The fags of Philadelphia didn't know how to do anything right, Brian concluded. The damned baths were kept entirely too hot--it could have been a steam room back on Liberty Avenue.

He had taken a cab to Spruce Street and, after surveying the territory, decided against the dance clubs--dancing wasn't his specialty these days, and less movement was better than more. So he sought out a bath house, where he could privately and slowly disrobe, sit on a wooden bench in a filthy little room stained with cum and other better-left-unidentified substances, and simply look pretty and let them come to him.

And come they did, in more ways than one, all the sucking and fucking he could want, as he chose only the best and the hottest. On his third try he got lucky and scored some alphabet chemicals to take away the pain and the worries and make life easier. He made several purchases, depleting the cash reserve he was carrying, but it was worth it. At least he thought so at first.

It was only later, when he was struggling back into his clothes, trying desperately to cope with his uncoordinated movements, that he realized, dimly, what a crock it all was. How empty it all seemed. His head was pounding and everything was spinning and, for a moment, the old fear rose up, that he would stroke out again. He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, that whatever happened, happened, but despite his insouciance, he found concern bubbling to the surface.

Back out on the street, groggy and disoriented, he could barely remember his ATM code as he got cash to pay for a cab back to the hotel. As he stumbled down 13th Street in search of transportation, he was waylaid half a dozen times by interested boys who wanted to invite him to parties, both private and communal. It did his ego a world of good, but he refused them all, exhausted and worn out, blown away by the E and the Special K and whatever else he had consumed.

What had begun as a farewell party had somehow morphed into something hollow and sad. He collapsed, finally, into a cab and couldn't remember, for a minute, the name of his hotel. With the driver impatiently waiting for a destination, he turned in the seat to ask--Justin, where the fuck are we staying?--and bumped into empty air, empty space where there should have been a grinning blonde head. He squinted, almost able to see him, Justin sitting there shaking his head in amused wonder, naughty boy, Brian. . .

Tick, tick, tick. . . I have a son. . . no, two sons. . .

His head hurt, his stomach was knotted and sore, and every joint and muscle screamed a silent protest at his abuse of them. His eyes felt grainy and ached, his ears were stopped up, his nose was raw and painful. Even his cock hurt, burning, and he realized he had to pee. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning before he attempted to make it to the bathroom.

This is horseshit. Horrified, he looked around the wreck he'd made of the hotel room. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Blood--blood? There were bloody streaks on the rug and on the bed linens. By craning his neck, he could see the remnants of a broken glass on the tiled bathroom floor, with footprints leading away from it. Upon closer inspection, he discovered a jagged cut on the sole of his right foot, congealed blood binding the wound.

Fuck. Great going, Kinney. He managed to stagger into the bathroom, mindful of the broken glass, and relieve himself, frowning at the evidence of sex turning rank on him. He ran water into the tub and painfully cleaned himself up as best he could, then called down to the desk for room service. Coffee, juice, dry toast and a poached egg were about all he could stomach. He drew a bathrobe on and flopped down in a chair.

His mind was far from clear, but he began to consider his options. After the grueling session with Sigmund, he had chosen to flee rather than face the unpleasantness of the memory. All that shit about his sordid childhood was such a crock. So he had ghosts in his background, he'd had a miserable life with a cold-hearted mother and an abusive father. Most people had some warts in their past, but he'd gone beyond that, made a life for himself, made something of himself. And last night had proved that the stroke hadn't changed any of that. He still had it--if he wanted it.

The question was, did he? Was it enough any more, to be the slickest fag, the fucking Queer Who Ate Pittsburgh? And if that wasn't enough, then what was? Was there anything left, except dying young and beautiful, experiencing the ultimate trip-to-wherever? The cynicism faded as he pressed his head against the back of the chair and took a deep gulp of air.

Why am I always thinking about dying? he wondered, for the first time in his life. Is life really so fucking unbearable?

The sugary breakfast was a small way to make up for it. He found Justin curled up, fully clothed, on the sofa, looking as if he hadn't slept much at all. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and his hair was sticking out all over the place. Michael put the bag and the cups on the counter and took charge.

"Go in and take a shower, change your clothes. I thought maybe later we should go down to the police station, file that Missing Persons Report." The false optimism turned his own stomach; what could the police do that they weren't doing themselves? How much could they do?

Justin didn't protest; he got up and did exactly what Michael said, emerging shortly from the bedroom in clean pants and a sweater, his hair wet and combed.

