CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Brian!" Dr. Jack Palmer entered his office and greeted his patient enthusiastically. It had been over a month since he'd seen Brian Kinney, and he wasn't due to see him for another three weeks or so. According to the note from his secretary, this particular office visit had been at the request of the patient, so the natural assumption was that there was a concern or problem of which he wasn't aware. "What brings you in today? Is everything all right?"

Brian regarded him with mild annoyance. Everything certainly was not all right, as Palmer well knew. It had taken Brian a while to puzzle through the maze of his multiple caregivers, therapists, physicians, and specialists, to even determine who he should make the appointment to see. He had finally settled on Palmer, his neurologist, because he'd seemed the most logical choice. He had handled Brian's case all along, he was aware of everything everyone else was doing for him, and he had a forthright manner that Brian felt comfortable with.

"I'm sort of at a standstill, doc," he began, flexing the fingers of his left hand. "It's been weeks since I've felt like I've made any progress at all, and I wanted to find out why."

Palmer frowned, looked confused. "Okay," he said patiently. "Stand up--let's see how you're doing."

He put Brian through his paces, a full neurological exam, concentrating on the mobility of his right arm and leg. As Brian grew increasingly frustrated by what he was unable to accomplish, Palmer seemed to grow more pleased. "You've made some remarkable progress, especially with your walking." he remarked.

"You call this retarded gimp-movement 'walking'?" Brian complained. "I'm nowhere near normal!"

"You're doing great, Brian," he said, after urging Brian to sit back down. "I concur completely with your therapists. I think it's time you started taking on more activities, and I see they've recommended you begin working for short periods again, get a car equipped with handicapped controls so you can gain a measure of independence over your transportation. You should be very pleased."

" 'Pleased,' " Brian repeated testily. "I should be grateful for the opportunity to own a fucking gimp-mobile and tool around town with handicapped license plates? Oh, hey, I'll get the best parking spaces, won't I?" he asked sarcastically. "Damn it, that's defeat and you know it as well as I do. I thought you'd understand that."

Palmer rested his backside on the edge of his desk. "Well, Brian, you had a massive stroke. You can't expect to waltz off with no deficits." He said it gently, but there was steel in the words, too.

Brian felt something flutter in his belly, but he persisted, went on as if to ignore Palmer's prognosis. "And what about this arm? My hand's still virtually useless! How am I supposed to function--they tell me to use my left, but it's not the same, and the retraining isn't working. . ." His eyes pleaded with Palmer for a solution. "I thought by now I'd be further along. I work hard, do everything they tell me and more--and I'm not getting results."

"You are getting results, Brian! I'm not sure I understand what you expect."

"I expect," Brian said distinctly, sharply, "to be where I was before the stroke. I expect to recover. All of it."

Palmer looked at him, clearly amazed. He said nothing for a moment, took the time to walk back around behind his desk and sit down. Heavily. Then, gently, he said, "I'm sorry, Brian. I think you have to face the reality that the chances of that happening are infinitesimal."

The flutter that he'd felt had become a roiling surf in his gut. His mouth dried out and he felt his heart begin to race with anxiety. "I was never told that I wouldn't recover," he accused. "That's never been said."

Palmer's eyebrows rose. He was clearly debating what to say. "Brian, the fact that you're young and physically in good condition are definite factors on your side. You also have to remember that it hasn't even been six months since the attack. I've told you all of this before, and it's all true, but if you interpret that to mean that you'll retain no traces--no degree of disability--then you've misunderstood. The stroke knocked out a portion of your neural pathways. It destroyed brain tissue. Brain cells do not regenerate. Only so much can be accomplished with retraining and physical therapy."

Brian felt the weight of the pronouncement lay heavily upon him. It was a truth he could not--would not--accept. In a small voice, he asked, "This is as good as it gets--is that what you're saying?"

"No," Palmer responded hastily. "I'm definitely not saying that. We used to think that stroke survivors peaked on their recovery after six months to a year. But recent studies indicate that progress continues--how long, we don't know. Two years? Three? Even five have been recorded. Data are still being assessed. So you can continue to expect improvement. Slowly. When you say you haven't noticed any change in the past several weeks, that's just a drop in the larger bucket. You'll hit plateaus, have periods of non-improvement. Maybe months of nothing different. Then, bam--one day you do the same thing you've been doing all along and bingo, you'll gain.

"What I am saying, though, is that it's unreasonable--or perhaps I should say unrealistic--to anticipate that you'll regain one hundred percent. Considering the severity of your cerebral incident--"

"Christ, you've got a fancy way with words, Doc," Brian interrupted, growing impatient with what, to him, seemed like doubletalk. "Maybe you'd like to be the one on the other side of that fancy desk, listening to someone tell you to take your expectations and shove 'em." He could feel the sweat running down his back, knew he was getting dangerously upset.

"I'm not trying to minimize your concerns," Palmer said smoothly. "But the important thing is to get on with your life, Brian. Don't obsess over your deficits. You're still a young man, your profile indicates that this was an isolated incident--"

Brian had heard all the platitudes endless times before. "I can't get on with my life because my 'life'--or what was my life--is gone. I can't do anything."

Palmer was silent, staring at his desk, and Brian felt a momentary rush of exultation that he had somehow gotten his point across, negative as it was. Then the doctor looked up at him steadily.

"I'm not a psychologist, but I do know that if that's how you feel, you're talking to the wrong person. I really think it's time you spoke with a professional in that field."

