It was a cold Saturday morning, with the promise of more snow, and Brian was exercising on the stationary bike under the watchful eyes of his younger captor when the entrance bell to the building rang. Justin answered, and the surprise on his face mirrored that on Brian's when the caller identified himself: it was Gardner Vance. Unfastening the velcro securing his affected hand and foot to the bike, Brian dismounted and threw a towel around his neck. He was just wiping the sweat off his face as Justin pulled the loft door open for his guest.

"Hi, Brian--Justin," Vance nodded his greetings, "sorry about not calling ahead, but I was in the neighborhood and decided to try my luck." Brian's boss--now partner--has been conscientious in keeping up with Vanguard's most promising ad exec; he visited him once in the hospital and twice since his release home. Whether it was out of true concern, a need to assess first hand Brian's chances of a full comeback, or just good old Brit manners, was hard to tell--but as Brian decided, it didn't really matter. He appreciated the open channel of communication with his workplace; sarcasm aside, he wasn't ready to count his career among his losses.

"Well, you're here and you're welcome," Brian was his smiling best as he gestured his guest over to the sofa and headed himself for one of the armchairs. "What's on your mind?"

"Two things, actually. First, I reconfirmed your medical insurance, short and long term disability options, home services. You're fully covered."

"Great," Brian nodded, silently thanking his lucky stars--and he often thought he had none--for his status as partner with its attendant benefits package. "And the other thing?"

"Come back to work part-time. Obviously only after you clear it with your medics. But we need you, and you can probably use some distraction from the fascinating routine of your daily rehab by now."

Brian's back stiffened for a moment's resentment at Vance's presumption, but he recognized the other's intent to help. Or, even better, the firm's need for his services. "What d'you have in mind?"

"Cynthia's been chomping at the bit to get back to work with you. You could start by reviewing your existing accounts with her help. The amount of time you put in, and the site, is at your discretion. At home, in the office, whatever's your preference."

"It's an offer hard to refuse," Brian commented dryly. "Are you that despondent with your current cast of admen, am I that good, or did your accountants recommend to put me under Vanguard's 'deductible charitable activities'?"

"And here I thought that the doctors managed to fix your head and give you an attitude-adjustment," Vance joked, too used to Brian's style to take offense. "But no, you still have a shitty attitude. And in case you're just lamely fishing for a compliment, you are a passable ad exec, and I'd prefer to get some mileage out of you for all the money we pay you--partner!" He added with a shrug, "strangely enough, your major accounts keep on asking for you . . . and they say loyalty in the business world is dead. Anyway," he rose, ready to leave, "just think about the offer and let me know. Gotta run."

He paused by Brian's side, lifted his hand to squeeze the seated man's shoulder, then thought better of it and proceeded to the door. "It was good to see you again, Justin," he nodded toward the younger man busy at the computer. "Take care of Mr. Kinney here and keep him straight." He grinned, winked at Brian and was gone.

He was flying effortlessly, no pain inside him, no targeted landing beneath him in sight. He was soaring toward a blinding brightness--the sun he assumed--buoyed by the clear warmth caressing his being. Elated and drunk with his freedom granted from gravity, he didn't heed the wind picking up around him, as gale-force currents lifted him up, toyed with him, tossed him around like a boneless shapeshifting rag doll. He felt himself sucked into a wind tunnel lined with dark clouds and laden with unspent rain, twirling, plummeting in free fall, his vision unnaturally acute and clear as his final destination came into sharp focus: a stretch of familiar pavement, its wet, rainy surface lit in patches by the anemic glow of a lone streetlight.

He woke to his own scream, his sweat drenched body cradled in Justin's comforting embrace.

Patient: Brian Kinney

Process Notes: March 6, 2003

Indication for next treatment steps: reinforce realistic assessment of patient's present condition and future expectations; begin exploring more deep-set issues of his past.

Brian stirred, enjoying for another moment the netherworld between sleep and wakefulness. He could feel, rather than see, the warm glow of the amber light above his bed--the blue neons, a trademark of his past life, had been gone now for a while with the other relics of that life. Somebody else's . . .

Eyes still heavy from the nap, he finally sat up in bed. He slowly raised his right hand, turned it palm up, contemplated it. Justin, lost in some school project at the computer, was jarred out of his reverie by the sound of a shuddering breath from the direction of the bedroom, punctuated by a sigh.

"Hi-ya, Sleeping Beauty." He padded over and ruffled Brian's hair. "Knocked yourself out today, hah?"

"It was good to work again with Cyn, talk shop, lose ourselves in the world of hard sell and glossy bullshit." Cynthia had spent the morning at the loft, part of the new arrangement to ease Brian back into a work routine. "But it's all so very sobering."

