He was back at his desk, surrounded by the symbols of his professional life, buffered by the familiar sounds of Cynthia moving around in the outer office. She was still in the habit of checking on him at regular intervals--surreptitiously, or so she believed--but he was really okay. So okay, as a matter of fact, that he was magnanimously ignoring her attempts at baby-sitting him.

He'd been back at work on a fairly regular schedule--part at home, part in the office--since his return from Philadelphia almost a month ago. His strange odyssey to the City of Brotherly Love still haunted him, nagged at his consciousness. No modern day Ulysses, he succumbed to the siren-song of all his old temptations--booze, drugs, tricking--only to find their remembered glitter faded to tin on closer inspection.

Couldn't do it, didn't want it. What he wanted was home. Of course, the image of Justin as Penelope, sitting home and knitting in his splendid widow-y solitude, brought him to chuckles even now as the odd thought popped into his mind.

Predictably, the blonde head of his assistant appeared in the doorway in response to the sound, studied indifference written on her features. "You called?"

"Nah, just chuckled. Had a vision of Justin knitting."

Cynthia knew better than to ask. Instead, she walked up to his desk and retrieved his empty coffee mug. "Refill?"

"Please."

"I know, sweet, hot, strong, and decaf."

"Can't I have one more caffeine shot to get me through another meeting with the comedy team of 'Dumb & Dumber'?"

"Decaf."

"Nurse Wretched. You know I could fire you."

"What, and give me back my freedom, my life? Please do." Grinning, she left.

He turned back to the computer screen and the memo he'd been writing. It was to Leo Brown, detailing the long germinating idea he'd intended to get to the R&D Department of Brown Athletics as soon as possible. He felt a touch of the old excitement as he thought about it--though he knew how to be thorough and detail oriented, he was still and always an idea man, thriving on that first, creative frisson. The rest was just professional follow-through.

He thought of one more point, and returned to the thankless task of pecking it out one letter at a time on the keyboard. With the help of the wrist brace, he insisted on typing, two handed, some of his own correspondence, to exercise the hand. Finishing the memo and running it through spell-check he pushed 'Print,' and grabbed for the over-sized pen. Using his left hand as anchor, he slowly scribbled his signature on the printed page with his paralyzed hand. For a minute he stared at his handiwork, then lifted the hand and examined it with a critical eye. So that's as good as it gets, he brooded with a jumble of conflicting emotions as he flexed his fingers. Limited movement, little strength, partial return of sensation. He was about to sink into another bout of self pity, fully cognizant that he was wallowing, when, for the first time in a long time, he thought of Pitts Rehab. His old 'home-away-from-home,' he winced. The visual image of the dining room flashed before him, with all the human wreckage and misery it had contained. He almost blanched with shame. Sorry bastard, he thought with a new humility, at least you have the hand and can do some, if not all, things with it. And it's not like he believed it was the end of the road; he would still be searching for a cure, fighting for more improvement. In the meanwhile, he mused with a half-grin as he replaced the pen on his desk, he'd certainly made great strides in manual stimulation, using Justin's body and his own as training-ground. All for therapeutic purposes, of course...

Refocusing his attention on the memo, he rose and headed to Vance's office. He was armed with all the information he needed on Brown Athletics; now he had a concept to sell. He was halfway down the corridor when he heard Cynthia's high-heeled steps trying to catch up with him, steaming coffee mug in hand.

"I feel like I've been kidnapped by aliens."

"Brian, dear, you have to ease up on the whiskey, or is it guava juice... "

"No, seriously--kidnapped and returned in an alien body holding the real me hostage."

"I don't know about the 'real' you, but I like this new you just fine," and possibly better than the old one, Justin added silently.

"Yeah, I know what you didn't say, Sunshine. Bet this edition is more to your liking than the old Brian-fucking-Kinney of yore."

"Well, if it'll reassure you, you're still an asshole," Justin walked over to stand behind Brian's seated figure. "What's wrong anyway?"

Frustrated, Brian pointed at the pile of paper that had just slipped from his lap and scattered at his feet. "I was only trying to take some notes. The hell with it. It's... it's all fucked up. I'm all fucked up." Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the younger man. "How can you deal with it?"