Brian's triumph evaporated. "A shrink. . .?" he sputtered. "Some homophobic old fart who's going to pat me on the head and tell me everything's fine and dandy? All that stop-and-smell-the-roses-shit? Cut my balls off and make me into a pod person? No, thanks!"

"Would you rather continue along the path you're on now--depressed and frustrated and fed up with life as you know it?" Palmer came back roughly. For an instant, he ceased being the well-mannered medical practitioner and his honest spirit came through. It took Brian by surprise.

He considered the doctor's question silently, faced it squarely. No. He did not want to continue along that path. Or any other path, for that matter, save the one he had been on five months ago when his damned brain had decided to explode on him. Yet everyone, even the physician he had trusted to put him back together again, was telling him to simply 'get on with it', as if he had no choice but to accept a diminished lifestyle and be happy for it. Shaking slightly, he stood.

"I don't know about that, doc. I'll get back to you." He grabbed his cane and turned around, heading wordlessly out of the office, leaving an alarmed Dr. Palmer to call after him.

A gust of cold air followed Justin as he entered the Liberty Diner. Tugging the knit cap off his head, he spied his lunch partner and smiled, slightly raising one gloved hand in greeting. He removed his jacket as he slid into the booth across from Daphne.

"Wind's kicking up out there; it's really raw." Removing his gloves, he blew on his fingers to thaw them. His face crinkled into a smile as he regarded his old friend. "Hi, Daph. I'm so glad you called."

They had spent too little time together lately, unable to hook up since the holidays. Justin realized he'd missed her.

"Well, you're always so busy. . .. " she trailed off, an impish grin turning her suddenly grown-up countenance into a sassy little girl again.

"I know. No rest for the weary, as the saying goes. If it's not one thing, it's another. It was just your luck that Brian has an appointment at the hospital today. I dropped him off, but I've got to get back by three. In the meantime, I'm all yours."

"I'm, like, totally honored," she deadpanned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Honestly, though, how do you stand it? I mean, doesn't it get. . . tiring after a while?"

"Being with Brian?" The whimsical incredulity of that concept showed in his voice. "Not hardly."

She flushed and smiled. "Well, I know, but there's that whole caregiver thing. I read a pamphlet on it for Health Sciences class, and -- "

"They don't give you the half of it." His face scrunched up briefly, then he smiled. "But, Brian's pretty independent now. I'm more like a roommate--a partner," he corrected, "than a nursemaid."

"So you're getting on. . . all right?" she queried, trying to be tactful.

"Beautifully." Before he could elaborate, Debbie came over to greet them.

"Hey there, Sunshine! Seeing what the other side of the counter looks like? Hi, Daphne."

Even though he had not worked there in months, Debbie still thought of him as one of her crew. He gave her a bright smile of welcome.

"Hi, Deb. Two cokes, please."

"Chocolate syrup in mine," Daphne put in.

"Ahh, the lady lives dangerously. You got it, ma'am." Deb sauntered off and Daphne leaned across the table. "I want to talk to you about something. I want to ask you something." Her tone was serious, conspiratorial. Justin regarded her warily.

"Uh-oh. The last time you asked me something in that tone of voice, we didn't speak for over a month."

She grimaced. "The 'weirdness.' No, it's nothing like that. I don't want you to do anything. Just answer a question. And promise me you won't laugh."

He tried to wipe the smirk off his face and regard her with the seriousness she requested. "I'll try."

But before she could respond, Deb was back with their cokes, placing the drinks in front of them with a flourish. She turned her attention to Justin. "Brian doin' okay, honey?" Glancing at Daphne, she proclaimed, "This kid's a saint, a fuckin' saint, the way he hangs in there. Y'know, Brian isn't the easiest man to be around, especially now, but Sunshine here makes it look like a garden party."

Justin frowned, slightly irritated by her comments. "He's doing fine. We're both doing fine."

As if sensing the tension, Daphne spoke up brightly. "Can I get a cheeseburger? Lettuce, tomato, catsup and pickles. Oh, and a side of cheese fries. How about you, Justin? My treat."

"Meat loaf's good today," Debbie offered.

Partly out of obstinance, Justin ordered a chicken salad on whole wheat toast and onion rings. When Debbie had drifted off, Daphne put her hand over his on the table.

"She didn't mean anything by it," she assured. "She just loves you."

"Sometimes I just wish everyone would--" he broke off, shaking his head. "Never mind. What did you want to ask me?" Better not to think about it, he reasoned. He had been about to complain; it seemed as if everyone crediting him for taking care of Brian didn't understand him or Brian very well.

"Well, it's gonna sound kinda dopey--"

"I'm used to 'dopey' from you, Daph. Just spit it out."

"Okay." She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "How do you know when you're in love?"

His eyes widened slightly as he grinned in surprise. "Hey, did you meet someone?"

"Well, yeah. . . on New Year's Eve. His name's Andrew, and he's a sophomore, and . . . " her words trailed off, the silence telling its own tale.

Daphne had been "in love" about half a dozen times since he'd known her, but somehow Justin sensed this was different. It was something about the way she looked. He took a sip of his soda and pondered how to reply to her original question. He stared past her and took a stab at it.

"It's physical, but it's emotional, too. When he touches you, it feels like your skin sort of melts together, re-forms into one flesh, one organism. His touch makes your existence worthwhile. You know-- you just know that you want to be with him, no matter what. You can't bear to be apart, even for a little while. You start thinking in the plural 'we', start merging into one entity without even realizing it's happening." He glanced over at her, suddenly coming back to reality.

