As if on automatic pilot, Brian left Sigmund's office without waiting for his pick-up. He started walking in the first direction he thought of, without an apparent destination.

It was as if his entire world was crashing down around him. All the carefully constructed barriers and breaches he had erected were beginning to topple and he didn't know how to stop the rapid destruction of life as he knew it. Everything he had believed about himself was turning to dust. The trick was, had always been, to just not think about it, but that was becoming impossible under the insistent probing of the therapy. As if adjusting to the handicaps of his stroke wasn't enough, now he had to deal with submerged childhood memories. It was all simply too much.

Tiring, he hailed a cab and, in a line straight out of some corny old film, told the driver, "Just drive." Hostility weighed heavily, like a stone around his neck. He couldn't face anyone; didn't want to talk or be talked to any more. After an indeterminate period of cruising, he quietly instructed the cab driver to take him to his loft.

Not to stay. No. . . not any longer than it took to get a few things he would need. Gradually, a somewhat nebulous plan was forming in his mind. He still felt as if he were sleepwalking, but it was somnambulance with a purpose, at least.

The loft was empty. There was, in his private rooms, at least a sense of familiarity and he wished he could simply lock the doors and hole up there, isolated and at peace. But he knew that would never be possible, not with all his guardians and minions checking and charting his every movement. Yet solitude was exactly what he needed, had to have if he were to maintain any semblance of his sanity. There was too much he had to think through, too much to comprehend and understand, and he'd never get it done here. Then, whatever conclusions he reached, they would be completely his own, and the choices he made would be solely his own. It would end as it had begun--alone.

These thoughts were not rational or clear in his mind; if anything, it was merely a flight reflex, the chaos of his mindspeak cloudy and foreboding. He dug out a gym satchel and threw in a random variety of items--clothes selected for no apparent reason; most of the contents of his medicine chest with all the prescription and non-prescription formulas that kept him safe and happy; a fresh-wrapped toothbrush from the supply he'd always kept for visitors; a can of deodorant. A package of six packs of chewing gum recently purchased. A handful of loose condoms--never travel without them. No rhyme or reason, no thought given to any of it, just automatically grabbing what he could get his hands on. Money--he would need money. He went to the back of one of his drawers where he kept a stash of cash, what he figured was about $600 or so. He could get another $500 at the bank machine down the street, his daily limit. That should be enough, for now, for whatever he needed it for. That part was still nebulous.

At the sink, he happened to see his reflection in the mirror, startled to find the dried tracks of tears on his cheeks. He scrubbed roughly at his face with a washcloth, splashing cold water over himself, wetting his shirt in the haste. He scowled in anger. No more tears, he vowed. Tears were for sissies and weaklings, and he was not...

He shuddered, remembering the revelations he had unearthed earlier. That's the problem, part of the problem. Were the words his or Sigmund's? He didn't know any more.

Moving as fast as his gimp leg would allow, he hefted the gym bag over the crook of his right arm and left the loft, not even bothering with a final look. Look only ahead, not back. There's nothing back there.

Somehow he managed to arrive at the bus terminal and buy a ticket. Later, he would have no memory of any of it. The next thing he would clearly remember was being on the bus, sitting near the back by a window, lighting a cigarette from a pack he didn't remember buying, only to be called out by the other passengers for breaking the law against smoking on a bus. Snarling a curse, he stubbed it out and leaned back, listening to the racing of his heart as the smells and sounds of the abominable form of transportation assailed his senses.

Babies were crying, children were shrieking; he smelled greasy food and unwashed bodies. Why the fuck--how the fuck--had he gotten himself into this? He was stiff and cramped, tired and hungry, and he had no idea how long he'd been riding this godforsaken motor coach.

Yet in a few minutes, when the driver announced that they would be stopping in about ten minutes in Philadelphia, the "City of Brotherly Love," he knew that had been his destination all along. He got up with the other passengers to disembark, ignoring the offer of the driver's arm to assist him in descending the steps. He needed no help from anyone else.

He stood still in the terminal, looking around at the bustling crowd of people eager to be gone and get on with their lives. People greeting and being greeted by others, kissing, hugging, shaking hands. Confusion filled him; why was he here and what was he supposed to do now?

