He needed at least his first infusion of caffeine before he could deal with his life, reconcile with his new, curtailed identity. The trouble with life, he mused, was that you had to take it in daily doses. And it was just fucking hard some days.

Justin was already gone to his morning classes but, good roommate that he was, he left a carafe of coffee for him brewing in the kitchen. He hobbled over, helped himself to a cup, and leaned against the counter trying to plan his day. Looking at the calendar to check his appointments, he noted the date. January 27. It was the four-month anniversary of the 'slight cerebral disturbance' that halted his life. He contemplated it for a minute, strangely detached, almost an outsider waiting to see his own emotional reaction to the memory. And paradoxically, it was a sudden surge of triumph not despair that coursed through him at the thought. He was, after all, still here, still alive even if not exactly kicking. He regained some semblance of mobility and independence, retained some hope for more. And although he would never admit it to a living soul, two things had helped him through, held his hand while walking the valley of shadows--love and friendship. For that, on the day of this strange non-anniversary he felt compelled to commemorate, he found reason to celebrate. After all, as he used to say, the only thing worth celebrating was achievement.

Justin was tired, cold, and worried about Brian. Of course he was always worried about Brian --it was his job. In the earlier phases of his rehab Brian scored some major victories--although, as they were to learn over time, ultimately with a stroke you never won the war. Changes were irreversible, gains had their limits. And Brian, four months into recovery, was slowing down and having a hard time coming to terms with it. Impatient with his body and still unaccepting of his new reality, he was sinking into depression. And Justin, hurting with him, didn't know what to do.

He took the stairs and entered the loft with a familiar mixture of apprehension and elation--worry about what he'd find and joy to see, touch Brian again after a long day. That joy, he thought as a warmth spread through his core, did not depreciate any since the day he moved back into Brian's life. Coming home to Brian was his raison d'etre.

The loft was awash with the light of candles, the air heavy with the aroma of the scented, burning wax. Eyes searching for Brian in the flickering flames, Justin found him standing by the bar, a glass of wine in his hand. He lifted it in a salute as he greeted Justin, "Good evening, Sunshine." He was cleanly shaven and dressed all in black; tailored wool trousers, a cashmere turtleneck, and black Prada boots adjusted to the leg brace. His figure cut a sharp, well defined relief against the candle-illuminated background. Justin felt a warmth suffuse his entire body, and Ethan's long ago words came back to him unbidden. At least now I know why you're with him. God he's beautiful... In that one thing at least Ethan had been right. Brian was beautiful. Still.

"Bri? What are you up to?"

"I'm up to serving you dinner for a change." He sounded clearly proud of himself.

"Please tell me you didn't cook it yourself?" Justin sounded positively alarmed. Food poisoning was not a happy prospect.

Brian only grinned mysteriously and reached for Justin's arm. "Allow me. . ."

The picnic was laid out on a low, lacquered table at the far end of the loft. Small, individual trays held an array of what looked like Japanese cuisine, a bottle of red wine and two shot-glasses of saki. In the center, amidst a row of candles, nestled in a square crystal container floated a large water lily. Strewn on the shiny wood floor around the table was an assortment of bright-colored pillows, clearly acquired for the day's event.

The blood ran out of Justin's face as he took in the exquisitely arranged setup. It brought back too many memories of mistakes and miscommunication. With an ambivalent smile, he turned to Brian. "Nice spread. What's the occasion?"

Some of Justin's ambivalence spilled over to Brian, chilling his earlier excitement. Feeling the need to physically separate himself, he removed his hand from the younger man's shoulder and pulled away. "No occasion. Thought you liked surprises." He knew it was a lame answer, but he couldn't bring himself to say what he really wanted to--to make amends, for a picnic that should've been and wasn't . . .

"Brian, you never believed in picnics," or other romantic gestures and poses of affection, Justin added the thought. "Why the sudden change?"