Daphne's mouth was literally hanging open as she let out a pent-up breath. "Whew! I think I need a cigarette!" she exclaimed. She quickly drank half her soda in one long gulp.

"That's how it is for me, Daph. I don't know how it is for anyone else," he hastened to add. "I knew the minute I met Brian, but love's funny in that it keeps changing, reforming. What we had at the beginning--the lust, the fire that burned so bright you could barely touch it without being scorched--that's mellowed now. It's deeper, more all-encompassing, somehow more precious because of what we've been through together. I feel like, this time, we're really building something solid."

"Will he ever be. . . you know, fully recovered? Back to where he was?"

Justin winced, her words uprooting his deepest concerns. "I don't know. I don't really think so, but it's possible, I guess. But it doesn't matter, not to me. I guess it does to him, but he's still more of a man like he is than any of the guys trotting their stuff on Liberty Avenue." He pulled out his lighter and lit her cigarette for her, then lit one of his own. "But tell me about Andrew. Have you two--?" he let it hang.

Her eyebrow arched. "It's none of your--" She broke off as Debbie brought over their food. After she'd served them with her usual enthusiasm and hurried off, Daphne met Justin's curious gaze. "Yes," she admitted abruptly. "And he's wonderful. He says he loves me. He's sweet and he's funny and he's smart. It wasn't all of a sudden, like it was for you, but I'm beginning to feel like this is the real thing. And it terrifies me."

Justin nodded rapidly. "Oh, yeah, it's scary, all right. At least your guy tells you he loves you. You're one up on me in that department."

She paused with her cheeseburger halfway to her mouth. "You mean Brian still hasn't said--"

"Not in so many words, no. But he doesn't have to."

She frowned around a mouthful of sandwich. "Well, maybe you don't think so, but I sure would."

"It's different with gay men." Justin took a bite of his pickle spear, staring at his plate. We're not like your parents. We're not two lesbians marching down the aisle in matching Vera Wangs. Brian's words reverberated in his mind.

"Sure. Are you telling me you wouldn't like to hear it? Hear him say the words?"

Daphne had always had an irritating habit of confronting him with the damnedest questions that he didn't want to--or couldn't--answer. But faithfully, he tried.

"I'm telling you it doesn't matter. Not any more. That's part of love, too. When you know, without having to hear the words. Words can be lies. Words can be shit. Actions, feelings, can't." And suddenly, he realized it was true. Another discovery made. He looked up at her and smiled, pleased for her and pleased for himself. "Besides, right now Brian's got enough shit to deal with. It's no time to push for any declaration of undying love," he said ponderously, thinking of his conversation with Michael several weeks ago. Since then, Brian had been increasingly churlish and seemed dissatisfied with everything. Justin was more worried about him than he wanted to admit.

Shaking off the gloomy thoughts, he focused on his old friend and the diversion of their lunch together. "So, where did you meet this guy, anyway?"

Every successful action must have a plan. A strategy, if you will. One of the first rules of any successful campaign. Brian limped out of his loft and down the short corridor to the very end, where a door was set into the wall--not a steel door, like his own, but a heavy wooden door with a very old clear glass doorknob. Slowly, he opened the portal, feeling oddly like some character in a Hitchcock movie, hearing the dark strains of organ music ominously signaling the audience that beyond lay "danger." But was he Jimmy Stewart--the hapless victim, or Peter Lorre--the morbid antagonist?

In practical imagery, what lay beyond the door was nothing but a simple janitor's closet, containing a jumble of brooms, mops and buckets, cleaning supplies. Gingerly, he pushed his way past the clutter to the old trapdoor at the back. It slid upward, on creaking hinges that fit the mood perfectly, revealing a thick shaft of daylight--wintry, sunless daylight, but illumination nonetheless at variance with the former creepiness of the dark closet.

He stood, contemplating the metal rungs set into the bricks of the outer wall. The first step seemed impossibly high for his impaired footing, the subsequent rungs perilously steep. Climbing up would be a challenge, but he had anticipated that. It was all part of the plan, a kind of dry run, an experiment to see if it were possible for him to accomplish the ascent. He thought no further along than each step as he took it, refusing to contemplate the total picture. And the first step was to see if he could gain access to the rooftop of his building.

He had returned from his visit to Palmer's office and spent fifteen minutes pacing his floor, contemplating his options. Then, in a frenzy of movement, he had begun to act instead of react.

Leaving his cane propped at the bottom of the ladder, he began the ascent. It was arduous work with his weakened right leg and his right arm virtually useless. Sweat broke out on his back and trickled down his ribs as he forced himself up each rung--there were fourteen in all, and once he got past the eighth and knew he was over halfway there, he accepted that there was no turning back.

The air was cold, but he had donned his coat before leaving the loft, almost as an afterthought, as if acknowledging to himself that this was not for real, that it was simply a trial run. This is a test, Ladies and Gentlemen. If it had been a real emergency, a coat would have been superfluous. I repeat, this is only a test.

Reaching the top, he grabbed hold of the safety rail that ran around three sides of the opening and managed to pull himself up to his feet and step away from the shaft. He was breathing hard and trembling from the exertion, but he had made it, and under his own steam at that.

He felt, however, no pride in the accomplishment, no sense of joy. Joy and pride were not in his vocabulary at the moment. There was only the darkness, a blackness so inky that it threatened to consume him, to draw him into the vortex of its void. The Black Hole of Brian Kinney.

This was, essentially, all Michael's fault.