Then he spotted him. Over near the men's room. Standing with his back against the wall, one foot propped on the wall behind him, leaning back so that his crotch thrust forward. He was young, not much past twenty or twenty-one probably. Hair so impossibly black that it was obviously dyed, straight and hanging to his collar. Brian met his hungry wolf's eyes, recognizing a kindred spirit in the ways of the homosexual world all over, issuing a silent invitation without spoken words and as he turned and headed out of the terminal, he knew the boy was following him.

When they reached the sidewalk outside, the black-haired beauty had caught up to him and fell in step beside him. Brian's cock lurched in his jeans, stiffening and swelling, and he felt alive for the first time in a long time. The greyness of the grimy streets at dusk took on a technicolor variation in tones of red and orange and yellow. He let the kid lead the way--this was his territory--and followed him down the sidewalk and into a deserted alleyway just past the bus parking lot. It smelled of urine and trash and diesel fumes, but it was dark and isolated.

Still without speaking a word, Brian leaned back against the concrete wall and, dropping his cane on top of the gym bag on the ground, he unzipped his fly with his good hand, directing the action. It had been so long since he'd engaged in this kind of anonymous act--how long? Months. Long, bitter months of deprivation and despair. As the kid went to his knees, he felt his breath catch in his throat, felt the familiar rush of excitement, of danger. He threaded his fingers through the ample fall of silky blackness, the hair cleaner than he'd first suspected. Instinctively, he guided the thrusts, his head falling back against the wall as his hips swung forward slightly, lost in the ecstasy of the moment. He soared, transfixed, straining for the swift completion, shuddering when it came, when his balls squeezed up and his load shot into the willing mouth of the other. He almost fell over and would have, had he not been supported by his hands on the boy's shoulders. Balancing himself again, he was ready as the young man rose; he was almost as tall as Brian himself, and he reached to place his swollen lips against his find, but Brian put a hand out between them, holding him back.

"That's all," he growled, the first words spoken between them.

The boy's lips turned up in a sardonic smile. "A 'thank you' would be nice," he murmured. Then, when Brian didn't respond, "Are you staying in Philadelphia?"

Still, Brian didn't answer him. He awkwardly zipped up his jeans with his left hand and then realized he couldn't reach his cane and bag on the ground. Seeing him staring at them, the boy bent over and retrieved them, offering them cordially as if they were presents.

"You're really hung," the guy tried again, a hopeful smile on his face. "I bet you fuck good."

Although the blow-job had relaxed him slightly, Brian still felt coiled as tight as a snake. Still empty and oddly lost. And he still wanted only to be alone.

"That's all," he repeated the words, unable to find any others in his vocabulary, and slowly limped out of the alley, leaving the boy standing there with a frown on his face.

"What the fuck. . . ?" Michael looked past Justin into the bedroom area of the loft. "This is how you found it?"

Drawers stood halfway pulled, the closet door was open and a jumble of clothes were on the floor. The destruction in the bathroom was just as bad. The medicine chest door stood open and was nearly emptied of its contents, containers on the counter and in the sink as if they had fallen there. A damp washcloth was lying on the floor.

"Looks like a hurricane went through. Are you sure someone didn't break in?"

"To steal dirty clothes and toothpaste?" Justin's voice was shaky. "I'm telling you, he's taken off."

Soon after being stood up by Brian, Justin had returned home. Discovering the state of the loft, he had called Michael for the second time that day. Now, he sagged onto the bed and, picking up a stray sock lying there, he threw it across the room in frustration. "I'm really scared this time. I don't know where he can be or how to help him."

Michael knew what a drama princess Justin could be when he got upset, and, though he was concerned too, thought the other's reaction was overblown. "Look, you can't change him. If you love him--"

"I do," Justin said quickly. "But it seems as if my love isn't enough for him. And I just can't go through this!"

Michael's eyes were sharp on him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Justin glared at him. "It means, Michael, that even you don't know what it's been like. How many times I've about died worrying about him because he's in a mood, or he's disappeared without telling me where he is, and I've thought--" Justin gulped, wrapping his arms around himself. "--the worst," he finished softly. "I'm frightened every day he's going to be hurt, or hurt himself, or... something."