"What is?" He had Justin's full attention now.

"My own fucking helplessness. Can't type, can't write, can't even sign my own damn name. Cynthia has to do everything for me and . . . I hate to be needful." He paused, taking a deep breath. "Except with you."

"Good. That's definitely progress," Justin's grin was laced with affection. "Because we need each other, at least I know I do." He reached for Brian's hand. "Besides, you're still the brain even if she's your 'right hand.' Literally."

"Yeah, literally." Brian weakly flexed the hand held captive in Justin's.

Rubbing the warm palm, Justin added. "It's early days--don't give up just yet. You have to continue with the therapy, exercise the hand as much as you can. And the brace helps too. Besides," and he smiled at the other, "it's not like you had a promising career as a concert pianist . . ."

"Or a fiddler," Brian retorted without missing a beat as he returned Justin's smile with a toothy shark smirk of his own.

Justin flinched but left the comment hanging. Instead, struck by a sudden idea, he asked. "Speaking of the arts, have you ever been interested in drawing?" Warming to the emerging notion, he headed over to his work desk to retrieve some items and returned to the bed. Sliding in behind Brian he rose on his knees and snuck his arms around the other's waist. With one hand he arranged the large sketch pad and pencils in front of them, with the other he took a firm hold of Brian's affected hand. Their fingers joined, he helped Brian to grab a pencil and guided the inert fingers over the paper. "Draw."

"Justin, hold it," Brian pushed back against the embrace, "you're mistaking me for one of your sensitive artiste cadres at PIFA. Besides, what would you have me draw?"

"I don't know, it's your call--but if memory serves, the 'Kinney Collection' was always distinguishable by one single source of inspirations--"

"Cocks."

"Cocks." With a confirming nod, Justin braced the hand encased in his and repeated his earlier directive. "Draw."

Brian provided the creative direction, Justin the stability as he braced the weak hand with his, their fingers gliding in tandem across the sheet. What emerged was a loose interpretation of the theme, closer to the avant-garde masters of the abstract than to the anatomical precision of the Renaissance. But still, all in all, it was the male organ, generously endowed and proudly erect.

With a satisfied sigh, Brian leaned back as he let go of the pencil. Justin embraced him from behind, planted a kiss at the nape of his neck and proceeded to lick the curve of his ear. "Artwork needs to be signed," he whispered and grabbed the pencil again, scribbling at the bottom of the page. SELF PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST, then signed it with flourish, BK, 2003.

Brian shook his head in vigorous protest. "Not a self portrait. It's yours, not mine."

"And why is that?" Justin inquired sweetly, suspecting the worst. "Are you paying homage to your favorite teething toy?"

"That too," Brian admitted, rubbing up against Justin's groin. "But, more to the point, it couldn't be my dick--paper isn't long enough to do it justice."

"Of all the vain, conceited, self-aggrandizing bastards . . . " Scandalized, Justin jumped up, letting Brian flop unceremoniously on his back. Within minutes, they were both doubled over in laughter. Struggling to get up, Brian lifted the sketch pad and clutched it to his chest. "I never knew drawing can be this much fun, Sunshine. I might try turning it into my new line."

The headaches started suddenly and violently. The first time they hit, Brian was at Justin's art computer, practicing his alphabet like a kindergartner. His proud partner had even begun to magnet the fridge door with his handiwork, though all Brian could see when he looked at his new signature was a feeble attempt to forge the penmanship of his earlier self. Tired of practicing his letters he switched to doodling, using the paint-brush function of the computer to assist his sluggish fingers.

"What are you working on?" Justin leaned over his shoulder, his warm breath ruffling the fine hair on the back of Brian's head. The younger man was tickled to see Brian using the art computer--there was some poetic justice in Brian's original generosity paying late dividends.

The shape on the screen was round, drawn in metallic silver tones, and lacking in definition, although it bore vague resemblance to a highly stylized animal head. Justin squinted his eyes as he tried to force some recognizable image on the shamble of lines. Failing that, he finally asked, "Is it a puzzle, Brian? If, as usual, it's a sex organ, I hope I don't have one . . ."

"Everyone's an art critic," Brian intoned with a moan and a smile. "It's just a doodle, an art-fart; I don't have the foggiest what it's supposed to be. The abstract landscape of BK's addled brain?" He added, pointing to his head.

He took one last look at the screen, hit the "Erase" button, and was about to get up when he doubled over, grabbed for his forehead and collapsed back into the chair.

Justin, still hovering behind, reached over to stabilize him. His voice was keen with concern as he asked, "Brian, what's the matter? Are you in pain?"