"I'm not dealing with it, Brian--I'm dealing with you. And you are still the same person you were when we first met. Arguably, better."

"Aren't you tired of all this shit, burned out, just plain disgusted? Isn't it a major turnoff to have a cripple in your bed?" The need for reassurance was a naked plea in the hazel eyes as they locked with Justin's for a minute before Brian lowered his gaze to stare at his own hands.

"Why can't you get it through your stubborn head? I want to be with you, any-which-way. Sure, I wish we could play racketball together, or go dance the night away at Babylon, or chase Gus around in the park. And it would be nice if you took out the trash once in a while. But it doesn't matter, none of it, not really. I have what I always wanted--I'm with you. And as for sex--well, I would think the answer to that should be fairly obvious to you by now." He came around the sofa and pulled Brian to his feet, matching their bodies and rubbing up against the other's warm solidity. His cock was getting hard, as always, his preferred version of 'show-and-tell.' "Besides," he added with a lump in his throat, "did you ever ask yourself the same questions about your behavior, your feelings towards me after the bashing?"

The question gave Brian pause, took him back in time to a painful place. Leaning his head on Justin's shoulder, his voice was quiet. "It's just that at times I think I'm getting too used to it. Too accepting of being a crip. And I don't want to."

"Acceptance is part of growth. It's the first step in moving on. It's strength." Justin lifted his right hand, flexing his fingers in front of the other.

"I'm not strong."

They stood for a moment, enveloped in silence and in each other's arms, open to every nuance of their bodies when Justin asked, "Brian, what happened in Philly?" The topic had been raised, and dropped, between them several times since Brian's return, yet was still open, fraught with uncertainties, and unresolved.

Pulling away, Brian leaned back against the arm of the sofa and took his time before answering. "Funny you should bring it up. Booze is what happened mostly, so much of it I thought I'd go blind. And drugs, that were supposed to make me high and help me feel young and beautiful. They only made me sick and dizzy and hurling into my own shoes."

"And that's all?"

"No." A shadow crossed Brian's face before he continued. "Sex too. Can't recall it all, but there were some nameless trolls sucking on my dick, an assortment of pathetic losers offering their bodies and drooling on mine. None of them had gotten above my neck." It was a strange juncture for Brian to bring up the old "no kissing" rule, straight from The Book of Justin, the long-abandoned covenant of their non-relationship.

"Did you enjoy it? Need it?" Justin's feelings seesawed between curiosity and disappointment. But he had to ask.

"No, I didn't enjoy or need it. But I wanted it--wanted the freedom of it. Whatever you and I have--"

"Ah, so you are willing to admit that we have a 'whatever' something?"

Ignoring the irony, Brian went on. "Whatever we have, I'm not willing to give up that freedom. It's not a threat to us, or a competition for my dick. It just is. Accept it."

Accept it or else--or else what? Where is my choice in it? Justin reflected bitterly and swallowed hard before he spoke. "You remember the night you came home so late, and I didn't know where you were, and we had a fight? I found out later you weren't out tricking. Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

"That night wasn't about the truth between us. It was about accountability. And freedom--which, incidentally, you took full advantage of that night, if I recall."

"I wouldn't count anything we'd done that night as much of an 'advantage.' I was too angry and emotional, and, for different reasons, so where you. But it does matter to me who sucks me off..."

"It matters to me too." Subject closed as far as he was concerned, Brian rose and moved away, leaving Justin to ponder his last, obscure statement.

He needed to reconcile some things. Basic stuff, like who the fuck he was, and where the hell was he going. And with whom. But that went against taboos he'd clung onto forever, trespassed into the forbidden domain of relationships and commitments. And he wasn't ready, he wasn't there yet... Damn Sigmund anyway.

Undressing, he stood in front of the full-length mirror and slowly turned, appraising what he saw with a critical eye. In a convergence of realities, he was keenly aware of present flaws, of remembered perfection, of a future still obscured by his own obtuse vision. A future for which all the pieces were in his hands--to take, to hold, or to crush and throw away at will. A familiar sense of panic overwhelmed him, a dread of entrapment, his classic shit about independence--or was it a coward's escape to commit to a choice? But with the panic came the sudden, cuttingly clear recognition, that fate wasn't overly generous with granting second chances. And not even the most fabulous fag in Pittsburgh had nine lives to cycle through while looking for the existential meaning of it all.... Some choices, when offered, had to be made.