Michael's gaze seemed fixed on a point far beyond the here and now as he put his hand on Justin's shoulder. "I know. It's not easy. Brian's always going to be Brian, no matter what happens to him. And love's never 'easy'. You think it's easy living with a guy who's HIV positive? Ben gets in moods sometimes--" Michael's fingers dug into his shoulder, painful, sympathetic. "But you just have to ask yourself whether or not it's worth it."

A kaleidoscope of images, fragments of memory, flashed through Justin's mind. Moments of such pristine clarity it was as if he were living them all over again. All the tender, happy instants of the past few months--and there had been many more than he would have thought. Even in his reduced circumstances, in the midst of his own chaos and upheaval, Brian had given so much of himself, had worked so hard getting his life together and including Justin in that life. Yet, in the balance, there hung dark moments of despair, the sometimes enigma that was Brian Kinney. The sheer self-destructiveness of him. The feeling that no matter what Justin did, it would never be enough, never break through that core of anger and obstinance.

"Sometimes, I don't know," he admitted. "Times like this, when he pulls away and won't let anyone in. Doesn't seem to want anyone."

"I learned a long time ago that he does, though."

Justin recalled a moment--it hadn't been that long ago--when he had managed to soothe the savage beast in Brian, called him back from the dark place he had gone with love, sex and understanding. The words they had spoken came back to him now:

"Whenever you shove me away, it's when you need me the most, isn't it?. . . I don't understand why, but I realized it's what you do."

"Sometimes you're too smart for your own good, Sunshine."

Justin managed a tentative smile. "Yeah, I discovered that, too. Guess he's more transparent than he thinks he is." His eyes swept the loft uncertainly. "But this is different. I told you how he was this morning. Michael, we've got to find him, make sure he's okay."

Justin's panic began to transfer itself to Michael. His own solution to Brian's sullen moods was often to simply ignore them until they went away. But in the aftermath of the stroke, things had changed, weren't so clearcut any more. Brian, he reminded himself, had never consented to seek psychiatric help before either, had he? This time was deeper and darker than before. Anxiously, Michael pulled out his cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" Justin asked.

"Dr. Gottlieb. He was the last to see Brian, wasn't he?"

Yet Brian was nowhere to be found, and there seemed to be no clues as to where he might have gone or what he might be doing. Justin even checked Brian's bank account and discovered that there had been a $500 withdrawal that day from a bank machine just down the street from home. No other charges were registered, to his credit cards or otherwise.

Ultimately, they wound up at the Liberty Diner, more for lack of anywhere else to look than anything else. Nearly desperate, Michael was privately hoping that perhaps his mother would know something; she'd always had an uncanny knack for knowing more than he gave her credit for. Call it gossip, or woman's intuition, or just a mother's instinct, but she always seemed to know what was going on with her "boys"--and that had always included Brian.

As he slid in the booth across from Justin, she came up to them with a puzzled smile. "You two look as if you just saw a vagina," she quipped, bending down to give Michael a pinch. "What happened?

"Ma," he protested. Justin sat forward.

"Brian's disappeared."

"Well, there were times I'd have run over and said a prayer of thanksgiving for that, but--" she wrinkled her brow in concern. "What do you mean, 'disappeared'? He's not exactly moving around at warp speed these days."

Together, voices overlapping, they told her what little they knew. When they were finally silent, she nodded. "Did you check out Philadelphia?"

Michael couldn't hold back a small laugh. "He's not sixteen any more, Mother." Their eyes met as they shared the memory, remembering.

"What's that mean?" Justin asked, begging to be let in on the joke, if indeed, it was a joke.

Debbie squeezed into the booth beside her son and leaned across to Justin. "One time, yeah, I guess he was sixteen, or fifteen, I don't remember, Brian ran away from home. Three days he was gone."

"He was fifteen," Michael supplied. "'Cause he didn't have his driver's license yet."

"Why'd he go there?" Justin asked. His parents had taken him to Philadelphia once, when he was younger. It had failed to impress him, even if it was the 'birthplace of liberty.'