On the couch, Michael put his head back and closed his eyes. He'd only managed about four hours sleep himself and his stomach was still doing jumping jacks every time he let himself think about that phone call to Ben. He saw Justin sit down at the computer and he shut his eyes again, trying to imagine where he would go, if he were Brian.

A recent memory stirred, a simple, ordinary moment in the course of Brian's recovery from the stroke. They were going to the park and the sun was out, warmer than it had been on previous excursions. Brian, still in the wheelchair, was in an exceptionally good mood, teasing as Michael pushed him, making wisecracks until Michael swatted him on top of his head.

"Hey--I could never do that before! There are advantages to having you down where I can get at you," he'd remarked.

"Don't get too used to it, Mikey. I'm gonna be out of here and whipping your ass in no time."

Michael smiled, remembering. There was nothing particularly special about it, but it had been captured in his mind like a photograph, the emotional charge that everything was okay now, that Brian was going to be okay, had come through the worst and the nightmare was over. That they would still grow old together and both live to laugh and tease each other into senility.

Why, when he had everything to live for, everything a man could possibly want--

"Michael!" Justin's sharp cry brought him out of his reverie and to abrupt attention.

"We've got him! He made an ATM withdrawal last night. From a bank machine in--" Justin uttered an almost hysterical laugh. "Philadelphia. Your mom was right."

"No shit!" Michael lunged over to see the screen for himself. There it was, all right. Another $500 from an automated teller on Spruce Street in Philadelphia. His first thought was to wonder why someone about to kill themselves would need cash. Then he snatched his coat. "Come on, what are we waiting for?"

Justin turned, regarding him curiously. "You want to just... go? Shouldn't we call first, try to find out--"

"We can use the cell phone in the car. You've still got the Jeep, haven't you?"

"Yeah, sure." Justin was swiftly tugging on his sneakers, getting his own coat. "Good idea. I'll drive, you do the calling."

Brian managed the coffee and half a slice of the toast; it was all he could do to force it down. His stomach rebelled at every mouthful and he felt as if he were going to gag. He shoved the tray aside and lit up a cigarette.

If what he'd revealed with Sigmund's help was true, and he was sure it was, he'd been denying who he was, what he was, to himself for many years. Somewhere, deep inside, he'd been ashamed of what he was, convinced he had to be the biggest, baddest, most macho queer there ever was simply to justify to himself that he was still a man. To show that he could walk, work, exist in a world of straights, all the while condemning them--and condemning himself to a solitary life that let no one get close enough to see him for what he really was.

And now, here he was, at the end of the line, alone. By his own choice, alone, and all because he'd told himself so often that he didn't need anyone, put up so many 'no trespassing' signs that no one dared to assume otherwise.

But they had. A hearty few had scaled that fence, punched so many holes in it that it looked like Swiss cheese. He had let them in, gradually. He had taken on the responsibility for Michael, then later for Lindsay, and later still, on the same night, for Gus and Justin. Others, too, in lesser ways, but still they had been there for him when he'd needed them. All of his extended family, to replace the real family that had never known him, never stood by him. Family by choice, not by birth.

They needed him, and he. . . he needed them, but more than that, he wanted them. It wasn't an issue of dependency so much as it was a desire to keep them close, to share their lives, to be there for them as they were there for him. He could do without them, but he didn't want to.

His heart was pounding like a jackhammer as he crossed the room and picked up the phone. He felt as if he were on a mental seesaw, swinging back and forth between I will/I won't. He sat on the edge of the bed and put the receiver back down, then picked it up a second time. He had no idea what in the hell he would say, yet anticipating the simple pleasure of hearing Justin's voice gave him strength. He dialed the number he knew by heart, his own number.

It rang four times before the answering machine kicked in and he heard his own voice reflected back at him, requesting the caller to leave a message. Numb, he let the silence stretch out for a long minute before he hung up, caught completely off-guard. He hadn't expected to not get an answer. His stomach cramped, and he doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut.

If I go home, I'm going to get a beating. Mikey was right--I should've stayed. You can't ever escape your destiny, no matter how hard you try or how far you run.

Past mingled with present, present with future. It was all mixed up, his father's belt raining blows on him, Justin turning away in disgust, leaving him because once again Brian Kinney had fucked up, had failed to consider anyone but himself.

No. No apologies. No regrets. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Fuck them before they can fuck you.