If the emotional little nelly had done his job, had done as he had been instructed, none of this would now be necessary. Shit, I must have been crazy to select him to be my Medical Power of Attorney. But he said, that night at Babylon, 'I'll pull your plug.' And I believed him. I fucking believed he would do it. But when push came to shove, when I needed him to do it, he wimped out. He figured a half-brain-dead Brian Kinney was better than none at all. Fabulous.

Brian tottered a few steps forward, cautious of his footing without the cane to assist him. The wind was strong up here, and deeply cold, but at least the precipitation had stopped. Large air conditioning units were lined up like sentinels, girded by metal boxes that sat up a foot or so from the roof base, and he rested against one for a moment, catching his breath as he leaned back and perched against it.

No--it isn't fair to blame Mikey. Brian admitted that it was his own responsibility. You couldn't put something like that on someone else. If the deed must be done, he would have to take the full culpability for it himself. He did not consider, or accept, that there had never been a point at which that decision was an option for Michael or for anyone. Not at any time during his ordeal had anyone subjected him to any form of life support or intimated that it would be best to let him die. His memory of those days was still too foggy, too vague to know exactly what had transpired.

But he did know, had been told, had relived vicariously many times over, what had occurred that fateful night, the night of the storm. The night his brain had imploded and left him a quivering heap on the sidewalk now below him. The night his life had changed forever.

It was, therefore, fitting--fucking poetic, actually--that it end as it should have months ago. That it end where it should have on that night.

He reached around into his back pocket and pulled out the cigarette he had stashed away some time ago for an emergency. He'd kept half a pack hidden at the bottom of one of his desk drawers, covered over by some file folders since he'd returned home from the hospital. There were only three of them left now, after this one, and he had doled them out judiciously, sneaking them only when absolutely necessary and only when there was no possibility that anyone would detect them, or the smoke, on him. He resented the need for secrecy, but it was better than listening to some inane lecture from one of his guardians.

Another example of how little control he had over his own life any more. Another reason for making a decision, a commitment to do what must be done. Defiantly, he pulled out a book of matches and fumbled with lighting the cigarette. It took him four tries, four burned matches that extinguished the moment they sparked into flame in the gusty wind, before he managed to get the tobacco going.

At the first pull of the nicotine-drenched cigarette, he coughed and gagged. God, how pathetic. I might as well be eleven years old again. His head spun dizzily and his throat felt scorched. But he puffed again and it was easier.

Now that he'd made it over the first hurdle--getting up here--he took a few tentative steps forward, toward the edge of the roof. There was a low eave that sat up about ten inches across the face of the building, a cement scrollwork facing that had been part of the original construction design. He stopped just beyond it and looked out over his street.

Dirty snow was piled everywhere. Huge mounds of it sat at curbs, along the edges of the sidewalks, covered any grassy areas in sight. All of it was stained grey by the exhaust fumes of cars and buses, ugly and messy. The winter had been wicked, even by Pittsburgh's standards, and it was only halfway over. They still had most of February, March and April to get through.

He had never minded their winters, never let the heavy snowfalls and belligerent winds deter him from doing whatever he wanted to do. He had always been young and healthy, able to cope with the inconveniences. But it was different now, difficult. Sometimes he went for days without leaving the loft because simply getting around was too overwhelming and troublesome. He had limitations. He was handicapped. And the fundamental issue was: did he really want to continue living such a life?

Despair pressed down on him, taunted him with Palmer's pronouncement. "Would you rather continue along the path you're on now--depressed and frustrated and fed up with life as you know it?" the doctor had asked him. As if anyone would. Brian had already been down this road --several times, actually. There had been moments of reckoning, so many of them he'd lost count, in the days and nights of struggle that had become his present life. And each time he had opted for another tomorrow, another chance, had told himself that things would return to normal, that he was making progress, that half a life was better, perhaps, than none. For a cynical bastard like himself, he sure could turn on the optimism, couldn't he?

He returned to his observation of the street below. All that snow. . . nothing at all like the fresh, pristine powder in the mountains. He remembered how beautiful it had been up at Vance's house several weeks ago. Even cold and wet, he had enjoyed himself, enjoyed seeing Justin goofing around and frolicking in the frosty landscape. Yet even there, at the end, he had felt the pull of discouragement and hopelessness that was his everyday life. Had known that nothing had really changed, that every single day for the rest of his miserable life would be a struggle, an uphill climb --and for what purpose?

Looking out over the neighborhood, he saw the little park that had become so familiar to him since his return from the hospital. Thanks to his diligent caregivers, he had spent plenty of time there before the weather had gotten too bad for such excursions. It was where he had found Rufus, his furry little companion who eagerly presented him with unfailing affection. He thought now about the cat, and wondered what would become of Rufus if/when he wasn't around to take care of him. Justin would make sure he was provided for, Brian was sure of that. With something akin to regret, he considered what seemed like an abandonment of the devoted feline he had adopted almost on a whim and definitely with uncharacteristic emotionalism.

He trembled with cold and with something more. For the first time, he admitted to himself that he was afraid. He was afraid to live, and he was afraid to die. It made no sense, but then little did these days. Standing there at the edge of the roof, staring down as the world went busily on its way with or without him, he experienced a moment of insignificance that he'd never known before. His well-preserved attitude of indifference began to vaporize, fracturing his psyche until all he was left with were questions to which he didn't know the answers, puzzles he was unable to articulate let alone ask.