Michael took up the narrative. "He'd been there the year before, on a school trip, to see the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Apparently, he'd found some cool guy there, came on to him or something... " He hesitated, knowing he was revealing what had been a private story. He remembered Brian telling him about it afterwards, how this man had given him the eye, how Brian had broken away from the group and spent most of the afternoon with him. Michael had never been sure if anything had really happened between them; the way Brian worded it, there may have been some groping or fondling, nothing much, but the teen had crowed about it for days, and Michael had been insanely jealous. "Anyway," he went on, "when he decided to leave home, he remembered the city and the guy, and I guess he kinda hoped they could hook back up or something." He shrugged. "We were kids, what did we know?"

Debbie shook her head. "He should've never done that. It only made a bad situation worse. He probably got it twice as bad when he came home."

Michael spoke softly. "He'd gotten into some trouble at school. Not a big deal, but I guess he knew his father would beat him, so he ran away. I tried to tell him not to go, but--"

"His father beat him just for that?" Justin asked, concerned, caught up in the memories being told. "Did that happen a lot?"

Debbie nodded soberly. "He was pretty much an abused kid, at least that's what they'd call it today. Back then it was... well, everybody hit on their kids. You didn't get arrested in the supermarket for swatting your kid's backside."

"You never hit on me," Michael said hotly. "Not everybody did."

"My parents never really hit me, either," Justin said softly. "Oh, maybe an occasional spanking when I was real little, or a 'swat' as you called it, Deb, when I got bigger, but it was never what I'd consider 'abuse'."

"Jack Kinney was a rough bastard, especially when he'd been drinking," Michael said. "And I don't think we even knew the full extent of it. Most of it I guessed at--Brian never talked about it much." He looked at Justin's wide-eyed stare, and realized abruptly how recently this kid--this guy--had come into their lives. Sometimes he forgot that, with everything that had happened.

"Well," Debbie interjected. "I still think that Philadelphia represents somethin' to him."

Michael cast a doubtful look at her. "That's pretty far-fetched. And how would he get there? I told you, he left his car."

"How'd he get there the last time?" Debbie insisted, still clinging to her version.

But Michael was already rejecting the theory. It made no sense. Why not Washington, or California, or any goddamned place in the world? The enormity of trying to find someone who didn't want to be found was overwhelming. "We should file a Missing Persons report."

"You have to wait at least 24 hours," Justin piped up with priggish certainty. Debbie stood up. "I've got to get back to work, but you two keep me informed, okay? I'll make some discreet inquiries around here, but it sounds to me like the rooster has flown the coop." With a worried look on her face, she stumbled away.

"Okay, look," Justin said forcefully. "We've got his bank account information, his credit card numbers--thank god for that old palm pilot he left behind. Or maybe we'll get lucky and he'll call." He paused, then, in a softer voice, "That other time... why'd he come home? If he knew he was going to get... " He obviously still couldn't quite say the words, let alone embrace the concept.

Michael shrugged. "Brian never was one to walk away from a fight. Or not to take responsibility. And, too, I think it seemed like a lark at first, but then... I don't know. He realized he didn't want to stay away. Or maybe he believed that by running away, his parents would pay more attention to him, or be glad to see him again, or... something. But all he got was more cursing and punishment."

Justin was silent, working it out. "Let's get back to the loft. He might call."

Brian awkwardly executed a half turn on the mattress, settling on his right side, throwing his left arm across to grab hold of--nothing. The other side of the narrow double bed was empty. No other body stretched beside him. He grunted, as much from the pain of stiff muscles as from the ache that was less than physical, an emptiness that seemed to permeate his soul.

He entertained a momentary picture of Justin offering him a cup of water, dutifully fetched from the bathroom, as he struggled to move his reluctant limbs and crawl off the bed. Groggy, he stumbled into the tiny bathroom of his hotel room and turned on the faucet.

He had checked into an old Center City hotel not far from the bus station. He'd been too tired to walk any further and it hadn't occurred to him to get a cab. Conscious of the covert stares his jagged progress was attracting, he'd just wanted to get inside and hidden away as soon as possible. The clerk at the front desk had asked him if he required a handicap-accessible room and he'd told him to fuck off, almost stormed off before the man apologized and handed him a key card. Once he'd managed to struggle into the room, an adequate but small unit on the tenth floor of the tall building, he'd collapsed, fully-clothed, on top of the bed and immediately conked out in exhaustion.