Michael had Ben now. Gus and Lindsay had each other. Justin would find someone else, just as he'd found the fiddler. He was young and bright and strong. Brian Kinney would be a fleeting memory, a schoolboy crush.

No. Not true. Mikey still needed him, even with Ben in his life. They'd promised to always be there for each other. And Gus needed a daddy, not just a mommy and a dyke. Lindsay still came to him all the time for advice and assistance.

Justin--his future. As surely as Michael represented his past, his ties with the best part of it, really the only good parts, Justin represented the future, his hope for tomorrow. What Justin had offered him, particularly since the stroke, was much more than a schoolboy crush or a momentary dalliance. To say that's all it was would be to cheapen it.

He had read somewhere that it was harder to accept life than it was to accept death, and he was finding that to be true. His head throbbed from the tension and stress of trying to think coherently. It seemed he had been thinking forever, and it was such a monumental effort. He lay back on the bed and tried to shut out the voices in his head.

It was the longest and worst road trip Michael had ever had to take. As they sped up the turnpike, they discussed, debated, and argued the entire way. It took over three hours to discover where Brian was staying, after a series of inquiries that had left Michael exhausted. Both of them were tired, their nerves on edge, and every decision they made literally could be a matter of life or death. Justin wanted to call Brian's room; Michael disagreed, stating that if Brian knew they were coming he might bolt, and then they'd never find him again. Michael thought they should notify the Philadelphia police department; have Brian taken into protective custody until they arrived; Justin argued that if, indeed, they were wrong, Brian would be furious with them, and besides, they had no evidence that there was any danger. No matter what choices they made, if they were the wrong ones, they would have to live with their mistakes forever. Ultimately, they did nothing except get there as fast as they could, and hope they were doing the right thing. What they would do, what they would say, was still up in the air when they finally arrived and parked the Jeep in the hotel parking lot.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Justin hesitated before reaching for the door handle. "Don't start yelling at him, Michael. Try not to be your mother, for once."

Offended, Michael glared at him. "I'm not going to 'yell'," he said indignantly.

"You always yell," Justin muttered, getting out of the Jeep and hurrying toward the lobby.

Michael followed, walking fast but not hurrying. He was terrified of what he might find. Justin hadn't experienced the heart-stopping fear of seeing Brian hanging from his rafters by a white silk scarf, almost ready to kick out the chair upon which he stood.

Justin hurried, because he had seen the lion-head cane at the bottom of the stairway to the roof, had climbed a set of metal steps expecting to find Brian on the ledge of that roof, poised to go over.

"What's the room number?" Justin asked, forgetting what Michael had said.

"Ten-twelve." Michael had gotten the information over the phone from the desk clerk. They rode up the elevator, silent. Getting ahead of Justin, Michael reached first to rap on the door. There was no answer, and he tried again, harder this time. He and Justin exchanged a worried look, neither sure for a moment how to proceed. Then, Justin reached past Michael and grabbed the door handle; it turned in his fingers--the door was unlocked.

Michael forestalled Justin by putting a hand against the younger man's chest. "Maybe you'd better wait here--let me go first." He said it as a kindness, hoping to spare Justin, but his companion drew himself up fiercely.

"We go together, Michael."

With an expression of resignation, Michael pushed on the unlatched door.

"Brian. . . ?" They crowded together in the doorway, first taking in the chaos of the room, smelling the odors of sweat, alcohol and cigarette smoke, until they saw the man curled on the bed. Sleeping? Unconscious? Dead... Michael rushed forward, bending down over the inert form. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch a terrycloth-shrouded shoulder.

"Brian!" Justin, right behind him, demanded urgently.

Clouded eyes opened, squinting in the light, confusion apparent in the slack features. "Wh-what... who...?" He struggled to rise; Justin reached past Michael to help him up.

"Aw, Bri, what have you done to yourself?" he asked softly, agony raw in his young voice.

Michael scanned the room, seeing the tangled clothes, the empty liquor bottles, the pack of cigarettes, and he stood, disgusted. "Jesus Christ!" Then he noticed the blood stains on the carpet and sheets.

"Is that blood? Where's it from?" A fresh wave of fear sharpened his voice.

Brian seemed to still be absorbing the fact of their presence. "M-Mikey? Juss. . . " He was groggy, disoriented. Justin held onto his shoulders, supporting him, as he, too, saw the bloodstains.