Confused and scared, he backed away, forgetting in his haste the learned procedure for back-stepping. He lost his balance and flailed for an instant before settling hard on his ass. The surface was wet from the melted snow and he could feel the damp cold soak through his pants.

Shaking, shivering, he managed to maneuver himself over to the box where he had previously rested and pulled himself to his feet. Tears of frustration leaked from his eyes and stung his cheeks in the bitter cold wind. This had been a fool's errand. With his luck, if he tried to plunge from the roof he would only succeed in breaking his back and disabling himself further. Four stories wasn't all that high, and he might only succeed in driving his kneecaps up into his nose. Then Justin and Mikey would have to wheel around his leftover parts in a shopping cart.

The image made him giggle, and he wiped a hand across his face, mingling snot and tears and sweat in a disgusting mess.

When Justin arrived at the hospital, Brian was nowhere to be seen. He waited briefly at the curb, assuming the appointment was running late, but after time passed, he parked the Jeep and went in search of him. Finally checking in with Palmer's office, he learned that Brian had left nearly an hour earlier. The doctor's nurse told him that Brian had seemed agitated when he'd left, giving Justin fresh reason for concern. Assuming that he hadn't wanted to wait and had taken a cab home, Justin hurried back to the loft, feeling guilty for having left him alone to go have lunch with Daphne.

As he reached the door to the loft, he was surprised to find it unlocked; in fact, the latch was ajar. A fleeting smirk crossed his face. Mr. Perfect-I-Never-Leave-My-Door-Unlocked Kinney had apparently goofed. Smiling, he swung the door wide, calling out his lover's name, relieved that he was there.

A CD was playing softly on the changer--one of Brian's new-age hypnotic crap-tapes; all minor chords and sounding like funeral dirges cooked up by a Valium-laced electronics wizard. Glancing silently around the loft, he didn't see Brian anywhere. Open structured as it was, it took less than two minutes for Justin to ascertain that the place was empty.

He felt raw panic climbing up his spine; his heart pounded in his chest. He was being ridiculous and he knew it, but he couldn't shake the feeling of anxiety. He never should have let Brian go alone this morning. He had sensed his partner's agitation over the appointment, although he didn't know why.

With his recent conversation with Michael ringing in his mind, Justin knew he was over-reacting, but he couldn't stop himself. It appeared as if he had just stepped out for a moment, with the tape player still on and the door unlocked, but where the hell could he have gone? If Brian had done anything foolish, if he had...

No! Stop thinking that way. Justin decided that he couldn't just sit here and do nothing. He had to try to find him, wherever he was.

He turned and left the apartment, intending to take the stairs down to the street level, but when he stepped into the hallway, his attention was drawn to an opened door down at the other end of the hall. He'd never noticed a door down there before, never really paid any attention to it. Actually, he did remember a door being there, but had just never known what was behind it. Now, he could see that it was a closet, but at the rear of the closet was a shaft with a ladder of steps leading upward. Daylight was visible, so it must lead up to the roof.

Curious, Justin was inexplicably drawn toward it. As he neared the entrance to the closet, he saw something that turned his blood to ice. Leaning against the back wall, at the base of the steel stairs, was Brian's distinctive lionhead cane. Justin's mouth went dry as he tried to ignore the conclusions his mind was drawing. Swiftly, he hefted himself up and began to climb the rungs, thinking as he did so that he was simply wasting valuable time because there was no way Brian could have made such a climb on his own. Yet why else would the cane have been there, why else the door to the closet open? Where else could he be? And why was he there? Justin didn't know what he would find when he reached the top.

As his head cleared the opening, his eyes automatically scanned the rooftop, glancing first toward the peripheral edge, then drawing inward. There! Not at the edge, as Justin had feared, but sitting on a large metal box just a few feet from the opening, his back toward Justin, sat the object of his search. Brian appeared to be trembling, his shoulders shaking as he stared out over the city street, safely distanced from the precipice.

Justin paused, unsure how to proceed. It was obvious Brian hadn't yet sensed his presence behind him, and Justin didn't want to startle him. Shaking, scared senseless, Justin nevertheless knew he had to proceed cautiously; this was totally unfamiliar territory.

"Brian?" he spoke softly, tentatively. With a start, Brian spun around with an apprehensive expression.

"Jesus! You scared the shit out of me!" The complaint came from Brian, although Justin could have easily echoed it. He pulled himself up onto the rooftop and took a tentative step forward.

"Why didn't you wait for me at the hospital?" he asked gently.

"I didn't want to wait. I've spent enough goddamn fucking time in that place."

Justin glanced uneasily around the roof, taking a deep, steadying breath. "How did you get up here?"

"I'm not completely helpless." There was a defensive edge to Brian's voice, and Justin could sense his guard going up.

"That's a hell of a climb." Justin deliberately avoided the obvious question of why.

"I used to come up here a lot." Brian attempted to dismiss the implied but unspoken. "It's a good place to think."

"Think. . . about what?"

"Anything. Everything. 'Cabbages and kings.' " Brian made a snuffling sort of laugh as he awkwardly stood up. The motion caused Justin's heart to jump again.

"It's freezing up here," he observed. "Let's go down, okay?" His primary goal at that moment was to get Brian off the roof. The other issues could wait until they were on lower ground.

"I don't think I can do that."

Justin felt a fresh surge of fear and a despair so deep that tears welled up unbidden in his eyes. At that moment he was certain that Brian meant to throw himself off the roof, and he felt powerless to stop him. Frustration sharpened his voice. "You can. You've got to."

