Justin weaved his arm through Brian's, their hands tightly clasped. With each painful, hard-hitting line of dialogue Justin's fingers squeezed the other's, letting off periodically only to squeeze again, harder, at the next line.

During intermission they headed for the foyer in search of drinks. Carrying their two wine glasses, Justin found a doorway leading to the balcony and they stepped outside into the crisp winter air. Sipping his Chardonnay slowly and handing Brian his, Justin sighed, "Damn, I'd trade my balls for a cigarette." When around Brian, he tried to limit his smoking.

"Hey, don't be too quick to give those away; never know when you might need them," Brian joked, but his eyes were somber. "Light up if you want, I really don't mind." He knew full well what was on Justin's mind--and his.

With a thankful sigh the younger man lit up. Puffing and inhaling deeply, he leaned against the railing, contemplating the city lights.

"Is it hitting too close to home?" Brian's hand came up, massaging the nape of Justin's neck. "Want to leave?"

"No." The answer was sharp, definitive. "Can't continue running from it." And he had been. They both had. He suspected he was still dealing with the residues of PTSD, never exposed, never dealt with, never put to rest. And Brian . . . Brian's words from that long ago encounter after Justin's release from rehab came back to him, There's nothing I could do. He'd said it, repeated it, with such utter shock, as if unable to comprehend a world over which he had no control. Brian, too, surely had his own version of post-bashing trauma. They needed to talk. But then men, even gay men, were not very good at that. "You think Sigmund would take me on as a head case?" Take both of us on, Justin thought.

"Yeah, sure, so he can rummage in your mind the better to get to me," Brian retorted with an echo of his old vanity, not aware of the compliment it implied for the other.

It brought Justin back to the present. This was not Shepherd's blood-soaked saga that played out in Wyoming, nor his own at the night of his prom--it was his date, a first, with Brian, an occasion to rejoice in and celebrate. He smiled and reached fondly to embrace Brian's waist. "Break is almost over. Let's go back and help the good folks of Laramie to puzzle through their own shock and guilt."

Brian raised his fingers and lightly brushed the faded scar on Justin's right temple. "Later."

"I hope it does. Trouble is," Justin wrinkled his brows, "it's usually the people who are already open-minded who seek out these plays. Closed-minded bigots are too self-protective to expose themselves to anything that might even remotely challenge their beliefs."

Brian had no answer to that. Wary of straights from an early age, homophobia was something he'd long accepted as a fact of life. But he admired Justin's tenacity to fight it, fueled as much by his courage and idealism as by the naiveté of his youth.

Breathing heavy with exertion Brian slipped gratefully into his seat, shaking snow flurries from his hair and scarf. "So, what else do mundanes do on a date?"

"You mean other than taking you home 'to meet the folks'?" Justin watched with glee the exaggerated show of horror on Brian's face. On a more serious note, he added. "Mom said to say 'Hi,' and asked if you're using the cane. She's quite proud of that particular gift. But," he paused for a moment, hesitating, "still no word from my Dad. Haven't seen him since he moved out of the family home. Mom gets the monthly child support check for Mollusk, but that's it. Can you believe he didn't come to see me in the hospital?"

The pain in his voice made Brian dizzy with a hot flash of anger, evoking his own buried ghosts. "Don't, Justin, don't let him do this to you. Besides, you can't be sure--he might've come to the hospital, or called, without anyone knowing. I did." It was an empty offer of kindness and they both knew it.

The familiarity of the loft embraced them as they walked in, greeted by an ecstatic Rufus rubbing up against their legs and purring himself into an operatic frenzy.

Brian settled on the sofa, petting the cat, while Justin busied himself in the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Merlot he'd bought for the evening. Presenting the potent bouquet for Brian's approval, he filled their two glasses as he commented, "It wouldn't be a date without wine to mellow the mind and make the heart fonder." Even though it was said tongue in cheek, the words made Justin blush slightly.

Brian only gave him one of his skewed smiles, but took the glass and raised it for a toast. "To Justin--may he recover his senses, awaken from his romantic wet dream, and return to be the promising homosexual ingénue I personally selected to apprentice in all things queer under my expert tutelage. Salute!"

They emptied their glasses and Justin bent down to kiss the wine droplets off the other's inviting lips. Hopeful, Brian began to pull him down next to him. "Is it the part where we get to make out on the sofa?"

"No, it's not the part."

Brian stared at him with a look full of anticipated indignities as Justin freed himself and placed a CD in the player. Returning, he got hold of Brian's hands and pulled him to his feet. The music began to play, Elton John's clearly recognizable voice belting out the first line of lyrics, "I saw you dancing out the ocean/Running fast along the sand."

Justin gave one of his heart stopping smiles and asked, "May I have the pleasure of this dance?" Lifting Brian's hands he kissed the warm palms, humming the next lines of the song, "A spirit born of earth and water/Fire flying from your hands."

Astonishment silenced Brian momentarily while Justin slowly led him to the open space of the living area. Finding his voice, Brian lowered his head to glare at the shorter man, forcing their gazes to lock. "You know I can't dance. Can barely walk."

Justin ignored the words. Placing Brian's hands on his shoulders, he encircled the other's waist, fitting him close to his own body, and began to sway. The searing heat of his smile, with Brian's face still its nimbus, melted all resistance.