"Did you hurt yourself?" By accident? On purpose? Michael asked the question brusquely, but his touch was gentle as he instinctively stooped down and reached for Brian's right hand, his eyes examining the wrist. A large purple bruise marred the inside of his forearm, but there was no slice in the flesh.

"M'f-foot. . . cut m'foot." Brian mumbled the explanation, dismissing the minor wound. He favored Michael with a tender look, a look of perfect understanding, as if he knew what his oldest friend had suspected and meant to reassure. "I'm. . . okay."

He seemed, for a moment, to be trying to pull himself into the here and now, to show them a dazzling display of strength and independence. He wrenched himself away from Justin's arm, pulled his hand from Michael's grasp. Then, with a strangled sob, he lost the battle--perhaps won it, and reached for them, desperately throwing his left arm around Michael's neck and burying his face against Justin's chest like a drowning man struggling to stay afloat.

"Nooo--" he groaned, his voice muffled, ". . .damned if I'm okay."

"It's all right." Justin cradled his head, his fingers stroking the unkempt hair as Michael's hands went around his waist, holding him fast.

"We've got you," Michael affirmed, his voice husky with a mixture of both relief and despair. He wanted to scream at Brian, to raise hell with him over what he had put them through, what he had done to himself. He should be held accountable, shouldn't he? Yet this stranger, this completely unhinged Brian Kinney dissolving before him bore no consequences for any of it, needed not their censure but their support.

They remained like that, in a triptych frieze of comfort, for what seemed a small eternity, as tears came not from Brian, but from Michael and from Justin, tears of gratitude and relief. Despite the odds, they had made it, tragedy had been averted and, for the moment, nothing else mattered.

Despite his lifelong aversion to apologies, Brian uttered the forbidden words, "I'm sorry. . ." not specifying exactly what he was sorry for. It didn't matter, not to those who loved him, not today and not in any way. Gradually, they straightened, the catharsis ebbing on a wave of practicality and necessity. Emotions too strong to be uttered in mere words were expressed in tactile understanding and significant non-verbal contact.

Michael bent over and examined the gash on the sole of Brian's foot. "That needs to be cleaned and bandaged," he remarked, ever the pragmatic one.

"My nursemaids," Brian mused softly, sounding more like his old self. Then, "Those glass slippers are a bitch, Prince Charming."

Justin managed a short chuckle, but Michael frowned darkly. "You shouldn't have run away," he chastised, the first reference to what was in all their minds, on the tip of all their tongues.

"I hardly 'ran'," Brian retorted sharply, "but I thought I needed to be alone for a while."

"'Thought'?" Michael picked up. "And now?"

Brian met his eyes steadily. "I was wrong."

Justin stood up, stretching. "Okay," he said abruptly, ending the tension between them. "Michael, why don't you go find a drugstore and get some first-aid shit. I'll stay here and help Brian get cleaned up a little." He was casual, cavalier.

Michael looked at him, fully recognizing what he was doing, offended at being pushed out and yet admiring Justin's show of authority and his dawning maturity. The kid--no, the man, he corrected his thought--was taking charge, uncowled by either of them, asserting his place in their lives. It was his right, Michael realized, and also his recompense for services above and beyond. He stood.

"All right." He looked back down at Brian. "You okay?" He needed to double-check, to affirm the obvious for himself.

"I'm getting there." Brian's chin lifted and he managed a wan smile, warming Michael's heart.

Knowing then that the very worst was over and that there would be plenty of time to resolve all the rest of it, to fit together all the pieces and discuss all the conflicts, he met Justin's eyes and nodded his understanding before turning and leaving them alone.

Justin regarded the huddled figure on the bed and tried to think clearly, to skim off the remaining emotions and to be the practical one. Brian stared vacantly into space, his eyes bleary and swollen, and said nothing, did not move. His strong one, his bold-as-brass Brian was throwing him a curve he hadn't expected.

Voice cracking, he said softly, "Would you like me to help you take a bath?" inviting Brian's participation, trying not to make decisions for him. Get him moving, talking, taking an active role.

"Yeah. I guess I stink."

"This room stinks." Justin headed purposefully for the bathroom.

"Watch out for the glass on the floor," Brian volunteered, as Justin noticed for himself the chunks of broken tumbler in front of the sink. Carefully, he bent and discarded the large pieces in the trash can, then spread a towel on the floor to protect bare feet from what thin shards might remain.