"Hey, it's always good to keep an open mind, and anyway--better a picnic here than at the park, with grass, mud and mosquitoes, pollen up your nose and ants up your butt. Can we just eat first, chat later? You were never at your best with your stomach growling."

The words were typical Brian, Nature-Child-Extraordinaire, but the subtext didn't miss Justin. There was a message here alright that had little to do with picnics and poses. It had to do with past mistakes, on both sides. An old, much-worried sorrow assailed him for a moment. Of things that happened, and could have been prevented. Brian, my brutally honest love, he thought, I wanted more than your company and all that you were willing--able--to offer. I wanted to write your script, put words in your mouth, direct the scenes as they played out our daily lives together. I wanted more and, in the process, I lost it all. This time, though, he would not make the same mistake. He would not assume--just take what was freely offered. With a sigh he closed the short distance between them. Hugging Brian's waist from the back he whispered, "I'm hungry all right, but not necessarily for sushi. I'm willing to start with the finger-food, but only as long as I can reserve something better for dessert." Eyeing the floor pillows with concern, he added, "You sure you want to sit on the floor? You'd be more comfortable in a chair."

"Now where would be the fun in that? It's a picnic, after all. Just give me a hand." At the end they opted for what was fast becoming their favorite position. Legs apart, Justin sat half-angled behind, with Brian leaning with his back against him, left leg tucked in to help keep his balance, right leg stretched straight beside the table.

Taking in the tangle of their entwined bodies Justin began to laugh. "Look at us, wrapped around each other like some mythical creature."

"Mythical my ass. I prefer to think of us more like . . . Batman and Robin. Inseparable."

"You are becoming sappy in your old age," Justin tickled Brian's ribs, eliciting a high-pitched giggle. "And, you've been hanging around Michael and his comics far too long." He reached over and handed a saki glass to Brian, lifting the other glass himself. "To us--but not Batman and Robin. Rage and the Twink?"

Downing the strong, pungent liquor, Brian picked a delicacy from the tray and offered it to Justin. Tasting the tidbit Justin wrinkled his nose. "Unusual taste--what are you feeding me?"

"Unagi--grilled eel. But if you prefer, we have yakitori, sushi, an-pan, and seaweed."

"No tempura? It's my favorite," Justin mock-complained.

"You know I have to watch my figure. At my age, no fried foods," Brian dead-panned in response.

They fed each other, one bite at a time, sharing the delicacies, licking and nibbling on each other's fingers, and kissing in-between. Leaning back into Justin's embrace, Brian ended up lying in the other's arms, a rainbow of pillows cushioning him against the hardwood floor. The meal was drawn-out and languidly sensuous, their hunger sated as their other appetites ignited.

With a grunt Brian pushed back to a sitting position and reached for the bottle of wine. "Just realized today that it's been four months since the . . . " he still had trouble saying the word 'stroke,' as if doing so would make it doubly real. "Cause to celebrate."

"To celebrate?" Justin said it with such astonishment that Brian had to stifle a smile. "Yeah. Think about it. I'm celebrating that I'm still around, that I've been granted some second chances." His voice turned low and solemn as he added, "Thank you."

He handed the bottle to Justin to open. Feeling awkward and at a loss for words, the younger man uncorked the bottle, smelled the bouquet with approval, and poured some into their wine goblets. Reading the label, he commented. "A red Bordeaux, vintage 1995. Cos D'Estournel Grand Cru. Gee, Brian, this must've cost well over a hundred bucks--I'll try not to spill any."

"Private school education clearly paid off in your case," Brian laughed. "But the classics? I would've pegged you more like the 'sex, drugs and rock'n'roll' type."

"Oh no. Growing up with a bunch of WASP baby-boomers, I was more 'classic oldies, radio station WJPA FM 95.3'." Justin gave his best deep-throat disc jockey imitation. Then, as if to demonstrate, he began to hum, "He's got, oh oh, kisses sweeter than wine . . ." And for further proof of his point, he returned for another in-depth exploration of Brian's now slightly swollen lips.