Now, as he blotted his face dry and limped back into the bedroom, he saw that the time was 10:10 p.m. on the complimentary alarm clock resting on the nightstand. Shit! He hadn't come all the way to Philadelphia just to sleep.

But why had he come to Philadelphia? For a moment, he couldn't remember at all, rational thought deserting him.

Freedom. The word echoed dully in his mind. The place that had somehow always symbolized freedom for him had been the place to which he had instinctively headed. Freedom to think, freedom from outside influences, freedom to do whatever he decided to do with his sorry life. To be alone and to be free. The reasoning made him sad somehow, but he pushed aside the tendency to be maudlin. Right now, what he needed was a little pick-me-up.

He pulled out a black silk shirt from his gym bag and got angry when it took him so fucking long to take off his sweatshirt and attempt to button up the clean shirt. He managed the bottom three buttons, then realized they were off by one empty hole at the bottom, decided the hell with it and left the room with it half unbuttoned. He'd noticed a lounge off the lobby, and it was there he headed for sustenance.

"You've got to be a good boy, Brian. You mustn't make Daddy mad at you."

He shivered. Where had that come from? He rapped for a third.

Unnoticed by him until she spoke, a woman had taken the bar stool next to him. "You look like you're up to some serious drinking," she said, her voice smoky and low. He glanced at her sideways, taking in the basic little black dress, the loose, long blonde hair, the fake eyelashes and enough makeup to disguise in the dim lighting what was probably her true age. She was smoking something long and slender and he remembered he'd left the cigarettes he'd bought up in his room.

He eyed her smoke longingly and she got the message and proffered her pack.

"Want one?"

"Thanks." He took one, studying its unusually thin shape for a moment, then allowed her to light it for him. In exchange, he ordered a drink for her, another for himself.

"I'll bet," she said, with a tinkle of amusement, "it's been a while since you had any fun."

He couldn't help it; he let out a bark of laughter, inhaling some of the liquor into his windpipe in the process. Coughing, he cleared his throat and looked over at her. "Honey, if you've got a nine-inch cock, I might be interested, but otherwise--"

What was even funnier was the way she went totally pale and then immediately blushed like a schoolgirl, bright red spots dotting her cheeks and forehead. The rapid consumption of alcohol was doing a number on his kidneys. Carefully, he clutched his cane and got his walking balance. "S'cuse me. . . " he muttered thickly and headed for the john. When he returned, the girl was gone, as he had suspected she would be. Not really wanting any further personal exchanges, he bought a bottle of Jimmy Beam from the bartender at an exorbitant price, and made his way unsteadily back to his room.

Amazing how woozy he was feeling. And how crippled. He bumped his arm on the sink in the bathroom when he went to get a glass, then struggled getting undressed by himself. What had seemed simple sober -- well, simpler, he amended--was damned hard half-assed drunk. But it didn't matter. None of it really mattered, in the long run. Fuck it, he wasn't going to depend on anyone from now on. He didn't need any fucking help. Too much help was what had gotten him into this mess.

See a shrink, Brian. . . Open up, Brian. . . Cut your soul and watch it bleed, Brian. . .

He sat on the bed and drank straight from the bottle, drank until all the little voices in his head grew silent, replaced by white noise and the pleasant tones of his own breathing. He forgot about whatever it was he had planned to do. When the bottle was empty, he curled on his side and passed out, welcoming the oblivion.

It was afternoon before he finally roused from his drunken torpor, only mildly hung over but hungry as a bear. He realized that except for the coffee and few bites of sandwich yesterday in Sigmund's office, he hadn't eaten since a quick dinner before the symphony--Justin providing some cold fried chicken and potato salad, teasingly calling it an all-American picnic as they sat on opposite ends of the sofa and fed each other and Rufus the crunchy-coated white meat, laughing as the cat jumped up in the air to retrieve his morsels--a veritable lifetime ago. He was stiff and aching, even more so than usual, and he realized, too, that he'd taken none of his meds. None of the analgesics, none of the sleeping pills or the anti-depressants, none of the anti-spasmodics or the vitamins that made up his daily pharmaceutical regimen. Fuck it--he could get better shit on the street, if he could only make his way out of here. Sighing, he rose from the bed and walked unsteadily to the bathroom, stumbling around the foot of the bed and stubbing his toe. Braceless, his right leg threatened to buckle without its support. He wound up on his knees, clutching the mattress to pull himself back upright.