As he leaned in and adjusted the faucets, he tried to still the aftershocks still coursing through him. Riding up the turnpike, he had almost decided that if Brian were okay, he would leave him, this time for good. Not because he loved Brian any less, but because he didn't think he made any difference in the overall picture. He was tired of being on an emotional roller-coaster. The ordeal of the past days--no, the past months--had eroded his confidence, his self-assurance that Brian needed him or even cared whether he was there or not.

Yet the minute they had entered the hotel room, he had known, without understanding how, that everything had changed. Whether the change was in himself or in Brian he wasn't quite sure yet, and perhaps it was in both of them. But he knew, with an almost surreal clarity, that Brian's very life depended on him--right now, and maybe forever. And that knowledge both thrilled him and scared the hell out of him.

As he perched on the edge of the tub, testing the water temperature, Brian limped heavily into the bathroom, fumbling to relieve himself. Justin stood and tenderly removed the robe, sliding his fingers down the naked flesh as it was uncovered. Totally unlinked to any erotic overture, it was a gentle ministration, a need to affirm the reality of being able to comfort this man he loved so very dearly, would have been so very lost without.

"Jesus, Brian, you're a mess," he remarked critically, taking in the various bruises on his body. A large purplish mark was spread over his right hip, a bump and bruise on his left elbow. His right calf was red and raw in places, as if he'd left the brace on too long or adjusted it too tightly. His skin was dry and chalky, his fingers stained with nicotine, and Justin estimated it had been close to 48 hours since he'd shaved, the dark stubble beginning to thicken on his face. He stood unsteadily, trembling slightly, seeming uncomfortable with the inspection.

"Scars of war, Sunshine." Brian managed a crooked smile as he leaned heavily on Justin. "Help me into the tub?" he asked, making it seem as if he were bestowing a favor instead of asking for one.

Justin had to smile slightly to himself at that, as he guided him into the water and assisted the straightening of his afflicted limbs. Brian nodded toward the sink.

"Give me that facial soap--the other one dries the shit out of my skin."

This was his Brian. Justin passed him the tiny complimentary bar of soap and left to get clean clothes for him. "Have you taken your meds today?" he called back over his shoulder.

"I-- " Brian hesitated. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

Digging in the gym duffel, Justin located all of Brian's prescription bottles at the very bottom, covered by clothes. It didn't look as if he'd even taken them out at all in three days. Shit!

Shaking out one of each, he returned to the bathroom and ran a clean tumbler full of cold water. Then, sitting on the edge of the tub, he proffered the tablets and glass.

"Here--take these."

Brian opened his mouth wide, holding up a soapy hand in supplication. Justin put the medicine in his mouth and held the cup to his lips. "You're hopeless," he laughed.

Leaning his head back against the porcelain, Brian closed his eyes and relaxed, breathing shallow and slow. "How. . .how did you know where I was?" he said faintly.

"It was easy, once you made that ATM withdrawal." Justin picked up the tiny bottle of shampoo and poured some into the palm of his hand.

"I made an ATM withdrawal?" Brian opened his eyes and regarded Justin curiously.

"Last night," Justin affirmed. "Here in Philadelphia. On Spruce Street, wherever that is." He began to work the lather into Brian's damp hair.

Seeming to consider that, Brian closed his eyes again. "Outside the baths... I needed money for a cab. Shit, I wasn't thinking."

The baths? Justin's fingers stilled mid-stroke. He wondered what the hell Brian had been up to while they had sat in Pittsburgh worried sick about him. Drinking, yes, he'd figured that, and smoking, but... sex?

"What were you doing at the baths?" he asked, trying to make it sound casual, his heart tripping.

"Realizing it wasn't what I wanted." Brian's hand came up and clamped around Justin's wrist. "Why don't you take off your clothes and climb in here with me?"

Instead, Justin picked up the tumbler, filled it with bathwater, and under the guise of rinsing Brian's hair, dumped it over his head. In quick succession, he upended it three more times.

Brian sputtered through a mouth and nose full of water. "Aa-gghh!"

Justin handed him a small towel. "I'll take a 'rain' check," he said tartly, giggling despite himself at Brian's discomfort. "So. You have a good time?" he asked archly.

Sobering, Brian made an effort to stand. Swiftly, Justin reached to help him up. "I wasn't having a good time, Sunshine."

"I know." Justin was immediately contrite, and mentally vowed not to probe any more into areas he didn't wish to know about. He got Brian out of the tub and wrapped back into the robe to dry.