Brian was too deep in the private well of his pain to respond coherently. Justin led him to the bed and made him comfortable and, grasping Brian's shoulder with one hand, he reached for the phone with the other to dial Dr. Palmer's number.

Following a battery of questions about onset and symptoms, the neurologist helped Justin calm down. He recommended medication, close monitoring, and the prospect of a CAT scan within 24 hours--but didn't suspect another stroke. By the time Justin was off the phone, the sudden attack loosened its grip. Color began to return to Brian's sickly pale features, his eyes cleared and the shallow, sob-like breaths subsided into a slower, deeper rhythm of inhale/exhale. He was barely conscious enough to swallow his pills before he lapsed into a deep sleep, leaving Justin to wipe the perspiration off his face, tuck him in and sit by his side to wonder what the hell had happened.

The CAT scan, to their relief, was negative. As they were exiting Dr. Palmer's office, happy with the results, Justin teased Brian, "You must be in menopause, 'dear'--at your age, migraines are a fairly common symptom."

Brian made a face in response. "It's bound to be better than you, drama princess, lapsing into bouts of PMS at least once a month." Justin only swatted his partner's ass and grinned.

From the hospital they headed to the car dealership, a visit Brian both dreaded and anticipated in equal measure. His rehab team had cleared him weeks ago to resume driving, dumping a difficult decision in his lap. The Jeep was not a very suitable option any more, neither would be a Corvette Stringray, his secret dream car for years. After a boatload of input from Consumer Reports and from an assortment of websites diligently searched, courtesy of Justin, he'd finally made up his mind. He wanted a Lexus SUV GX470--macho with a mildly YUPPY image, roomy and powerful enough to tool around, and easily adjustable to his special needs. As they were driving over now to pick it up, Brian felt nervous and apprehensive. While driving would give him back some precious independence, there was also a finality, a symbolic acceptance in settling for a "crip-mobile," the term he coined for his new fire-horse.

To their credit, Lexus worked quickly and efficiently, even offering a "conversion" department--the fancy acronym for "handicapped adjustments"--on the premises. He had to go through a medical assessment, work with a driving evaluator, and negotiate the details with someone called a 'mobility products specialist.' But the final reward was within reach and he couldn't hide his excitement as he and Justin now walked into the service area.

He immediately spotted his car, black like his beloved Jeep, as one of the mechanics noticed them and headed their way.

"Mr. Kinney. Here to try out your new Lexi?" Middle-aged, balding and sporting a beer-belly, the man's craggy face was all smiles as he pointed toward the car. "Ready to get behind the wheel?"

Brian circled the Lexus cautiously, examining it with a critical eye, still battling the residues of his own ambivalence. Then, with a decisive move he reached for the driver's side door and climbed into the cabin. Reading the service guy's name-tag, he asked, "'Okay, Jim, what do we do next?"

"Well, sir, with your permission I'll scoot into the passenger seat, and we'll take her out for a trial run around the lot."

"Not her, him." At the man's look of incomprehension, Brian clarified. "I have it on good authority that this Lexus is a boy. Name yet to be determined." Laughing, he added, "C'mon, man, hop in!"

It took them the better half on an hour before Brian, with Jim's patient guidance, mastered the use of the adjusted controls, allowing him to drive using his left side.

Waiting at the main entrance, the mask of anxiety slipped off Justin's face as he saw Brian pull in from their final round, a huge grin lighting his face. The mechanic handed Justin a folder full of paperwork and a second set of keys and left, wishing them the best.

Brian, still grinning, signaled Justin to climb in. He shifted the SUV to 'Drive,' let out a loud "Yee-Haah," and turned to Justin. "So, would you like to ride my Stud?"

Laughing back at him, Justin joked, "I'd rather ride you, stud--but just to prove to you my dedication, I'll risk life and limb and ride in your car." He placed a chaste kiss on Brian's cheek, adding, "Congratulations, Tiger, you're back in the race."

"Yeah, right," Brian mumbled suddenly somber, "in a gimp-mobile."

Heavy metal sliding on its tracks sliced into the battle-beat in Justin's head. His blood was singing with anger inside his ears, crowding out reason. For all his mild appearance and country club manners, he had always had a temper, further loosened by the bashing and never fully reigned in in its wake.

Brian has been AWOL, unaccounted for for hours, and Justin was tumbling through the alphabet of emotions, working on "r"--righteous rage--for being put in this state of impotent worry.

He'd started out simply puzzled when, hours ago, he came home to an empty loft. He called around but found no trace of Brian. Then, checking the underground garage he realized the Lexus was missing too, and his concern graduated to full-blown anxiety. On an errant note he wondered if that's how his parents had felt when, at sixteen and armed with his brand new license, he began to take out the car. Brian had just received his handicapped license and, so far, at least to Justin's knowledge, hadn't ventured out on his own without someone else to accompany him. To add to his concern, he found Brian's cell thrown on the bed, half hidden under a pile of pillows.