Coming up for air Brian leaned back on the pillows, running his fingers through Justin's hair. The candlelight deepened the plains of his high-cheekbone face, the shadow-pools of his eyes reflecting the flames in their dilated hazel--eyes that cut through Justin's skin and bones and touched his very essence. He felt a familiar stirring in his loins, a burning both deep and urgent, and he reached for his lover.

Impatient with desire, he pulled at the turtleneck, eager to get to the smooth, square chest. The small, dark nipples were erect and Justin bent to kiss, suck on each in turn, gently nudging, biting the hardening buds and eliciting small cries from the other. His tongue moved up the long, muscular neck, licking and tasting the flavor of the other, drawing wet circles around the protruding Adam's apple.

Backtracking the trail of kisses, his mouth explored the hollow at Brian's neck, traveled down the breastbone to the flat stomach, leaving a trail of kisses and tiny cat-bites along the way. Arriving at the bellybutton, he stuck the tip of his tongue into the small, sensitive 'innie,' eliciting whimpers of desire from the other. He felt Brian harden under him and reached to unfasten the restraining slacks.

"N-no, d-don't, don't," Brian stopped him with a hand. He struggled to a sitting position, reached for the water lily on the table and handed it to Justin. "There's just one more thing. Can we get up?"

Dizzy with arousal, Justin asked no questions. It was no easy task to get a wobbly Brian back on his feet, but once he was safely up and standing, Justin asked, "Where to?" Then, unable to resist, he reached to plant a kiss on Brian's bare shoulder.

"To our bed." Brian's face was clouded with momentary sadness as he leaned heavily on Justin. "Wish I could whisk you off your feet and carry you there. But I'm not too steady on my own."

"I'll consider myself whisked anyway," Justin's reply was lighted by his megawatt smile bright enough to make Brian forget everything and believe he was Superman . . . or was it Rage? His tongue played with the inside of his mouth in a very Brianesque gesture as he steered their entwined bodies toward the ramp. Only then did Justin notice that the bedroom was in full darkness, all shades closed.

The scent hit him first. Strong, sweet, pervasive--a smell of vibrant life and a first hint of corrupting decay. Roses. Then the blue wall-light came on, illuminating the room. The bed in its center was covered with a lush layer of rose petals--a blood-red velvet cloak, rich in color and fragrance and intoxicating to the senses. Justin physically staggered for a moment from the onslaught of sensation and emotion, and this time, it was Brian's arm around his shoulder to steady him.

Brian plopped on the bed, pulling Justin into his lap. The bed bounced under their combined weight, sending the rose petals into the air like tiny winged creatures, only to float back gracefully onto the cover. With great care, Brian laid Justin down among the roses, stunned for a moment by the live tableau--the crimson of the flowers framing the cream-and-gold beauty of the younger man, contrasting with the clear blue eyes boring into his. "Baby, you're beautiful," one said, the other thought it, both smiling at the wordless communication between them.

Pulling off the rest of his clothes, Brian proceeded to strip Justin's sweatshirt, tugging at his jeans, tearing off his briefs. Justin lay among the rose petals, his body boneless and pliant, as he whispered, "I thought Brian Kinney didn't do romance."

"He doesn't. Romance is still bullshit. This is real," Brian sombered. "For staying with me. Seeing me through." He couldn't quite say what he needed to, should have. This is for loving me enough. He kissed the warm, waiting lips and added, "Thanks."

Justin was hoarse with emotion as he pulled Brian's body over his. "Make love to me. Now." He scooted up on the bed, exposing his full erection and abandoning himself to Brian's appreciative attentions.

His cock was in flames. He pushed away Brian's eager mouth, afraid he would come right then and there like some fucking teenager. And he wasn't ready yet.