Brian was looking away, past him toward the opening of the shaft. "I got up here, and then I realized that I didn't think I'd be able to make it back down. Pretty stupid, huh?"

When he understood what Brian was saying, a sense of relief, however brief and fleeting, overwhelmed Justin and he simply lost it. He felt as if he were going to throw up, and he felt the wetness sting his cheeks in the cold. He must have made some kind of strangled sound, because then Brian did look over at him, and his look was one of surprised curiosity. If he was acting, it was a very good act.

"What the fuck's wrong?"

There was an instant, just the barest of moments, when their eyes met and the guard came down and each knew what the other was thinking without a word being said. It was both chilling and enthralling all at once. Brian saw Justin's terror and despair--for him--and marveled at it; Justin saw Brian's fear and pain and recognized it for what it was without a shadow of doubt. And in each of them grew a need to give peace to the other.

"I love you. . . so much sometimes. . ." Justin began, trying to make his tears a thing of joy, not despair.

Brian limped over to him and reached up to swipe at the wetness with a gentle thumb. "You're such a twat," he murmured affectionately. And then, to Justin's amazement, he put his arms around him and simply clung tightly. His mouth, near Justin's ear as he hunched over him, distinctly issued two words, strangled syllables that sounded like, "Me, too." Stunned, Justin was momentarily motionless, uncertain he'd heard or interpreted correctly. Then, straightening back up, Brian's expression became neutral. "Now that you're here, will you help me down?"

"I'll always be here for that," Justin ventured, saying as much as he dared. And Brian nodded as if he understood.

"Good. 'Cause it's fucking cold and my goddamned pants are wet."

Justin tried to joke, relieved to be back on familiar conversational ground. "Couldn't you hold it?"

"I sat down in the water, asshole." He paused. "Well, fell down is more like it." He put his hand on Justin's shoulder for support.

With a heavy sigh, unsettled by both the incident and the whispered words, Justin led the way over to the ladder. He sensed that his first instinct had been correct and that, despite Brian's attempt at nonchalance, nothing really had been settled or even said, but at least for the moment there was time for that. And now Justin knew that there was precious little time to waste.

"Let's go home, Mikey." Brian's voice was weary and faint with none of its usual punch. Michael regarded him thoughtfully from across the table at Woody's.

"We just got here," he pointed out, pasting a smile of encouragement on his face. His pleasantry was forced, his enthusiasm dampened by the reason behind this outing.

Late that afternoon he had received a furtive phone call from a frantic Justin. Calling on the cell phone from the hallway outside the loft for privacy while Brian was napping inside, Justin had told Michael about finding Brian on the rooftop and admitted that he didn't know what to do. Michael had been slightly surprised that he had turned to him for advice, but it seemed that Justin was beginning to understand the background that he shared with Brian and the unique insights that it gave him. It had been Justin's suggestion that perhaps Michael should speak privately with Brian, perhaps get him away from the loft for a while that evening, and Michael had heartedly concurred.

Brian had not embraced the idea of an outing--especially not to one of his former watering holes--but between Justin and himself, and Brian's own apparent apathy--Michael had succeeded in bundling him up and loading him into the Jeep for a nostalgic excursion into their former glory-days.

Brian's eyes darted around the room, resting uneasily here and there on faces and bodies with which he was intimately familiar. It was obvious that he didn't want to be here.

Michael indicated the glass on the table near Brian's hand. "Drink your soda. Relax. Enjoy yourself."

"I still don't know why you wanted to come here," Brian groused, but there was no real fire in the words. "Why aren't you home with the Professor?"

"I told you, he's grading papers tonight, and I didn't feel like sitting around watching TV. It's been a while since we had an evening together--I thought it would be fun. How'd you make out at the doctor's today?"

"Fun and Doctor Palmer do not belong in the same dialogue, Mikey. Pick one or the other."

"It was just a check up, wasn't it?" Michael probed, trying to determine what had thrown Brian for such a loop today.

"Yeah. The least you could do is get me a Jack Daniels." Brian pushed aside the glass of coke with a disdainful gesture. "This stuff tastes like shit plain."

Michael considered the request. One shot wouldn't do any harm, and it might smooth the way for Brian to talk to him. "Okay," he agreed easily, slipping over to the bar and ordering the single shot glass of whiskey. Carrying it back to the table, he dumped it into the coke to dilute it.

In all the years he had known Brian Kinney, he had never seen him quite like this. He was too quiet, too passive. The edginess was gone, the usual cynical cockiness only a whisper of what was normal for him. He'd been dealing with Brian's moods for years, knew him like he knew himself, yet this was something far different from anything familiar.

Instead of drinking, Brian merely fingered the glass, rubbing at the sweat forming around the outside. He kept his eyes on the table, no longer looking around the room, insulated in his own lethargic world.

"You've always been a good friend, Mikey." The detached tone of Brian's voice chilled Michael and he felt a frisson of fear, suddenly understanding what Justin had told him. That fear made him speak more sharply than he intended.

"Then don't do this."

Brian's head came up, his eyes meeting Michael's in surprise. "Do what?" The inquiry was innocent, seemingly perplexed, but Michael thought he saw a slight expression of guilt hiding behind it.

"Don't. . . don't turn into someone I don't know. Shit, Brian, you've never been a quitter, and you've always said that self-pity makes your dick soft. Has a slight medical setback changed who Brian Kinney is?"