Through a glass darkly... his grin was tinged with derision as he stared at his mirror image for another long moment. Then he reached for his cane leaning against the sink, lifted it, and, with slow deliberation, crashed the bronze lionhead into his own reflection.

The mirror cracked but didn't shatter. He dropped the cane to the floor, straightened, and raised his glance back to the mirror. The crack ran through him, slashing him in half in a vertical abstract of jagged angles. And behind his broken image, framed by the door, was Justin's reflection--complete and beautiful and wrapped in the blond perfection of his wide-eyed youth. Enigmatic, silent, with a Gioconda-smile that barely touched his eyes and lips. Justin, standing by him.

He parked right in front of the bookstore, noting with relief that his Jeep--correction, Justin's Jeep--was already there. He hoped to catch up with Justin and offer him dinner at a place of his choosing, just to get away from the loft for a while. With spring finally upon them, he felt the itch to get out after living holed up like a hermit throughout the long, snowy winter of his discontent.

"Hey, boys, are you behaving?" His voice had a light tilt as he opened the door to THE LATEST RAGE and into the crossfire of two pairs of eyes. Taking a closer look at their faces, he amended, "Maybe you're not behaving--what are you two up to?"

Justin's face was blank, but Michael had always been an open book as far as Brain was concerned. "Spill, Mikey, or I'll spill all the dirt I know about you to Professor Ben."

"Oh-no, all of it? Even the time we made out, menage-a-trois, with Patrick Swayze?" "No you didn't!" Justin tried to sound all righteous and scandalized, and not necessarily on behalf of Patrick Swayze.

Michael only smiled, thinking the Twink probably couldn't handle any more strife in his love-life right about now. With a sheepish look on his face he shoved to the forefront the large pad he held on the counter and reached for Brian's arm to pull him closer.

"Meet issue two of RAGE, tentatively titled "RAGE RESURRECTION."

"Damn it, Mikey, tell me it's not some lame-ass metaphor for a Jesus-our-savior story." With exaggerated sincerity, he lowered his head and genuflected. Or as close as he could get to it with his bum leg.

"You ass--why don't you look for yourself." With a touch of insecurity, Michael added, "It's only a summary of the concept, and... " he nodded toward Justin, who blushed and turned away, "and a few sketches by our resident artist."

"Okay, now I'm intrigued beyond words. Duplicitous little shits." Actually, he was curious and delighted for both of them, but especially for Justin. He couldn't get beyond the guilt of disrupting Justin's life and artistic future, and was relieved to see that the younger man was back full time at PIFA and had, apparently, also revived his creative partnership with Michael. "Can I look?"

Michael only nodded and carried it over for him to the old armchair, which served as the 'critic's corner' in the store. Trying to hide his excitement with a straight face, Brian settled into the chair and began to read.

Violent, supernatural storm, thunder, lightning and rain. The air is charged with unspent electricity. Rage, caught in the storm, is flying low under the dark and menacing clouds when he's struck, full force, by a bolt of electricity. Reeling, he spirals downward, impacting heavily with the rain-saturated ground. He clutches his head with a piercing cry before losing consciousness.

The sound, penetrating the heavy air, reaches the secret lair of the Klan of the Homophobes. The Klan, successfully disbanded earlier by Rage, has just begun to reorganize its evil forces in Gayopolis. They dispatch their specially equipped hover-drone, find the prone body of Rage, and whisk him away to their underground facilities. Suspended in stasis by a cocoon of power, Rage lies unconscious and immobile.

Meanwhile, across town--

Zephyr, in the way of all good sidekicks, is becoming more and more anxious as his search for Rage comes up empty. Passing the familiar digs and establishments of ill-repute Rage is known to frequent, he runs into a familiar figure. Huddled on the steps of one of the nightclubs, looking forlorn and dejected is JT, the twink who'd been saved by Rage. He hadn't been seen around for a while, and Zephyr greets him with caution. JT, himself trying to find Rage, confides in Zephyr about a terrifying nightmare haunting him: a vision of Rage, captive, trapped, and stripped of all his powers. Forming a team, the two launch their search and rescue mission.