"What's wrong? Don't you like your dick sucked any more?" Brian asked, looking up at him.

Justin shivered as the other's hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of his groin. Seeing Brian's sensuous mouth, blood red like roses, hover over his arching organ was almost enough to push him over the edge. "Nothing's wrong. I just want this night to last forever."

Brian didn't respond, but his eyes unfocused with that familiar faraway look. He pushed himself off Justin's body and with some effort turned onto his stomach. "Make love to me. Now," he repeated Justin's earlier words. "I want you inside me . . ."

Stunned, Justin sat up. His gaze brushed Brian's strong shoulders, the long, smooth lines of his spine, the small, perfect mounds of his ass. His hands followed the journey with a caress. "I can't."

"What, you can't make love to me?" Brian twisted around, a look of incredulity on his face.

"No. I can't fuck you. It wouldn't be right." Justin struggled to find words to capture the feeling. "I was born with you," you shaped me, imprinted me on that first night, he added silently, "you inside me is my birthright. A gift. Can you understand that?"

Brian only nodded. Another piece of the puzzle. He remembered the night when Justin had come to him, many moons ago, used and beaten after his short stint at the go-go meat market. Wanting to top Brian, and Brian allowing the transgression, succumbing to Justin's need. It had been, for both of them, the wrong thing to do. Something had shifted on the fragile scales of their relationship, some intangibles had gotten out of balance, skewed.

He handed a condom to Justin, watched as the younger man slipped it on his cock. Pulling the other body close to his he kissed the smooth white throat and whispered, "Face to face - I want to see you when you come."

Slowly, carefully he slid into Justin. His cock was in its full glory, hard and throbbing and eager to conquer, invading the warm, tight, secret place in Justin he claimed as his own. Justin's right leg lay high across his waist, allowing access, trapping Brian's slender body and helping him thrust. His good hand held, supported the back of Justin's head, fingering the fine, sweat-drenched hair and clenching it with the escalating rhythm of his hips as he plunged deeper and deeper into the living, contracting tunnel. A near-despairing urgency drove him on, repeating a primordial ritual of conquest and power, unbridled need and never-sated lust. His orgasm was violent enough to border on pain, making his entire body convulse as it spewed wasted sperm into the captivity of the rubber. He almost passed out from the intensity, brought back only by the sound of harsh, ragged sobs. His own.

Justin must have climaxed with him--just one more of the things he found them doing in tandem lately--and his softening organ lay enmeshed between their bellies, sated and bathed in its own semen. Extricating his hand from Justin's hair Brian reached down, fingered the sticky substance and lifted his index to his mouth. "You are tasty," he whispered into the other's ear, eliciting giggles. His last mumbled word, as he drifted off, was "Sunshine." Justin kissed the pliant mouth and, having no use for masks anymore, whispered into the open lips, "I love you."

They fell asleep in each other's embrace, Brian's spent cock still embedded in his lover. They lay on the bed of roses, the petals silent and crushed witnesses to their lovemaking. Their pale, languid bodies were stretched among the flowers, spent victims of their own passion, shrouded in the pungent scent of their spilled maleness and the sweet aroma of roses already fading into decay.

Justin woke with a shiver. It was predawn, and the January chill seeped into the loft, touching his naked skin. Brian had slid out of him and now lay on his side, his flaccid penis touching Justin's thigh. Retrieving a wet towel from the bathroom, Justin proceeded to remove the full condom with practiced precision, wiped the dormant cock and cleaned his own cum from Brian's belly and hand. Treading silently he brought over a light comforter and carefully covered Brian's prone body. Between his bout with pneumonia and his diminished capacity to regulate his body temperature following the stroke, Brian couldn't afford to catch a cold.