Seated on the toilet lid, Brian looked up at him. "I'm glad you found me." After a pause, he added, "Taking a bus back would have been hell."

Justin sat on the edge of the tub, curious. "Is that how you got here? By bus?"

Brian nodded his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. It's a shit way to travel."

Justin helped him into a white undershirt and clean pair of jockeys. "Why don't you brush your teeth and shave while I straighten up the room."

In the bedroom, he began stuffing the discarded clothes back in the duffel bag. It did not escape his notice the kind of wardrobe Brian had been selecting while there. His club clothes, his party outfits. He couldn't decide how he felt about his suspicions. Not jealous--not that. Betrayed? Hurt that Brian had needed to turn elsewhere for answers that he could have given him? Or did he sort of understand, accept it at face value? Maybe Brian had needed to prove something to himself. Maybe it had been a private farewell party. Whatever, the reasons would have to wait for another time; the moment was too volatile to press his concerns now.

Wait, a little voice told him. Be patient. Give him time.

So lost in thought, he hadn't heard Brian come up behind him; he jumped when a soft cheek nuzzled his neck.

"Smooth enough for you, Sunshine?" Brian purred. Justin would know that purr anywhere; it was one of Brian's numerous "wanna fuck" sounds. He attempted to smile and scrunched up his tickled shoulder.

"Yeah. . ." he took a shaky breath and half-turned, caught up in the enchantment of the touch. Brian bent down and gave him a remarkably chaste kiss, a gentle and somehow tentative present of his lips. Without conscious thought, Justin dissembled, tears springing to his eyes, clutching at Brian, banding his ribs in a tightly possessive grip. All the shit about being strong left him in a fool's rush, every practical instinct melted away as he drew warmth and joy from the clean smell and soft embrace, from the reality of a living, breathing Brian Kinney. Warts and all, he'd keep him.

"It doesn't matter," he mumbled, not explaining or defining what he meant. "Nothing matters except you're safe and I love you."

They tumbled on to the mattress, curling together, Brian on his back and Justin in his arms, snuggled against him. "Michael might be back any minute," he protested, freeing his arm to reach up and stroke Brian's cheek.

"It's okay," Brian assured. "I just want to hold you."

Justin felt the words reverberate in his head, shocked by the gentle sincerity in the voice. For the first time in a long while, he felt unable to read Brian, caught totally off-guard.

"Forever, if you want," he whispered, his breath catching.

Brian smiled, closing his eyes. "Or at least until Mikey returns."

They fell silent, Justin lost in the magic of the moment and deeply content. He was so tired--the sleepless night, the long, frantic drive, the emotional catharsis of finding Brian--he couldn't remember ever being so exhausted, so bone weary. He sensed his heartbeat and breathing begin to mate with Brian's slow, steady vital signs, and as the tension drained from him he relaxed, going down further and further until finally, depleted, he fell asleep, dropping into a peaceful, dreamless void.

If he could stay like this, his life would be perfect. Stretched out on the bed, half-covered with the warm, comforting weight of Justin against his side, Brian gently stroked the fine blond silk head on his chest. He ached for more, wanting to feel the pliant flesh against his own bared flesh, wanting to savor the unique flavor and texture that was Justin, wanting to fuse them together into one pulsing entity. But this was enough for the moment, even his cock in placid agreement for once.

He marveled again at the mystery of them--Michael and Justin--here, now, as if conjured up by his dreams in a magic worthy of any fairy tale. That they had tracked him down, concerned about him and obviously frantic with worry. He had seen it all in their faces, in their touch and in their words from the moment he had been awakened. It had completely unbalanced him, taken him out of his normal orbit and sent him sailing somewhere across the universe. It had affected him and caused a backlash of emotion he had never expected.

They need me. He had been so tired of being the one who needed, whose disabilities made him seem more a burden than an equal, yet it simply wasn't true. He was needed, and his absence would affect them deeply, permanently. He understood that now.

All of the effort he put into his image as a badass wiseguy, all the coverings he put on his natural inclinations were beginning to unravel, and he was left with someone he didn't know very well any more. It was frightening, but it was exciting, too. He didn't expect to change overnight, or even to ever take on a completely new persona, but he did sense the germination of certain elements that were new to him, perhaps more honest and truthful than before. The walls were beginning to crumble, despite his efforts to keep them intact.

And much of it was due to this piece of fluffy blonde boy curled against him. So much more than the one-night trick he had opted for so long ago. So much a part of him now, so permanent a fixture in his life. He couldn't say it yet, still couldn't express it very well even to himself, but it was beginning to sort itself out, in his mind, at least.