It took him most of the early evening to get himself presentable. The unequipped bathroom was a major challenge alone; he straddled the rim of the tub to wash up, using a washcloth and a cup to wash his hair because he didn't trust himself climbing in and out to use the shower. When he finished, the bathroom floor was soaked and he nearly fell again; only grabbing the sink and managing to twist his left wrist painfully in the process kept himself from going down.

Yet later, dressed in a black wifebeater under an unbuttoned red silk shirt, clean jeans and his specially-designed orthotic Doc Martens, he surveyed his reflection in the mirror with a degree of pride. As long as he stood still, he looked good. Fucking good. It didn't matter how he felt; it was how he looked that counted. The image was everything.

He stopped in the lounge to fortify himself with a couple of shots, then left the hotel. Out on the street, he began to walk, keeping an eye out for a cab.

He thought about freedom. The freedom he had now to do anything he wanted, with no ties to anyone or anything. The freedom he'd always had, truthfully. A wisp of memory came, and he sat down on a nearby bench to give it his momentary attention.

It was a spring evening of his senior year at high school. . . he'd be going off to college in the fall and it was a liberation he was eager for. To get out of that house, away from those people, to start on a path that would take him away forever. He was in the park with Mikey; they had just been watching a game or something. . . He was lying with his head on Michael's thigh, bragging about his plans and crowing over his coming emancipation. But something was wrong; Michael wasn't sharing his happiness.

"Be glad for me, Mikey," he'd cajoled.

"It'll never be the same. . . for us."

He'd looked up into the expressive eyes and felt a twist of guilt, but also an irrational sense of triumph, that he could have that affect on someone. "It will always be the same," he intoned gravely. "That'll never change. I'll always be there for you. All you need to do is call, and I'll be there--"

"You've got a friend," Mikey finished the song lyric, laughing slightly, cheered.

"More than that. You hold me together, you know that."

And he had kept that promise. Always. They were some kind of weird symbiote, him and Mikey, feeding off each other. Until now. What happened to one part when the other was gone?

Pensive, he got up and made his way to a public phone. Resting the receiver against his neck, he punched in a number; he had to think about it for a minute, but then it came to him; he'd always been good with numbers. On the other end, it rang three times, then a hearty voice said "Hello?" as if he'd been disturbed.

Brian was silent for a few seconds, felt his heart racing, then he said only four words, his voice scraping them out, before he swiftly replaced the receiver.

"Take. Care. Of. Him."

"Hello?" Michael pulled out his cell phone, hoping, praying it might be Brian. Justin, across the room, scurried over, apparently the same thought in his mind.

"Hi, Michael. It's Ben."

"Oh. I was going to call, I just--" Michael began a belated apology, hoping his disappointment didn't show. To Justin, he mouthed Ben's name. Defeated, Justin wandered back to stare out the window of the loft.

"No, it's okay. Listen--I think Brian just called me."

"What?" Michael sat up straight, startled.

"It sounded like him, but he didn't identify himself or anything."

Michael could tell Ben was holding something back. "Did you get a number? An area code? Anything?"

"No. It came up as "Unknown" on my caller ID--could have been a pay phone somewhere. I even checked with the operator after, but she said it couldn't be traced." Ben sounded apologetic.

Hearing Michael's side of the conversation, Justin had returned to hover in front of him, his eyes flashing a silent query.

"What did he say?" Michael asked. "Was he looking for me?" Damn! Brian must have assumed he'd be over at Ben's, that's why--

"Oh, shit, I don't want to tell you this." Ben's voice sounded raw as he repeated the words to Michael. "It could mean anything. It might not even have been him," he tried.

A dull throb began between Michael's eyes. He shut them to block out the pain. "It was him," he said, his tone leaden. "My god."