Justin sat for a while, intently studying the sleeping form. Not tortured by nightmares tonight, Brian's face was young and innocent, his eyes moving rapidly under his eyelids as he dreamed. In the dim light his dark eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks, and Justin succumbed to the urge and touched the abstract shapes. Brian--his Brian. His perennial 'top.' Living, breathing, making it four months after the horror of the assault on his body and integrity. Able enough to make love, well enough to want it. And celebrating it all by giving this evening to Justin. A picnic of wine and roses. As long as it's not 'romantic,' Justin shook his head with a smile. He felt the familiar, scratchy itch in his throat and sneezed in rapid progression, trying to stifle the sound. Damn fucking allergies, he thought looking at the flowers, at least he'd taken his daily allergy medicine.

Brian woke to violent tremors shaking his entire body. Fucking muscle spasm again, he scrambled for conscious thought, in both his arm and leg. After a month-long lull, the spasms were back with a vengeance and wreaking havoc with his body and psyche. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, clenching his teeth to bite down on the groans of pain. Rufus, sleeping on Justin's vacated pillow, came to life with an indignant yowl and jumped off the bed, hissing his protest over the rude awakening.

Justin found Brian lying amidst the brown-edged, wilting flowers, sweaty and white-lipped as he rode out the last wave of tremors. "Brian, what's wrong?" He grabbed for the other's bare shoulders. "Talk to me." Noticing the still-trembling limbs he knelt beside the bed and with practiced hands began massaging first Brian's arm, then his leg. As the tortured muscles calmed, he rose and retrieved Brian's medication and a glass of water. Lifting the sweat-drenched head, he gave Brian the muscle relaxant and raised the water to his lips.

Brian remained silent throughout the ordeal, his eyes tightly shut, their corners moist with tears or sweat, Justin couldn't tell. The aura, the joy of the night before were gone, and for a moment's self-recrimination Justin thought, it's all my fault, I made him overdo it when he's clearly not ready to party all night yet. Guilt brushed aside, he came back to the immediate needs of the present.

"Let's get you up, Bri, and take a hot shower. It'll make you feel better."

"Nothing is gonna make me feel better," Brian turned his head from Justin, unable to look at the pleading face. "Are you ready to carry me? Nothing works in this miserable, fucked-up body."

The unaccustomed tone of self-pity rang an alarm in Justin's ear. "I'll carry you if I have to. And . . . you are getting better. You've just crashed after last night's exhaustive 'aerobic workout'." He aimed for a lighter tone, failed miserably.

"No, 'Sunshine'," and somehow, the way he said it this time, it was no term of endearment, "what you see now is the real me. Broken. No warranties. No repairs. C'mon, take your cute bouncy ass and bail the fuck out as fast as you can, before my sorry dead-weight will drag you under." His eyes, finally open, were stormy dark and full of desperate challenge.

Justin's temper flared as Brian's words effectively crushed the last remnants of the warm, cozy feel of the night before. "And just where the blazes do you get off, you sorry self-centered prick? Giving me hope - giving yourself hope--one day, only to plunge us into the depth of despair the next. Is this your idea of some sick ferris wheel ride? Well, I'll take Disneyland instead. The ups with you are incredible," his voice mellowed for a moment, the other's imprint still fresh, his loving still tangible on his flesh, "but I can't take the dizzy cycles, the rapid falls. Can't join you in your grim, self-propelled plunge into Hell."

Angry now, Brian pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Why? You think Hell, even for a visit, is too low-brow for your pretentious lily-white Protestant soul?"

"Yes. It. Is." Justin was livid, red faced and yelling. "And you could use some of that good old Protestant 'predestination' too, to bootstrap yourself out of this . . . this crap." Even as he said it, he realized his own fallacy. It was not just a mood that hit Brian. The darkness was within him. It was him. As much an inseparable part of his makeup as his magnificent looks, his cutting wit, or his insatiable sex drive. And, loving Brian Kinney, you had to take it or leave him. On which account Justin had already made a decision. Irreversible. He would take it.