Brian looked astonished at the vehemence with which Michael had spoken. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You're wallowing in it, pal. Everyone can see it. It's like that stroke . . . it paralyzed your spine, not your arm and leg." Michael's voice was bitter and sharp. He knew he was risking a lot, making assumptions that perhaps Brian wasn't ready to admit yet, but it had always been that way between them. He was one of the few people who could call Brian Kinney on his shit and get away with it, who could sometimes, perhaps partially, make a difference in his thoughts. Whether or not this approach was the correct one this time remained to be seen.

Brian closed his eyes for a brief moment, then scowled. "You don't know anything, Michael. You don't know shit." He picked up the tumbler and gulped down the coke and JD, then coughed as the fiery liquid stunned his throat. Silent, helpless, Michael watched him, waiting for him to come to terms with what had been said, then spoke softly.

"I know. I know how hard you've worked, I know how disgusted you must feel. I know you, and what an enormous weight you must be carrying around. But I also know that you've got people who are pulling for you, who admire you for the way you're handling it all. Like me." Michael smiled gently. "You're still my hero."

"I've never been a hero, Mikey. It's all been in your pathetic, comics-drenched mind. And you may think you know so much about me, but you only see what you want to see." Brian's hands were trembling as he placed them on the table one over the other. Michael reached across and put his own over the clenched fists.

"What I see is someone who needs to talk to someone, despite his life-long objections to anything remotely resembling counseling. And that advice is coming from someone you just admitted was your friend."

"Ah." Brian arched an eyebrow superciliously. "So a shrink can make me all happy and well-adjusted, huh? I can go around merrily spouting euphemisms of sunny delight. Crap, Mikey. Life is what it is. It's a bitch and then you die, just like I've always said."

At least, Michael ruminated, that sounded more like the Brian he knew and loved. "Well, look at it this way--maybe he'll give you drugs." He grinned impishly, not willing to push any deeper. Maybe he had at least planted a seed, he hoped. "And if you ever go around spouting 'sunny delight', I'll be the first to call you on it."

Brian was silent, his eyes staring off into the distance, a pensive look on his face. "I hate you sometimes," he mused softly. "I don't know what ever possessed me to allow a geeky retard, who couldn't even tie his own shoelaces without help, to talk me into hanging around with him. You've been bothering me ever since that first day." But the message was delivered so affectionately, and in such typical Brian-fashion, that Michael only grinned at him.

"You've sure got it tough, sport."

"I'd have it easier with another shot of Jack Daniels. Neat, this time," Brian wheedled.

Michael was about to protest that he didn't think that was a good idea, then bit his tongue. He had to allow Brian some autonomy, some sense of control, but he silently vowed it would be the last one for tonight. Brian was digging in his pocket for his billfold as Michael stood.

"This one's on me, save your money. Call it payback for all you've had to put up with."

Breathing heavily, still shaking inside, Michael went to the bar and ordered shots for both of them. Had anything he'd said really gotten through, had his words been effective or only done more damage?

Returning to the table, he stood beside Brian's chair to set down his glass. To his surprise, Brian stood up and took the drink from his hand and tossed it back in one gulp. Then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Michael's. With a heavy sigh, Michael put his arms around him and drew him into a tender embrace. The familiar exchange nearly destroyed him; he couldn't think about what his life would be like without Brian Kinney.

Brian sealed the moment with a gentle kiss, a friendship kiss, between them. "Can we go home now? I'm really beat. . . " Releasing Michael, he reached for his cane. "All this frivolity and humor wears a man out."

Michael was tempted to ask him for a promise--to see a counselor, to ride out the storms of his life, but he knew better than to push his advantage, so he merely nodded. "Sure. Whatever your heart desires, as long as it doesn't get me into trouble."

"You never were a risk-taker, Mikey. That's always been your problem."

And you always were, and that's always been your problem. Michael put an arm around Brian's shoulders to steady him as they made their way to the door.

The call came on his private line. He was between patients, working on his notes, and after some hesitation he picked up the receiver with a clipped "Dr. Gottlieb."

The voice on the other end was deceivingly calm. "I need to see you, Doc." It was Brian.

Trained in psychiatry and experienced to read distress, he recognized the undertone of urgency. "Where are you?"

"Home."

"Stay put. I'm on my way."

Last they spoke was a couple of days ago. Brian called to tell him about his visit with Dr. Palmer. The conversation was strangely disjointed, half-sentenced strung together with long silences. When he tried to probe, Brian hung up on him. Weaving his way in and out of traffic now as he tried to get to Tremont, he wondered if he should have pressed harder.

He was at the loft within fifteen minutes. Justin let him in, pale-faced and tight-lipped, signaling with a nod of his head toward the bedroom.

He found Brian, fully dressed, lying on his side and curled into a ball. His eyes were wide open and unfocused; dark, observant pools soaked in despair.

"Hi, Kinney," he touched Brian's arm lightly and sat next to him on the bed. "What's going on? Are you sick?"

The other shrugged noncommittally. "Only in the head." He cackled at the unintended double meaning.

"I gather you didn't just call because you wanted to go out for a skinny cappuccino," the doctor probed with a raised eyebrow.

"No, more like a brew of hemlock." Rolling onto his back Brian sat up, his gaze fixed on his friend's face as he asked. "I want you to take me on as your patient. I need a shrink." The word 'need' was hard for him to utter.

The psychiatrist was silent for a few moments of soul-searching. He wasn't surprised by the request, he expected it--depression was the next phase for someone as severely compromised by a stroke as Brian was. He also knew that his friend, living on the razor's edge even prior to his illness, would go off the deep end--half measures weren't Brian's style. What he wasn't sure of, didn't trust, were his own feelings. Was he friend enough to Brian to stop seeing him as quarry; could he end the pointless trophy chase, rein in his own attraction--lust--and give the other what he needed?