He recalled the scene in the tub, how he had almost blown it--again. Saw the look in Justin's eyes when he inadvertently mentioned going to the baths last night. One of these days, his innate honesty was going to be his downfall, but he had never learned to lie, at least not to the people he knew and cared about. Early on, he'd learned the art of omission and sometimes outright lies to strangers and enemies, but that was something different. He had learned to lie easily to his parents, learned to deceive them and avoid them. It had set the tone for the rest of his life.

When asked anything point blank, though, he usually told the truth, with no apologies, no regrets. Especially when asked by those he cared about. He had never been sneaky, and didn't intend to start now. Eventually, he would probably tell Justin everything he had done the past few days, or at least enough for him to get the general idea. Yet he had no doubt that none of it would fracture or even strain what they had together. They were too much alike, in that respect.

We're so much alike in so many respects. Justin was the opposite of him in many ways, but somehow, even their differences meshed into a cohesive bonding, complementing each other. It was good not to feel so alone any more, to know there was someone he could depend on, that was also depending on him.

Opening the door, he put a finger to his lips. "Shh... Justin's sleeping," he said softly, admitting a grinning Mikey.

"You wear him out already?" Michael whispered back.

Brian smiled archly, not disabusing him of the notion that they had engaged in wild, abandoned sex. Michael took his elbow for support and led him to the far side of the room to the chair with an ottoman.

"Here, sit down and let me bandage your foot." Michael sat on the footrest and rummaged in a plastic bag he was carrying as Brian settled himself in the chair. He was still clad only in his underwear. Michael's eyes searched his face. "You look better," he observed clinically, drawing Brian's right foot onto his lap.

Ignoring the compliment, Brian regarded the cut on his heel. "That won't leave a scar, will it?" he fretted.

"Scars are sexy," Michael said automatically, then, "No, I doubt it. It's not too deep." He gently rubbed on some ointment. He could have scrubbed it on with a wire brush for all Brian would have felt it. But he did sense the heat emanating from Michael's fingers, the faint touch of the hand wrapped around his ankle for support as he affixed a gauze pad and wrapped it in place with tape and more gauze. It was an amazingly professional looking job.

"You do that well," Brian commented. "You should have become a doctor. Dr. Mikey," he chuckled softly. They were speaking in voices barely over a whisper.

"That would be Dr. Novotny to you, pal." Michael glanced around the room. "Do you want your brace on now?"

As Brian nodded assent, Michael got the brace, but something else seemed to divert his attention. Brian realized he was looking at the half-eaten food tray from room service. He followed Michael's gaze to the dried-out poached egg and the leftover crusty toast.

"Was this your breakfast? Looks like you didn't eat much of it."

"Astute observation. Are all superheroes gifted with this ability?" Brian countered, his voice as testy as Michael's.

"How much have you bothered to eat since you've been here?" Michael's voice was suspicious; he knew Brian all too well. And, being Italian, his primary concern was the proper and frequent consumption of food. He'd learned that from his mother. Brian remembered going over to the Novotny house as a kid--there was never a shortage of food, always generously offered to the kid Deb referred to as "that skinny one." He grinned at the memory.

"You sound just like your mom," he remarked now, not answering the question.

Michael raised his eyebrow and refused to be deterred. Fastening the brace around Brian's calf, adjusting it for a perfect fit, he said, "I noticed a little deli right next door to the hotel. You feel up to getting out for a little bit, grab some soup or something?" Seeing Brian's glance toward the bed, he added, "Let him sleep. He's exhausted."

Brian regarded Michael affectionately. He was feeling a little hungry, although he wasn't sure his stomach would hold anything down. But he was more drawn by the prospect of companionship, the proverbial 'quality time' that was silently being requested, being offered in the guise of feeding. "Yeah, sure," he said softly.

On the edge of the bed, Justin had laid out a set of clothes--black jeans, shoes and socks, and a dark brown fleece shirt-jacket that zipped up the front. With Michael's help, he got dressed and they left the room.

It was a small place, a half-dozen metal tables and three booths along one wall opposite the counter. The name was Otto's Deli, and the menu consisted of standard-fare sandwiches and salads, several choices of soup, counter-service only. Michael gestured Brian into one of the empty booths and slid across from him.