"I'm not a Protestant, thank-Mary-Mother-of-Jesus. My mommy says I'm a good Catholic, and so I am. Following His High Papal Holiness in Rome. And by his edict, I'm going to Hell anyway." He cast a calculating look at Justin then continued, ". . . if not for my sinful cock-sucking butt-fucking ways, then for sinful dying--if I die not on the Almighty's preordained schedule, but on my own."

Justin just stared at him, incomprehension emptying his mobile face of all expression.

"Now why don't you just take a shower and run along. And let me be. After all, it's my funeral, as they say," Brian cackled bitterly at the private joke. "I want to stay in bed, alone, and rot some more while covered with those lovely flowers," he flailed his paralyzed arm, giving flight to the drying petals by his side. In a much more subdued tone he added, as an afterthought, "for, at the end of the day, I'll rest outside the churchyard, in desecrated soil decreed for sinners. Strictly low-rent property, no flowers."

Justin turned and ran from the bedroom, tears stinging his eyes, stumbling blindly down the ramp. What happened to Brian, to them, what went wrong within the short span of a night's dream?

Shaken, he withdrew to the kitchen and the safety of mindless routines, preparing their morning coffee. But even in the state he was in, his eyes veiled with tears, his mind with sorrow, a nagging thought began to gnaw at his consciousness. What was Brian trying to tell him with his bitter, self-mauling tirade? And what was the significance of all the goddam religious references? Has Brian, as a result of his brush with death, suddenly found religion? Not likely. Justin knew that Brian was raised Catholic but lapsed a long time ago. He had no use for, and even less patience with, religion.

Coffee ready, he poured himself a cup, inhaling the steam rising from the strong brew, swallowing a few gulps. Coffee, undiluted by cream and untamed by sugar, was his morning poison of choice. It worked this time too, the caffeine kicking in and clearing his mind. And with that clarity, the words that Brian blurted out in seemingly random anger aligned into coherent meaning, the stream of consciousness driving them falling into a jolting pattern. Justin began to shake uncontrollably, spilling hot coffee over his hand and clothes. Fumbling over to the counter, he picked up the phone and dialed Lindsay's number.

He washed his face at the kitchen sink and deep-breathed for a few minutes before tiptoeing back to the bedroom. Brian had fallen asleep again, as he often did with the muscle relaxants, his face pale and drawn in shades of grey. His crippled arm rested, open palmed, on his chest. Rufus, who must have returned to bed after he'd gotten over his initial indignation, lay in the crook between Brian's shoulder and neck. Self-appointed guardian of his human ward, the cat could always sense Brian's moods and respond in kind with uncanny feline intuition. He was purring now his low, rhythmic alien song to calm the troubled human, pausing once in a while to lick Brian's neck and impart comfort with his sandpaper tongue.

Dressing in record time, Justin stopped again by the bed for one last look at his lover. He placed a kiss in the other's open palm without rousing him, and left the loft.

________________________________

Justin burst through the door, calling Michael's name. His face was red from the cold, his jacket flapping open and a scarf dangling around his bare throat. Michael, emerging from behind the counter, took in the younger man's disheveled look. "What's the matter, Justin? Anything wrong? Is Brian okay?"

"No, Brian is not okay and yes, a lot is wrong. But why don't you tell me?"

Dumbfounded and confused, Michael only focused on one part of Justin's retort. "What's wrong with Brian? Talk!"

"Let me see--we had a great time last night," Justin actually blushed remembering just how great it had been. "Then Brian woke up to seizures and in the throws of depression, which, incidentally, he's been sliding into for a while." It was clear from the halting narrative that Justin hadn't reached the worst of it yet. Swallowing compulsively, he continued. "And he's been talking . . . funny. First, it made no sense at all but... " he stopped, not quite sure how to proceed. If he was wrong--and please, God, let me be wrong, he offered a silent plea to any and all deities watching over queer lovers--he would only embarrass Brian and himself. But if he was right... he could not bear the responsibility alone or contain the need to talk. "Michael, he's in a dark place. He keeps alluding to death, his own, and I'm so scared for him." He stopped, turned on Michael with flaring anger. "You knew, didn't you? Must have. You always tell me how you know him best. And maybe you do. But then, why didn't you tell me?" In his heart he knew the answer, but it hurt too much. It was all about the trust between him and Michael, which he'd forfeited.