Meanwhile--

Returning to consciousness with a jolt, Rage realizes he's being held captive somewhere and has lost control of his body. His brain is short-circuited by the lightning bolt but he still manages to gather the mental energy and send out a mind-probe, seeking his partner. Together, Zephyr and JT receive the transmission from the familiar mind and, triangulating to find its point of origin, begin their search. Combining strength and cunning, they find the Klan's compound, defeat the guards, release Rage from stasis, and carry him to safety.

Meanwhile--

Several months pass, and the dark forces of the Klan, in charge of Gayopolis again, celebrate their victory over Rage. No more superhero to hear the cries of gays everywhere, to come to the rescue. The weak and needy are left to their own devices, homophobia rules. Little do they know...

Finishing the last line, "To be continued," Brian held onto the page for a few more minutes, at a loss for what to say.

"Well... well?" Michael prompted, never known for excess subtlety. "What d'you think?"

"I'm blown away... " Brian mumbled, then, with a wicked grin, added, "Who the fuck is this flying faggot-in-tights anyway? And why does he seem so familiar?"

"Wow, I'm sure glad you liked it," Michael exclaimed, fully trained to read his friend's nonverbal reactions. Brian, clearly, was impressed. "You want to see some of the illustrations too?"

Brian only nodded, and Michael handed over the small stack of sketches. Justin held his breath as Brian began to leaf through the pages, pausing at certain ones, eyes focused, face unreadable. But his hand, unawares, brushed each page, fingers smoothing over the figures as if his touch could will them to life. Lingering on the last sketch, he raised his eyes and caught the blue gaze fixed on him.

"Fascinating fellow, even if a bit too beefy for my taste."

"You like it?"

"It's not your worst." As far as Brianisms were concerned, it was high praise. He rose and walked over to the cardboard figure of Rage. Lifting it with dramatic flair, he declared, "Rage lives!"

"Indeed he does," Michael seconded, but his smile was directed beyond his comics superhero to the man holding him.

"Well, Rage might, but I'm dying of starvation. Will someone feed me?" Justin tried to sound positively weak with hunger.

As if on cue, Brian and Michael exchanged insider looks and broke out in song, accompanied by giggles, "Feed me, feed me, Seymour... " Then, in tandem, shouted, "Audrey II, Little Shop of Horrors, 1986," their last words drowned in a gale of laughter.

Frowning, Justin shook his head, "What the fuck is wrong with you two?" He felt puzzled and a little left out. "Is it another ancient musical reminding you of your misspent youth? Great, that's what I get for hanging out with you geezers..." He headed for the door.

"Today's youth," Brian sighed dramatically, and turned to follow his dinner partner.

"Do you really see Rage that way?" He kept his eyes on the road, somehow finding the question too probing, too intimate for direct eye contact.

"What way?"

"You know--strong, noble, a hero even after his 'fall from grace'?"

"I do."

"But how? And, of all things, with this particular story-line?"

"Especially with this story-line. In spite of the odds, Rage emerges, resurrected, and better than ever. He has more than strength--he has courage," Justin turned and reached out to brush Brian's cheek, "...courage and beauty."

Brian leaned for a heartbeat into the caressing hand, but remained silent. He pulled curbside in front of the restaurant, and asked, "Ready to tackle those East-African spices?" But there was a quiver in his voice, belying the light-hearted tone.

It was Friday night, and Justin was bustling with nervous energy. Brian decided that it was beneath him to probe, but he was watching his roommate from the corner of his eye as Justin emerged from the shower and flittered around the loft in pursuit of some mission. He was still buck naked, his perky butt firm and creamy white in the diffused loft lights, balls jingling along with his rapid movements.

Finally, unable to contain himself and feeling his own cock stir to life, Brian spoke up. "Word of advise--don't ever get dressed." He licked his lips suggestively as his heavy-lidded eyes followed the younger man.

"Why, are we going to join a nudist colony?"

"No, we are not, but you should--kinda like putting your best assets forward," Brian laughed.