The slow, melodic rhythm of the song washed over them, mellowing Brian's initial objection, allaying his fears. Lulled into the music, he closed his eyes and began to match Justin, swaying to the beat. He leaned on his partner, followed the guide of the other's body, supported by his embrace and rocked on the free-floating waves of empathy flowing strong between them. He relinquished control. In the instant that you love someone,

In the second that the hammer hits,

Reality runs up your spine,

And the pieces finally fit.

He was more standing than dancing, balancing on his braced right leg and moving with his left. He stumbled a few times--but Justin was right by him, not letting go. The younger, lighter man complemented his moves, compensating for his graceless, stationary attempts, completing his halting steps. And together, as one, they danced. However awkwardly.

Justin's tenor accompanied Elton's seasoned baritone, "And all I ever wanted was the one," the look on his face unguarded and embarrassingly open as he squeezed Brian closer to him.

Leaning forehead to forehead, Brian finished the verse, "You're all I've ever wanted/Baby you're the one." He felt Justin's body tremble under his arms.

The music slowly slipped into another song, and the two of them just stood, holding onto each other in an almost-desperate embrace, Brian's weight growing heavier on the supporting shoulders.

"Are you alright? Want to sit down?" Justin was all solicitous, his warm breath tickling Brian's skin as he nuzzled the long throat.

"No, I'm fine--it's just been a while since I've gotten this kind of aerobic workout." And it wasn't only since the stroke either, Brian thought ruefully. Ever since Justin had left, he'd lost much of his taste for clubbing. Visits to Babylon had turned into rare and pointless excursions; stepping out on the dance floor a pain-fraught exercise only raising memories of mistakes. Booze and work had become his gateway of choice to Nirvana . . . No, it had indeed been a long time since he'd donned his dancing shoes. With a stab of jealousy he wondered whether Ethan was any good on the dance floor, and was about to ask out loud when, last minute, he thought better of it. He wasn't ready yet--might never be ready--to talk with Justin about Ethan.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he extricated himself from the arms holding him captive and moved away. With the other's eyes on him, he was keenly aware of his clumsy progress, encumbered by his sluggish arm and leg as he pushed himself to sit on a stool by the kitchen counter.

Justin sensed the change in mood, knew it was more than exhaustion, could hazard an educated guess as to the cause. Didn't know how to remedy it.

Reaching for a small box of Godiva, the last of his special purchases for the evening, he picked a chocolate truffle and offered it to Brian. "I know it's both carbs and fat, but you're still too skinny; you can afford putting some weight on those perfect ribs." Playfully he slipped a hand under Brian's sweater and rubbed the protruding ribs. His fingers strayed to tickle the other's side, eliciting a high-pitched staccato of giggles as Brian tried to fight him off, loudly protesting the assault on his person.

Impatient with a sudden, familiar desire coursing through his veins, Justin pulled up the obstructing garment and proceeded to kiss the exposed chest. He licked, teased and bit with soft love-bites the small, erect nipples, drawing a loud moan from Brian as he lifted Justin's chin and put a forcible stop to the oral exploration.

"Are you trying to take advantage of me? Just what kind of cheap trick y'think I am? Never on a first date . . ." With mock indignation he headed for the bedroom, stripping random items of clothing along the way. Fully in rut Justin followed in his wake, picking up the discarded clothes, holding them close as he sniffed them, inhaling the familiar scent of his lover.

Sitting demurely on the edge of the bed, Brian intoned, "Rules are rules. No sex on a first date. Besides, would you forcibly compromise the virtue of a crippled fairy?" His smile was wicked, accompanied by a limp-wristed gesture of his good hand. "C'mon, Sunshine, let's cuddle--you wanted goddamn romantic!"

At the end, they kissed, fondled and held each other, joined in a tactile orgy of skin and hair and lips, and finding it refreshingly different from the heady essence of spilled sperm and completed sex. Not that they were about to change their pattern permanently.

Sated with each other's feel and taste they finally rested, curling comfortably into the familiar curves of each other's bodies, when Brian asked. "So, do you want to tell me about your plans for the semester?" It was guilt--he could hear it in his own voice, taste it on his tongue. For using, needing, taking with greedy hands what, by rights, was not his. Justin's youth. A kid at nineteen, too young to settle down, his own words echoed back at him, mocking. Justin should be out there enjoying his college years, playing with others his own age, living his own life not Brian's. Instead, Justin was weighed down with a 31-year old cripple, cranky, querulous and ungrateful even on a good day. For a moment he felt the old familiar urge to flee grab hold of him, to run away from it all or, better yet, drive Justin away for his own good. But even as the thought crossed his mind he knew it was too late for that--had been too late for a while. He was too weak and needy to be without Justin any more.

"What about my plans? I'll continue part-time, taking three classes, and maybe a couple more during summer session. Depending on the schedule." Tired, Justin's answer was muffled by a yawn.

"And why did you decide not to go to Florence, and worship at the feet of the Masters?"

"I wanted to stay with you. I thought--I hoped--you needed me." Justin's eyes were light and unblinking. He spoke the truth. "I need you so much to need me."

"I do." The words were simple, clearly annunciated. "Now go to sleep," Brian murmured as he pulled the blond head closer into the nook of his shoulder. But his eyes remained open, his mind racing, long after Justin's breathing slowed into the deep, even rhythm of dreams.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN will be posted on Sunday, November 2, 2003

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