As the waning moon rose higher and the night ate away the hours, Justin was forced to discard all the more mundane explanations--appointments, therapy, visits with friends, or shopping. Too late. It was just damn too late for anything plausible.

The door came to a halt, the fully ajar frame frozen for a moment's vacuum. Then the still tableau came to life with motion and color, but what filled it contributed little to Justin's peace of mind.

It's not that Brian looked bad or disheveled; he never did, not to Justin, not even after the stroke. As always, he cut an imposing figure, dressed to kill and properly attired for whatever the occasion of his disappearance might have been. He wore his leather coat, multiple folds of a cashmere scarf bundling his throat, his hands gloved in leather. He was leaning on his cane, his limp pronounced as he dragged a booted foot on the hardwood floor and turned to slide the door shut behind him.

"Brian?" The question mark implicit behind the name conveyed anger and relief all in one breath. Meant to elicit an answer, it failed.

Stepping closer, Justin scanned the face he'd made long ago his primary business to read, and came up empty. Brian didn't seem to be hurt or in pain, but there was something off--subtle and well masked, but clearly off.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Justin's frustration exploded into words. "Are you all right?"

"Been out." The two-syllable sentence and stubborn set of jaw broadcasted the message, Don't pry.

"I was. . . . " he wanted to say 'worried,' wanted to go over and touch Brian, wanted to feel for himself the warm solidity of his body, but something in the other's stance stopped him. Instead, he stood and watched as Brian turned from the door and took a few laborious steps in until he, too, stopped, fully illuminated by the kitchen high beams.

Justin was struck speechless. His partner and ward, the man he'd invested the past five months of his life to nurse back to health, was reeking of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke and was royally wasted. His eyes were blood-shot and red-rimmed, nostrils raw, and Justin didn't even want to venture guessing the cocktail of drugs Brian must've consumed to arrive at his current state of substance-induced bliss. And this, when he knew bloody well the dangers to his well-being.

A sudden flush of fury blanketed Justin's mind, clouding his vision and judgment. Like a dog trained to recognize scent and sight cues and arrange them in a Gestalt of meaning, he collected the clues and rushed to the inevitable conclusion. The combination of factors, incriminating in and of themselves, lead to a single point: Babylon. Where drugs were shared, the thumping disco beat numbed the mind, and, in the streaming shafts of light, the world remained forever young and beautiful. Where the inviting hellhole of the backroom swallowed all those who passed through in the joys of free, anonymous sex.

"So I see you decided to visit some of your old digs. Site of old conquests." No longer worried or compassionate, Justin wanted answers. His months of indenture, he thought with bitter rancor, had earned him that. At least that.

Brian stared at him with incomprehension. "My old digs? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Woody's, Brian, Babylon, Liberty Avenue." Justin spit out the words, his mouth bitter with the taste of jealousy. "Y'know, the Great Queer Way--the thoroughfare where you cruise to pick up fresh meat, tender untried ass, starry-eyed young tricks still clamoring to be 'the best homosexuals' they can. And who better to show them the ropes than the stud of them all?" Flustered and vibrating with rage, Justin moved closer, wanting to grab Brian by the shoulders and shake him within an inch of his life. Holding on to the last shred of his tenuous control, he stopped and planted himself right in front of Brian's face.

Reacting on instinct Brian's body jerked back, still more surprised than agitated by the tirade, but the hazels of his eyes began to darken with the gathering storm as he shot back. "My whereabouts are none of your concern. Butt out."

"The hell I will. How long d'you think I'll stand by to pick up the pieces and be an obedient little non-boyfriend while you go and drag around your sorry ass looking for tricks behind my back!"

"Is that what you think I've been doing?" Brian retorted with a curt, brittle chortle.

"Look at you. You smell of Babylon, stink of booze and sex. You're an aging, drugged out, pathetic queer looking for love in all the wrong places instead of . . . instead of . . . " He choked on the words, suddenly aware he'd said too much. With a powerful shove he pushed Brian and brushed past him heading for the door.

"Damn you!" Staggering backward, Brian was inflamed. "Who the fuck do you think you are? And who the hell put you in charge of my 'pathetic' life? Why don't you keep your fucking nose out of my affairs and let me decide where to stick my dick, as long as it's not up your asshole!"

"No problem, Asshole." Justin grabbed for his jacket thrown over one of the chairs, and added in a tone lowered to sotto voce. "And here I thought the damn stroke would slow you down, force you to take stock, see what you've got. But no," his voice spilled again into high-pitched agitation, "you're still vying for the 'Pittsburgh's biggest whore' distinction." Red-faced and seething, he flung the words in Brian's face. "Well, this dumbass trick is checking out. Have a good life."