"Well, how about we both get dressed--I feel like going out tonight and setting the town on fire. I'm thinking Babylon? Wear something sexy and provocative." The look he gave Brian lacked the confidence implied by his words, but he was clearly excited by the prospect.

"C'mon, Sunshine, just how sexy can one be with a leg brace and cane?"

"Plenty." And with a glance that tickled Brian's spine and made him a believer, Justin added, "You look great. You always look fucking great."

As he slowly made his way down from the entrance to the main floor, holding onto Justin's hand and grateful for the unobtrusive support, he felt dizzy, as if spinning in a time warp. It had been a long time--very long, in fact--since his last appearance at the arena of his uncounted past conquests, mostly unmemorable except for their sheer volume. Fuck, it came to him suddenly, it'd been the RAGE party. The last time he'd been here was the party he'd thrown to celebrate Justin and Michael, and, in all truth, himself--the ascendance of his own alter ego as a superhero for the gay masses. Rage. Not a happy memory. Still conflicted, still unresolved.

Stepping into the well of the dance floor, he was bombarded by the multi-sensory assault that was Babylon--the hard beat of disco music, always different but never really changing, the strobe lights crisscrossing the thick air as they bathed the gyrating bodies in a kaleidoscope of color, reflecting off the turning facets of the mirrored disco-balls. And the dancers--a mass of young male bodies, all barely-clad and glistening with sweat, a carnal cornucopia of skin and muscle on display and ready for the taking. The place smelled of sex and lust and drugs and alcohol, an almost palpable air of insatiable expectations... and, just possibly, a touch of underlying despair.

He took a closer look at the mostly young crowd--faces of ecstasy, indifference, drug-induced bliss, boredom, and lust--and was jarred by the incongruence of his own gut-level emotions. He felt a base sense of deja vu, a coming home of sorts, neutralized by the strong acid of disaffection. The place was the same and, amazingly, considering the length of his own 'sabbatical,' so were most of the still-familiar faces. Was it him who'd changed?

As he and Justin made their way to the bar, he felt the crossfire of gazes fix on him, probing him with curiosity and surprised recognition. Awkward and self-conscious, he was certain many of the regulars would still remember him--he was, after all, the deposed King of Babylon, Justin's short reign notwithstanding.

"Drinks?" The bartender's repeated question broke into his thoughts.

"Two cokes," Justin cut in with the answer, paid, and handed Brian his glass.

Brian stared into the drink, suddenly sullen and slightly irritated--with himself, Justin, or the whole setup, he didn't know. He took a few sips, and turned to Justin. "Why don't you go and mingle? No need to babysit me... go play with the kiddies your own age." His tone was harsher, more sardonic than he intended.

Justin gave him a strange look, placed his glass on the counter, and left without a word. Brian watched his retreating back, hoping he could keep the look of regret off his face. The younger man stopped by a group of excitedly chattering twinks, exchanged smiles and nods of recognition, and within minutes headed for the dance floor with a tall, dark haired and well-built guy Brian didn't know. The two began to move with the music, their bodies finding the rhythm, sharing the exhilaration of the beat. Brian turned away.

...And looked straight into the smugly superior face of Troy, an old acquaintance from his carefree tricking days.

"Hey, Brian, how's it going?" Troy gave him one of his patented toothy grins. "Good to see you back where it's happening." His eyes traveled up and down Brian's body, unabashedly appraising him. What he saw made the ember in his eyes flare into lust, and he put a hand on Brian's shoulder, pushing him slightly. "How'bout a trip to the back room?" His grin, laced with self-confidence, turned into a suggestive leer.

Shaking off the hand, Brian snapped. "Aren't you starting your charitable activities a bit early this year? It isn't Gay Pride Day yet, and you're already giving away your 'pity fucks.' What's it you used to say--'It's my way of giving back to the community'?"

"Fuck you, asshole," Troy stared at Brian, incredulous. "And here I was, trying to see if I could get you beyond your 'never the same guy twice' rule. The first time was pretty fuckin hot, so I figured... " He turned to leave and waived a dismissive hand in Brian's direction, "Never mind."