He looked a little shaky, but basically all right. It had not escaped Michael's attention that Brian had not even bother to glance in a mirror, not to mention style his hair before they ventured out, a definite departure for him. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign.

After they had ordered and received their food--vegetable soup and a root beer for Brian, a meatball sub and a bottle of cream soda for Michael--he carefully broached the subject uppermost on his mind.

"Why did you come to Philadelphia?"

Brian fiddled with his soup spoon, using his left hand. "I told you, I just needed to get away."

"I know what you 'told me'. That's not what I'm asking. Jesus, Brian, you scared us out of our minds. And that phone call to Ben--"

Brian shrugged, then looked confused. "I called Ben?"

"What is this, 'Lost Weekend In the Middle of the Week'?" Michael barked, annoyed. He knew damned well Brian remembered the call and the message. Deliberately calming himself, he took a bite of his sandwich and picked up again, more gently this time. "Look, nobody's trying to tie you down, but you could've left a note or something. A number where we could reach you, y'know, civilized things like that."

Brian took a long drink of his soda, sipping through the straw thoughtfully. Then, "Do you remember that time I came here when I was. . . what was I? Fifteen? Tenth grade."

"I remember. My mom and I were just talking about it. She was convinced right from the first that this is where you'd come. I thought she was crazy."

Brian managed a wan smile. "Deb's crazy like a fox. Always has been." His eyes took on a faraway look. "Do you remember how Jack beat me when I got back?"

Michael felt the painful tug of that memory and had an instant of foreknowledge that there was more Brian was trying to say. "Yeah, I do."

"There was a lot of that. Stuff I'm only now beginning to remember--to let myself remember." Brian's voice was soft, the gentleness in his tone at counterpoint to the words he was saying. Michael flinched as though he himself had been struck. It was the first time Brian had ever admitted to him what he had always suspected and yet they had never discussed.

He groped to find the right words. "It doesn't change the person you are today. If anything, it made you stronger. Not afraid of anything." Michael believed it with all his heart. He had always been protected, sheltered, fussed over, the only child of an adoring Italian mother. Later, he'd found Brian, his schoolyard champion. It had taken him many years to learn to stand on his own, to discover that he could fight his own battles. To develop his own strength.

Brian's lips curled into a whimsical smile. "I guess you don't believe in that 'embracing your inner child' shit, huh?"

Michael grimaced. "I think I embraced my inner child for way too long," he lamented.

"Well, I did, too, in another way," Brian explained, struggling for the words to express what he felt. "There's still a lot I don't want to face, to deal with. I've always believed psychology was a load of crap. You do, you live, you die. End of story." He straightened and looked Michael in the eye, a hint of defiance coming through. "And I still believe that. But some things are coming a little clearer. For better or worse."

Michael nodded sympathetically, not sure what to say. "It sounds like you've really been doing some heavy thinking."

Brian rested his spoon on the table. "I want to go home, Mikey. Philadelphia sucks." He looked down at his bowl in distaste. "They can't even make a decent vegetable soup."

Michael grinned and lifted the second half of his sandwich. "Want half a meatball sub?" he offered. To his delight, Brian accepted and wolfed it down hungrily.

Michael was driving the Jeep, with Brian curled up on the back seat, head nested in Justin's lap. He closed his eyes, trying to battle the double assault of aching exhaustion and tiding nausea--his payback for the multi-day abuse of his body. Abuse. The word mocked him. Sex, drugs and rock'n'roll, with a generous dose of alcohol to shake up the mix--all sins that wouldn't have drawn the ire of the fates before. But that had all been before. Now, he was doing penance for all his sins, past or present.

He burrowed deeper into the comfort of Justin's warmth, his cheek rubbing against the protruding hipbone of the younger man, and closed his eyes, determined to ride out the waves of nausea washing over him.

He swallowed hard a few times, taking long gulps of the cool air, listening to the dull throb in his head, when a new voice whispered in his mind, demanding attention. Memo to self: So, you sorry bastard, you don't want to die. You don't want to be alone. Great. Then get your ass off the fucking fence, and do something about your life. With dying young and beautiful not an option anymore--where to next?

The most immediate "where-to" was Pittsburgh, PA. But that's all he knew. As the absurdity of the situation struck him, the absurdity of the little voice in his head, he began to hum with broken lyrics, "We're off to see the wizard... " He was singing, off-key and giggling, as he headed off with Dorothy into the unknowns of Oz.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR will be posted on Sunday, JANUARY 11, 2004

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