"Get. The fuck. Out." Brian was shouting now, provoked beyond control. He felt the veins in his temples pulse at a maddening pace, Justin's goading words searing their way into his mind. Infuriated, he yelled at the retreating back. "And don't come back!" To punctuate the acrimonious message, he lifted his cane and flung it full force at the door. Wood contacted metal with a sickening crunch and there was silence for a moment. They both held their breaths. Then Justin slid the door open, slammed it behind him with a violent thud, and was gone.

He felt the brace cut into his calf as his entire body twisted, muscle and sinew struggling to maintain his balance with his shoulders and torso turned to follow the trajectory of the cane crashing against the door. Suspended for a moment in slow motion, with arms flailing and seeking purchase, he, too, crashed onto the bare floor.

The first thing to cross his mind, as illogical as it was irreverent, was a random line he'd picked up from an old play. You have no idea how much noise I make falling down. The mirthless chuckle froze in his throat as the full impact of the fall hit him and the tendrils of pain, like some hostile alien, began to spread and take over his body.

He should've told.

His first stop had been at the corner pub of his old neighborhood. He recognized some of the faces, all men of gravity, shoulders slumped under the weight of hard living, the shadow of wrinkles on their features a bit longer since the last time he'd seen them. He knew some recognized him too. That's when he had his first drink. He had to, to deal with the silent glances surreptitiously probing his frame. Pitying glances. Few words were exchanged as he took his whiskey and threw the drink back his throat, staring at the people around him but seeing his own ghost. He traded a few more hollow greetings, said his goodbyes and moved on.

He should've told. Why was it so hard for him to talk, especially with the one person who needed it most? He should've told.

He continued on his calvary; a road well traveled in his younger years when his mother used to send him to all the familiar haunts to find Jack. The pub, the Lion's Club, the Union Hall.

The old sign at the entrance--Local 467, IGE--greeted him as he pulled up curbside to the Electricians' Hall. He stepped inside into a grey world obscured with solid smoke and reeking with alcohol. The faces that swam before his eyes could have been twins to the ones he'd just left behind at the pub. Tired. Worn. Lined with hopelessness. The noise level was a few decibels higher, sounds of blue-collar bravado, crude jokes and macho baiting loosened by alcohol to be shared with the receptive audience. The whole bunch of them determined to be getting doggedly, progressively drunk.

Some of the guys were playing cards--seemed like the same never-ending game he'd seen before, with the ghost of his old man, like always, holding a losing hand. Nicotine-stained fingers grabbed for him, large callous hands slapped his back as voices slurred with booze greeted Jack's 'Sonny Boy' widely, offering whiskey and company. They dredged up and laid in front of him what little they could recall of Jack Kinney, drinking buddy for many of them, friend to none.

He could've done without the memories, had been running from them all his life. The truth hit him with a dull ache in the pit of his stomach--he sure hadn't managed to run too far.

An old remedy, he diluted the pain with a few more drinks, though he kept it straight--whiskey only--and grinned at the bartender appraising him with a thoughtful look and a nod of recognition. Mr. Kinney. It was the same old guy he remembered, only a bit more grizzled into grey. If nothing else, Local 467 was job security.

As he threw the twenty on the bar and turned to leave, the thought occurred to him that between the pleasant buzz beginning to dull his mind, his lower tolerance for alcohol, and his untried mastery of the new gimp-mobile, driving was not the wisest move. But by then he didn't really care. There was one more place he had to go.

He should've told Justin. The truth was so simple. But he couldn't, wouldn't be accountable to anyone. Not even to Justin. Especially not to Justin.

Even in the silent night, the utter silence of the place was eerie. The tombstones stood naked, blown dry by the rising wind, but everything else was covered with snow and ice. The dead didn't need anyone to shovel the passageways clean between their four-square domains of dirt. But he was still counted among the living and had a hard time making his way in the snow, trembling with exhaustion and sweat trickling down his back by the time he found what he was looking for. Or whom.

"Pops, you here?" The absurdity of his own question made him giggle. "It's me." Your faggot son, or whatever's left of him. He touched the simple headstone and shut his eyes, feeling the first sting of tears behind his eyelids. Sonny Boy, the rustle drifting among the bare-branched trees came to him as clearly as if his father were standing before him.