Looking at him leave, Brian had no second thoughts--he never cared for Troy. But he also realized that the other had meant to hit on him, tried to fuck him, no charity involved. And the realization took him by surprise.

He spent the next hour or so nursing his drink, a Jim Beam this time, trying unsuccessfully to track Justin, who seemed to have disappeared from view, and fending off the advances of various and sundry Babylon regulars--some old acquaintances of his, some new acquaintance-wannabes. They offered to take him to the back room, tried to entice him to follow them to the alley, invite him to their home, some even tried to grope him right there at the bar, promising an instant blow-job. He said "No," a low key, determined, surprisingly polite-for-Brian "No," to every one of them. All the while, stationed at the bar and fortified by that single shot of whiskey, he attempted to sort through the tangled maze of his own feelings. He was flattered, for sure, but that's all it was. He wasn't tempted. Ticking down in his head, he knew, was the countdown to finally having some balls and making some choices.

High on one of the catwalks, Justin stood and watched. He was flanked by the tall brunet, hot and clearly interested in Justin, trying to carry a one-sided conversation while his hands roamed, uninvited, over the other's back and butt. But Justin was oblivious to the white noise of the chatter or the inopportune hands; he was totally focused on Brian's figure, observing him with a mixture of apprehension, concern, and guarded hope. Finally he had enough. Descending the stairs, he walked up to Brian and hugged him from behind.

Surprised, Brian turned, "Where've you been?"

"Around."

"Had enough fun for one night?"

"Yup. Not much happening."

"Sure you don't want to find a hot stud and dance?"

"I've already found him," Justin slid his hands under Brian's body-hugging shirt, "hot and sexy and great in bed." His warm breath tickled Brian's face and his arms slipped to hug his waist as he asked, "Wanna dance?"

They leaned into each other, swaying with the music for a few moments, eyes closed and alone in their own world. Then Brian's eyes flew open, and as his defiant gaze swept the sea of sweaty, undulating bodies around them, his hold tightened possessively around Justin. "Ready to go home?"

"Let's." Justin rose on his toes, still holding on to Brian, and kissed the exposed skin at the hollow of his neck. For some unnamed, childish reason, he felt suddenly giddy. They were heading home.

The night was unusually warm for May and the loft windows were open, letting in the heady bouquet of spring mixed with the urban aroma of car fumes and waste.

They both took a shower to remove the lingering scents of Babylon, and emerged from the bathroom still naked, skin flushed, warm and moist to the touch. Justin turned off all the lights and pulled Brian over to the window, to look out at the paling predawn sky. Blind to the view, he was musing over second chances and new beginnings... Brian at Babylon, turning down tricks; no words, no promises of everlasting monogamy, just simple acts. Changes.

A small, grey phantom appeared from nowhere, the body of the furry feline twining between their legs, demanding attention. Justin picked up Rufus so that Brian could pet him too, and watched his big, bad, butch lover fuss, with unbridled affection, over the cat. Having had enough, Rufus finally jumped out of their arms and returned to the shadows, only the loud purr and raised tail marking his progress.

Brian moved closer behind Justin, his taller frame enveloping the shorter one, his arms threaded around the other's neck and shoulders. His warm breath ruffled Justin's skin as he leaned in and kissed one earlobe, nuzzled the long strands of blond hair. Arching back against him, Justin kissed the underside of his chin, savoring the freshly shaved skin taut over the square hardness of his jaw. The same square, heroic jaw his artist's hand bequeathed to Rage. A small giggle bubbled up in his throat, earning a questioning frown from Brian. "What's so funny?"

"Your perfect jaw line. You should have more kids, share the genetic wealth."

"Are you trying to get pregnant, Sunshine? Off your birth control pills again?"

Wiggling around in the circle of arms to face Brian, he felt the full, heavy balls, the hardening shaft pushing up against his belly. "Let me make... " Let me make love to you, he wanted to say, sweet and slow and gentle. But he knew 'love' was a four-letter word in the Brian Kinney Dictionary of Forbidden Words. Instead, he finished the sentence with "... Let's fuck."

Holding on to each other they made their way to the bed and Justin paused for a moment, still standing, taking in the form of the other. Brian was sprawled on the sheets, long limbs pale against the dark satin, his eyes huge and almost black, shining translucent with absorbed moon-light.