Equally angry, Michael yelled back at him. "Tell you what?" The twist of dread in his gut reminded him that, on some subliminal level, he'd anticipated what he was about to hear.

". . . That Brian is suicidal. That I might lose him. And that I don't know how to protect him from himself. Damn you, Michael, for not letting me in." His misery spilled over into tears and he flopped down on the floor, cross-legged, and cradled his face in his hands.

"C'mon, Justin, don't fall apart on me now. What exactly did Brian say?" Clearly alarmed, Michael squatted next to Justin and shook his shoulders.

"He--he said some things about choosing your own time when to go and . . . and how, with that being a sin, you can't be buried in sacred ground. Is that like some sort of Catholic thing?"

Michael was clearly shaken, and it was equally obvious to Justin that he wasn't totally surprised. "First, tell me that you didn't just leave him home alone after that?"

"No of course I didn't. I asked Lindsay to come over and be with him. She can stay for a while. But you have to talk."

Michael nodded, rose to lock the front door to the store and settled on the floor next to Justin. He just sat there for a while filing through his past, his memories with Brian. Always, everything with Brian. Justin waited without a word, respecting his silence.

"Brian has always been like this. Born with an empty place inside him, I guess, filled with darkness. Kinda like the collapsing stars, soaking up the blackness of space. Bright and dark at the same time - a paradox from the start." Michael leaned back against the wall, seeing in his mind's eye two young boys, inseparable yet forever different. "Much of his charisma springs from that dark place; his drive, his fierce independence, his amazing sexuality." It would have been pointless for Michael to deny his own awareness of that sexuality.

Justin nudged at his knee impatiently. "Continue."

"But that wasn't all. Brian always had a reckless, self-destructive side to him, it's just that --he never acknowledged it, and I never wanted to see it for what it was. I was too scared. Just like you are now."

"Has he ever tried to do anything?" Justin was almost too afraid to ask but needed to know.

Michael hesitated. "Probably, but I was never sure. He'd done things; reckless, daring, stupid, at times even obviously desperate. He drank and did drugs at a break-neck pace. But he always pulled it off and made it--" he paused, searching for the right words, "made it part of his flair, kind of a magnetic field pulsating around him. That's what most everybody--male, female and undecided--finds so alluring about Brian."

Justin nodded. The feel of that night on Liberty Avenue, when his eyes first fell on Brian, still resonated in his core. He knew what Michael was talking about.

"But there were some more . . . definitive things too."

"What do you mean?" Justin probed with renewed alarm.

"I don't know. Some bad shit with drugs. The cut on his wrist--you've seen it, that's why he started to wear the cowry-shell bracelet. He was about twenty one at the time it happened. Never wanted to talk about it, put it down to vanity. And then, there was the scarfing."

"The what?"

"Oh, that's another time I'm not sure about. Shouldn't even tell you. It was on his thirtieth birthday. He bought the scarf, could've ended up dead with it around his neck had I not found him. As I told you, though, I can't be certain. It's always been like that with Brian, a thin line between reckless hedonism and aching death wish--and you never knew which side he was walking on."

Justin turned ghostly white, the trembling returning to his limbs. He was devastated by the confirmation of his fears. "That scarf, the same scarf . . ." He was back for a moment at the prom, the weight of Brian's arms around him, swimming in the tunes of that old song. The scarf had become the tangible reminder of that night, the intoxicating high and the subsequent horror. With sudden insight he added. "So when he didn't die by his own hands and perhaps was saved by yours, he came to the prom. Came to me, for hope and for a new start. 'I came to reclaim my lost youth,' his own words. How could I've known? And then I got bashed, and there was the 'skull beneath the skin,' staring right at him again. My God, Michael, can you imagine?"