"I haven't . . . haven't come since you died; since I died . . . "He took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped the welling flow of salty tears trickling down the bridge of his nose and cheeks. "It's too late. It's always been too late. And now, with you gone, there'll never ever be any time left." A loud sob escaped his chest and for a while he sat quietly on the mound of the grave, giving in to his grief and letting the tears fall unchecked. The cold breeze chilled his wet face and sang in a repetitious, mocking refrain, Sonny Boy . . . Sonny Boy . . . As if it were a magic spell, a panacea to make old hurts forgotten, to heal all wounds.

"I'm Brian," he mouthed the words first in a whisper than in loud demand. "Brian. Call me by my name--the one you gave me. Call me Brian and see me for who I am."

He struggled to his feet and leaned for a parting moment against the polished granite carrying his family's name. "Gus has the picture you gave me. He knows you're his grandpa." He didn't know why, but it seemed important to say. Continuity, maybe, or just sheer bullshit, the kind of sentimental drivel folks were prone to utter over a grave. Whatever.

It took an eternity to shuffle his way back to the car. As he headed homeward, in the welcoming heat of the cabin he could smell the stale stench of smoke and alcohol and sweat on his rapidly thawing clothes. One glance in the mirror confirmed that he looked like he felt with his tear-plowed face, red-rimmed eyes and raw nostrils. He looked like shit.

Refocusing his eyes with some difficulty on the road he concentrated on driving, dreaming all the while about the comfort of his own bed and the oblivion of sleep.

He'd made it home alright, and walked straight into the bitch of Justin's jealous fury.

His erection--at nineteen, indiscriminate and ever-ready--was full and in urgent need of relief, and the mouth around his cock was hot and eager to service. But it was all wrong.

The air in the dank alleyway behind Babylon was heavy with the scent of brute male sex and sweat, the few couples standing around transformed by moonlight into shadows drifting unanchored in the night. He hadn't been here, hadn't gotten off his rocks in this impersonal, debasing way in a long time, since before his starry-eyed interlude with Ethan.

The faceless trick kneeling in front of him now on the dirty pavement was all wrong too--light brown crewcut hair, narrow shoulders and a slim physique, a mere twink quite possibly younger than his own nineteen years. And in this place solely dedicated to the queer credo of 'sucking and fucking' with no regrets, no apologies, and most certainly the exchange of bodily fluids but nothing else personal, all Justin could do was think of Brian.

He could still hear the metallic slam of the door sliding shot, the sound of something crashing behind it as he'd taken the steps three-at-a-time, afraid that slowing down would mean to stop, to weaken, to change his mind. And he'd been too pissed off for that.

He came in the stranger's mouth, still driven by that anger, moaning loudly with relief-not- pleasure. He pushed away the willing head and extricated his body, mumbling a non-committal 'Later' at the young, hopeful face raised to him. I've become a heartless shit, he thought with glum irony, learned well from the Master. Pushing away from the rough surface of the wall he'd been leaning against he walked away without a backward glance.

The studio was quiet and eerie, illuminated only by the strained light of the street lamps and marquees outside. The sparse furnishings in the large room cast grotesque shadows, piquing for a passing moment his artist's imagination. Wanting reality, he flipped on the switch at the entrance and, shocked, took a hasty step backward. In the sudden infusion of light the place came to life--and it was Brian's place. By his own vision and with the work of his hands he'd turned the place into a shrine; oils, sketches, color graphics and mounted canvasses all displayed the body he'd celebrated with his gift, all stared back at him with Brian's eyes. The single-focused obsession of his art--his life.

With shaky fingers he reached for the switch and turned off the light, as if darkness could negate the truth it cloaked.

Stepping gingerly into the darkness he found his way to the futon and, stripping only his jacket and shoes, flopped on it. Not to sleep--that he knew he couldn't. To think. In the stark clarity of the wee hours of the night he began to question himself and his hasty conclusions. How could he be so cock-sure he'd put the pieces of the puzzle together correctly? Although in his infatuated mind Brian could always do as he would, was the other really and truly ready for tricking? Had there been any indication he'd want to? Doubt began to gnaw at him, and with it fear. He'd vowed--to himself, not to Brian--that he'd never leave again, yet he did. Not that he'd meant to leave, really leave, when in the moment's passion he'd stormed out of the loft.

As he lay sleepless with eyes staring at the bare ceiling, his tired mind replayed the encounter in an endless circular, a sinister merry-go-round with no exit, no destination. And in the background, Brian's words kept on pelting his consciousness, Get the fuck out. And don't come back!

The first light of dawn, grey as his mood, found him still awake. And with a sudden flash his mind registered what his brain had recorded hours ago--that sound of crashing he'd heard behind the closing door as he bolted out of the loft. Something must've happened to Brian. And he hadn't been there.