He reached out again, touching Brian's face, letting his fingers slide to the taut-muscled neck and shoulder. The touch was at once innocent and achingly intimate. For a moment of rare and total empathy he was fully attuned to the other, felt the emotions and the pain, the sheer existential drama he was living. Brian, his friend--still the drama queen. He smiled, and the thought anchored him back in reality. Brian was waiting for an answer. There was only one answer, and he gave it.

"Let's go. I'll drive you, just have someone pick you up." Decision made, he was all business.

"Go where? C'mon, Sig, you're famous for your perceptiveness. Do I look like I'm ready to party?"

"You wanted a shrink, you got one. And I don't do housecalls." He rose, pulling Brian up with him.

"I can get you one if you wish. But it won't make talking any easier. Let's start by you telling me what brought you here."

"I'm depressed."

"Just recently?"

"Hell no. Look at me--I'm a damn mess inside and out. Have been depressed ever since I woke up and found myself on the wrong side of the Pearly Gates. But you were there . . ." His words trailed off into silence.

"So why now?"

"Almost threw myself off the godloving roof. Or as Justin would oh-so-gently phrase it, I'm having an 'impulse control issue.' They made me call."

The doctor knew the 'they' he was referring to--Michael and Justin. "In that case, go back home. I can't help you unless you want me to."

Brian mulled the words for a while, fondling the smooth bronze lionhead on his cane, brows wrinkled in thought. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with unaccustomed emotion. "I need to stay, because I'm scared. Of dying. I've been thinking about it, plotting it, dreading it. I'm just not sure how to go on living. And I need help to sort it all out."

The "fifty-minute hour," Brian realized to his own detriment, could stretch into torturous eternity when it involved a slow inquisition making him drill into his own murky, carefully avoided subconscious. By the time Sigmund turned off the tape recorder, signaling the end of the session, he felt too exhausted to open his mouth, much less to utter anything intelligible. Still, and to his surprise, there was a slight loosening of the stranglehold that'd seemed to suffocate him lately; opening up to someone, even a head-shrinker, proved to be cathartic. Even if it left him catatonic for the moment.

Sigmund was busy writing something on his pad, signed it with a flourish, and handed it to his patient. It was a prescription for Nefazodone, an antidepressant, and it made Brian bristle with anger.

"I don't need it. I do drugs only for recreation. Isn't psychotherapy all about talking your way through your problems?"

"It can be. But in the meanwhile, I'd like to make sure you take no more trips to the roof. The drug is a temporary measure--a crutch, if you will."

Ignoring for the moment the irony of the analogy, Brian commented dryly. "How sweet of you, keep me alive so you can fix me. A regular little 'miracle worker.' Ahhhh . . ."

"I can only help unravel you. You're the one to 'fix' yourself, Brian."

Brian was still pondering this last parting pearl as he exited the doctor's office, rumbling to himself without much rancor. So, I'll have to pull my own shit together and pay Sigmund a fucking fortune in the process. Not a bad deal for him.

Michael was already waiting for him at the reception area, pacing impatiently and scanning his friend's face with a mixture of anticipation and dread. "Well?" There was that irrepressibly hopeful puppy look on his face Brian was too familiar with.

"I'll live, dear," Brian intoned in a high falsetto, "and . . . we're pregnant. Isn't that exciting?"

Taken aback only for a moment, Michael decided to play along. Stepping in front of Brian he placed both of his palms on the other's belly, gently patting it. "Oh, a baby--but, honey, with your liberal mating habits, do we know who's the lucky father?"

Brian leaned into him playfully, smiling. But the smile soon faded as his face darkened with a shadow of returning pain. "He wants to see me twice a week--at least in the beginning. I must be an even bigger fuckup than I suspected. And just to think I used to be dazzling . . ."

Brian Kinney, 31-year old white male, homosexual. No known prior psychiatric treatment. Severe cerebrovascular accident on September 27, 2002. Full medical records requested from primary physician.

Clinician's Observations:

The patient's current thinking is largely present-oriented and fully encapsulated in the relatively short time-span of the stroke event and its aftermath. In his conscious mind the stroke is the full reason, and sufficient justification, for his suicidal ideation. Early indications are that the patient needs to, but is not open to, a deeper analysis of his past, beyond the narrow cycle of his current illness.

Diagnosis/Initial:

Severe depression disorder with non-impulsive suicidal ideation and action. This qualifies it as a crisis situation requiring immediate intervention. Risk is present as long as acute depressive phase continues. The presenting etiology is an inability to synthesize coping strategies and solutions to the immediate stressors created by the aftermath of the patient's illness.

Treatment Plan/Initial:

Crisis intervention in the form of--

1. Frequent counseling sessions; cognitive therapy indicated, with possible later psychotherapy.

2. Acknowledgment of suicidal thoughts to self and to immediate care-givers.

3. Adjustment of expectations to more realistic goals;

4. Medication: pharmacotherapy to treat depression.

Prescribed: 50 mg. Nefazodone x 2. This specific SSRI is less linked to incidents of sexual dysfunctions and seizures.

5. Contract signed by patient to contact clinician or someone else in case of suicidal thoughts.

Note: Clinician needs to establish distance and maintain boundaries with patient, based on their previous relationship.

CHAPTER NINETEEN will be posted on Sunday, November 16, 2003

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