"Yeah I can." Michael, too, was still a captive of his own specter of that night in the hospital and the vigil that followed. "I was there with him."

"I never thanked you, never knew enough to thank you. Our lives are more entwined than I ever realized; you, me and Brian are inexplicably linked."

"Yeah, more like caught in a spider's web since that first night he found you and had Gus." A tinge of the old jealousy still touched him as he said it, but he was secure of his own place in Brian's life, and it would suffice.

"Do you think Brian is weak? For flirting with death?"

"No, not weak. He's uncompromising. In what he needs, wants . . . and if he can't have it, then fuck life."

"And," Justin completed the sentence for him, "right now, with the stroke, his life is all about compromises. Christ, Michael, what are we going to do?"

Michael scrambled up from the floor and over to the counter. He rummaged in one of the drawers, found what he was looking for and returned to Justin's side. "Ben's been doing some literature searches on strokes. Cause, effect, steps in recovery, that sort of thing. He is a professor, he reads books for a living. Anyway," and he paused to unfold the piece of paper in his hand, "he found this quote so apropos he copied it for me. It's from the first-hand account of a young stroke survivor." He handed the paper to Justin who began to read aloud.

The conundrum of stroke recovery is that while one's conscious efforts are devoted to recovering one's lost self, the cruel fact is that this former self is irretrievably shattered into a thousand pieces, and try as one may to glue those bits together again, the reconstituted version of the old self will never be better than a cracked, imperfect assembly, a constant mockery of one's former, successful individuality.

"But we can't just give up on him. We need to keep him wanting to live." For Justin, there was no other equation.

"We can't keep him alive, tie his hands, watch him 24/7. But we might help him reconcile with, even learn to like, his new identity. Make him vested enough in his changed life that he'd want to live it."

"And how do we do that?" Justin was both anxious and skeptical.

"Well, let's start by listing what's important to Brian."

Lightening the moment, Justin began to tick off the list on his fingers. "He likes fucking, Armani and Prada, sucking cock, Jim Beam, rimming, advertising, hanging out at Babylon, rainbow drugs in an alphabet of flavors, tight jeans with wifebeaters, sex in any conceivable position . . . have I left out anything?"

"Lots. Gus, his career, cars, friends. That funny, much denied feel of home he gets on the streets of Pittsburgh, at the diner, at his favorite drinking hole and his designer loft. The love he tries so hard to hide but shows anyway for Lindsay, me . . . you."

"But will that be enough?"

"I honestly can't say. But let's try and get some help in the meanwhile. I'll call Dr. Gottlieb." Rising, Michael rifled through his files looking for the phone number.

"Who the hell is Dr. Gottlieb?" Justin was drawing a blank.

"You know, Brian's psychiatrist friend, the one he insists calling 'Sigmund'."

"Oh, yeah, Sigmund," recognition dawned as Justin recalled the good looking, silver haired guy who came to visit Brian in the hospital and called on him a few times since. "Wonder if he'd be willing to talk to us first, before he sees Brian." Readying to leave, he wrapped the knit scarf around his neck and headed for the door. "I have to get back. And . . . thanks, Michael. You're a good friend." He didn't specify whether he meant to him or to Brian. Already stepping outside into the morning chill, he stuck his head back in for one more question. "Have you ever told anyone?"

Michael knew what Justin was referring to. "Never. To no one." The door to the bookstore chimed closed on his last word, and Justin was gone.

The quote in this chapter is from:

Robert McCrum, My Year Off: Recovering Life After a Stroke. W.W. Norton, NY, 1998, (p.151).

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN will be posted on Sunday, November 9, 2003

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