It was early morning, and the sun hadn't brightened the overcast skies yet when Justin let himself into the familiar building and headed for the loft. He unlocked and slid the door open quietly, not sure what he would find. The place was in disarray, with pieces of discarded clothing, kitchen utensils and shards of glass strewn on the floor. The coffee table was swiped clean, all the items from it scattered on the carpet, and the cat Justin'd sculpted as a Christmas gift lay in a puddle of water. Justin didn't stop to check if it was broken; skimming the scene with a quick glance he was looking for the one thing that mattered. Brian.

He spied the older man sprawled on the leather sofa, asleep or unconscious he couldn't tell. Other than the coat and scarf, he was fully dressed. He lay on his stomach, head half-turned and cushioned by his good arm; his paralyzed arm and leg, still braced, dangled from the sofa to the floor. He had no blanket to cover him and the only visible comfort around his person was a half-dozing Rufus, head pushed up against the human's inert hand and purring in his sleep.

With hurried steps Justin moved to the sofa and placed a hand on Brian's exposed neck, as much to reassure himself as to check on the other. The smooth skin was warm to the touch but not feverish, and Justin was relieved to feel the strong and steady beat as his fingers brushed the exposed carotid artery. Brian didn't stir and, instead of trying to wake him to a confrontation Justin wasn't ready to face, he covered the sleeping form with a blanket and turned his attention to clean up the loft. The first thing he came upon by the entrance was the intricate bronze lion. The wood it capped was broken, splintered into a jagged weapon. The lower portion of the cane with its rubber tip lay several feet away. With great care he collected the pieces and, thinking for a moment, placed them in one of his closet drawers.

The loud moan made him jump, barely holding on to the carafe of coffee in his hand. Placing it on the counter, he hurried over to the source of the sound. He was shaking all over.

Brian still lay prone on the sofa, struggling to get up, his moan coalescing into pointed cussing as he flopped back on his stomach. An attempt by Justin to touch him was met with a forbidding glare and a curt, "I can do it myself, damn it!" Justin was left to watch with apprehension as the other tried to force his stale muscles to cooperate, groggy and uncoordinated from cramped sleep and too much alcohol. He finally managed to sit, supporting his tenuous balance with a palm on the seat cushion.

Justin was eyeing him warily from a safe distance. "I'm sorry about . . ."

He was cut off by the trademark "Sorry is bullshit." Then, with a first spark of real interest Brian added, "Coffee is better."

"Coming right up," Justin stumbled over his own feet as he rushed to fill the order. "Strong, black, sugar." Taking in the other's physical state, he cautiously placed the steaming mug on the table. Then, with typical determination, he tried again. "So, where were you last night?"

"It's 'the morning after,' Sunshine, and it's still none of your fucking business," Brian shot back with unexpected vehemence. "Stop trying to control me--the leash doesn't fit."

Even after a night of regrets, Justin felt his blood begin to boil again. "Leash? How about some common courtesy? I know I'm just the nobody who's staying with you temporarily, but I do worry. About your big, bad, uncontrollable self. Unless, of course," his voice rose and his face and neck flushed crimson, "I had nothing to worry about and you just had the urge to sample a piece of ass." He was sorry even as the words left his mouth. Especially considering his own late night escapade. Biting his lower lip, he held his breath.

In the sudden silence Brian got to his feet, took a few steps and stopped right in front of Justin. His tone was low and measured. "And even if that were the case, how would that make it any of your concern?"

He passed Justin, sniffed pointedly in the younger man's direction and wrinkled his nose. His lips pulled into an ironic, joyless grin as he added, "Our policy should remain 'Don't ask, don't tell.' Wouldn't you agree?"

Stung by the obvious betrayal of his own secret, Justin recoiled and stepped back, silently watching Brian. The other was in obvious pain, limping heavily and leaning on the furniture on his way to support his progress. Of course, Justin remembered, he'd broken his cane the night before and had no spare.

Brian made it to the bedroom, dropped his weight on the bed and began the slow task of undressing. Not being able to observe it any longer, Justin jolted into action. He walked up to Brian, carefully raised his legs on the bed, and unfasten the cumbersome brace. He pointedly ignored the death-ray looks shot in his direction as he commented with studied nonchalance, "Live and let live. Yeah. It works for me."

Too tired to protest, Brian chose instead to ignore Justin and his ministrations. He wasn't quite sure why he couldn't bring himself to disclose his odyssey of the night before, or the reasons for it. Perhaps it was just his old stubborn streak of independence, but with all the compromises dictated by his new life, he felt the need to guard that streak more zealously than before. He would not become accountable. Not to anyone.