"What? Michael, what?" Justin was demanding. He sat on the sofa beside Michael and pulled roughly on his arm.

"Where are you?" Ben asked. "I'll come there."

"The loft. Justin and I are at the loft." Michael felt a dead coldness inside, seeping through him, numbing him. It was last September all over again. All the agony and the fear.

"I'm on my way." Ben disconnected and Michael turned to face Justin.

"Ben heard from Brian?" Justin was putting it together, and must have sensed the critical import from Michael's demeanor. He looked hopeful and scared at the same time.

Michael could barely bring himself to say the words, but he had to, couldn't leave Justin twisting in the wind. "Someone called Ben. All they said was, 'Take care of him.'" He began in a whisper, and by the last word he was barely audible. He watched helplessly as he saw the blue eyes fill with tears.

Later, after Michael, Ben and Justin had exhausted all possible leads, called every hospital within a hundred miles of Pittsburgh, recontacted everyone they could think of, done everything by phone they could think of, Ben had convinced Michael to go home with him, advised them both to sleep on it and start fresh in the morning. Now, Justin stood alone at the window, watching the night outside, where people went on living their normal lives, and let the tears he had refused to shed earlier fall freely. It didn't seem to matter to anyone, he reflected, that he was alone tonight. No one was there to offer comfort or a string of useless chatter, or any of the other humanitarian gifts bestowed on those in turmoil or grief. He acknowledged his thoughts as self-pity, but he couldn't turn it off. Not tonight.

Apart and aside from his worry and fear over Brian, the question remained, fomenting in his mind, why had Brian called Ben? Why, in what might literally be his final moments, had Brian thought only of Michael, of Michael's well-being and care? What about me?

It rankled and it hurt like a throbbing tooth, this obvious shun. Was he so superfluous to Brian that no message was intended for him? Was all that they had shared, all that they had been for each other, of such little consequence?

Or was it because. . . Did Brian think him so strong, so resilient, that he needed no one to care for him? The reason came abruptly, daunting in its truth. Brian expected him to need no special coddling.

But you're wrong. I'm not that brave, Brian. Not without you. Not brave at all, he wrapped his arms around himself and keened a low moan of despair.

Fear consumed him; the unspoken words that they had all skirted around all evening would no longer be denied. Even after the message to Ben had been imparted, neither he nor Michael had ever really expressed the darkest thought in both their minds, that Brian had gone off to a place they could not follow with the intention of ending his existence.

He didn't think he would ever fully understand the suicidal ideology; it simply wasn't in his makeup. He couldn't imagine ever contemplating it, couldn't understand the rationale of those who aspired to it. Sure, he got depressed, just like everyone, and sometimes, like after the bashing, he'd felt like 'giving up,' but it was a vague, fleeting concept--but you went on, you struggled and made the most of it, simply because that was life. Some might say it was just his age -- that he wasn't old enough to feel the weight of acute depression, but young people committed suicide too, didn't they? And wasn't it becoming apparent that Brian had entertained this death wish from the time he was Justin's age?

He was helpless, up against an enemy he couldn't counteract. I love you so much, and more than that, I need you. Can't you see how much you're needed here? His silent demands went unanswered as he drew away from the window and crossed to sprawl listlessly on the sofa. From wherever he'd been hiding, Rufus emerged and jumped up to crouch on his stomach. The cat meowed loudly, his cry a demand, as if he, too, were searching for answers. Poor animal--he didn't understand where his master had gone, or why he'd been deserted by him. The sight of Rufus' confused little face took away the last vestiges of Justin's control. He scooped him up and held him close, cradling him against himself as he would have cradled Brian had he been there.

Where are you, Brian? What are you doing tonight? Is it already too late, or will there be another chance, another day? Come home. . .

PLEASE NOTE THAT THERE WILL BE NO CHAPTER POSTED ON THE NEXT TWO SUNDAYS, DECEMBER 21 AND 28.

BRIAN AND JUSTIN ARE TAKING A WINTER VACATION TO ARUBA, TO CELEBRATE THE HOLIDAYS.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE will be posted on Sunday, JANUARY 4, 2004

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