What puzzled him, though, was Justin--the other's concern for him he understood, at times even appreciated--but the jealousy? When, how did he manage to transmit signals, false ones at that, to indicate that he'd been back in the 'meat market,' ready and wanting to trick? He vacillated between annoyance and amusement as he contemplated it for a while, until the final irony of it struck him. A part of him was tickled--no, downright flattered--by Justin's jealousy. His very own blond twinkie fan. Who would've thought . . .

He was also fairly certain that spite had driven Justin to go out and seek the release of anonymous sex. Not that he cared--true to his own credo, monogamy wasn't an issue for him, or part of the deal between the two of them. Whatever that deal was between them, he pondered with an unaccustomed touch of insecurity.

Ever perceptive, Justin sensed the mellowing in Brian's mood and decided to press his advantage. "Why don't we both take a quick shower, grab a bite, and take a nap to get over last night?" He had an overriding urge to rid his body of the last remnants of his own mistake, wash off the sweat, the semen, the smell of the faceless trick he'd had. Brian didn't object.

They showered without touching and ate in silence, both subdued and busy with the mundane. There was no animosity left between them but, burned out by the ordeal, the constant hum of sexual electricity crackling between them was, for once, muted as well.

Still exhausted, Brian climbed back to bed, curled on his side, and within minutes was asleep.

Justin was in the kitchen when the phone rang. "Brian?" It was Michael's ever-cheerful voice.

"No, it's Justin."

"Oh." There was that tiny note of disappointment Justin learned to recognize and ignore. "So how's he doing? How did he get through yesterday?"

Justin was silent with confusion. Why was Michael asking him about yesterday, how could he possibly know? No, he decided, Brian was too private--he wouldn't have, never did, share any of their problems with his best friend. Regaining his composure he asked, "What do you mean? What was special about yesterday?"

"He didn't tell you." A statement of fact by Michael, followed with some hesitation of his own. "You wouldn't remember it, but yesterday was the two-year anniversary of Jack Kinney's passing. It's a hard day for Brian."

Justin could barely force the words out of his mouth. "Well, he's asleep right now. I'll tell him you called. Bye, Michael," and hung up.

A sudden sensation of queasiness overtook him, centered in his stomach and radiating through his entire body. His hand, still holding the receiver, began to shake and so did his knees. Seeking comfort he was drawn unwittingly to the source of his turmoil; on unstable feet he stumbled to the bedroom and sat, cross-legged, by Brian's bed.

Regret was like bile, a dark, bitter taste on his tongue that wouldn't go away. Regret for Jack Kinney's death--for he knew a little something about irretrievable second chances. Sorrow for Brian's unrelenting pain over his father's death, over their life together. Shame over the fight last night between them, his harsh accusations, the mutual lack of trust it implied. Resignation over their lack of communication leading to that night. Regret over the violation of his own unilateral vow of monogamy--for he wanted, needed no one but Brian.

Hunched over as he sat on the floor, he looked down at his hands resting in his lap. Raising a fist he punched his dormant organ with sudden anger, feeling the impact through the soft folds of his sweatpants. He'd used sex, his sex, as a weapon to punish Brian.

Some days he hated himself.

He was rushing home, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the slow-moving elevator, the long, wrapped item clutched in his hands. The loft door was partially open, framing Brian's face animated by a questioning look..

"I heard an avalanche move up the stairs. Quite an oddity of nature. Anxious to get somewhere?"

"Weren't we supposed to meet with Linz and Gus at the diner?"

"Yeah, we were--and what's wrong with being fashionably late?"

"Great, in that case--" Justin appraised the tall figure before him. Brian was dressed in casual cords and the cable-knit sweater Justin had given him, boots on, his hair still damp from the shower and, as usual, sticking up in all the right places. Failing to resist the urge, he reached up to run his fingers through the strands of hair at the nape of Brian's neck, letting his open palm slide down in a caress to the other's cheek. His hand moved further down, trailing the long arm, and touched Brian's fingers clasping the curve of his new, hospital-issued cane. Gently prying the fingers open he took the cane and leaned it against the wall. Unwrapping his surprise object, he placed that, instead, in Brian's good hand.

"I believe this belongs to you." It was the lionhead cane, repaired and looking as good as new, its damaged wooden parts replaced with the same stained and polished mahogany as the original.

Brian twirled it around, allowing his fingers to rub the burnished bronze, reacquaint himself with the smooth, familiar shape. His own custom-made friend, silent companion to his halting steps. With a mildly sardonic leer he commented. "First your Mom, now you--this cane is fast becoming a veritable Taylor-family peace offering."

"Anything for launching our own traditions . . " Justin deadpanned as he captured Brian in an embrace and rose on his toes to kiss the other's slightly parted lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY will be posted on Sunday, November 23, 2003

Return to Title Page                            Go to Next Chapter