Justin reached for the massage oil on the nightstand, knelt on the bed by Brian's side, and began to apply the heavy, soothing oil to the other's thirsty skin. His hands stroked, massaged the pliant flesh, bringing life to strained muscles and joints, as his busy fingers were joined by his lips. He mouthed and sucked the warm skin, licking the hollow of Brian's neck, kissing his shoulders, nibbling on the dark, hardening nipples. His tongue slid down the oil-slicked slope from collar bone to belly, continued the trail from belly-button to the darkly rich pubic hair. He explored Brian's body with a never-tiring, still-new sense of wonder--the body that had been, from the start, the lightning rod for Justin's own sexual awakening, his roadmap to pleasure, his anchor in an uncertain reality. A work of beauty--now as then--that never failed to awe Justin, arouse him, please him aesthetically.

The low rumbles, akin to purring but deeper, began in Brian's throat, vibrating through his entire frame, both heard and felt by Justin as he continued his tactile expedition. His hand reached the long shaft and the rumbling broke up, fragmented with breathless moans as Brian's sensual focus shifted to his throbbing, hardening organ. Slowly licking the smooth crown, lapping the first drops of precum, Justin pulled the large cock into his mouth, teasing with his tongue, licking and sucking, while his fingers cupped the writhing balls and rubbed them smooth with oil.

Brian's breathing grew faster, with small, soblike sounds escaping his throat as he thrust deeper into Justin's welcoming mouth. Finally, with some effort he placed his hand on Justin's shoulder and pushed him away. "You...have to...stop. Not yet." Giving another push to separate the wickedly irresistible lips from his cock, he moaned, "Oh god, stop!"

Sucking in his suddenly idle lip, Justin nodded, "Sure, stud," then slid down the bed and kissed the soft inside of Brian's thighs. He grabbed for a condom and was about to tear the packet and roll it onto Brian's arching prick when the other's hand stopped him mid-motion. "No, wait."

Justin stared at him with incomprehension while Brian turned around and flopped, face down, on the pillows. He spread his legs and, fully exposed, offered himself. "Fuck me."

"Brian."

"Just do it!"

"Are you sure?"

In answer, Brian pushed up on one knee, offering up his ass again. Slightly trembling, Justin's hands came down on the small, muscular mounds and began to stroke the other's opening, lubricating him, making him relax. Brian, his virgin, the thought made him light-headed, well, almost-virgin.

Dilated and fully receptive, Brian was bathed in a fine sheen of sweat and panting with arousal. His voice came as a hoarse whisper, "I want you inside me. Now!"

Justin reached for his shoulder and nudged him to turn onto his back. "Face to face. I need to see you."

Only as he lifted Brian's legs to his shoulders did he notice his own fully erect cock, swaying in anticipation. Condom in place, he eased himself carefully into the unfamiliar warmth, began a slow, cadenced thrusting--and that's when he almost lost it. He wanted to scream, to cry, to shake the other, to cum. It was one singular image he held onto in his mind that kept him centered--of himself, crippled and vulnerable and scared like an injured animal, and Brian, by his side, strong and gentle and reassuring all in one beautiful package. For him. Because he'd asked Brian to take it easy, to be gentle. Like the first time...

He was going slow and gentle now, considerate of the other's pleasure and pain, using his intuitive empathy to understand all the ramifications of bottoming for his perennial, born-to-top lover.

Brian's eyes were closed, a trickle of tears trailing down his cheeks. Riding the rhythm of Justin's cock thrusting into him, he was keening like a finely tuned instrument, the sound punctuated by an escalating staccato of cries. When he finally came, his hands grabbed Justin's shoulders in a painful grip, sinking into sensitive skin. Two words tore from his mouth, repeated in a shattered sob, "Fucking fairy--I'm a fucking fairy."

Brian woke first, as the early vernal sun glazed the bedroom with its pale gold hue. Of course Rufus, purring up a storm and kneading his solar plexus with his front paws, didn't help either. No one could say their cat didn't work for his breakfast.

It took him some effort, but within an hour the persistent feline was fed and breakfast was ready. He carried the tray in his good hand and walked slowly, hoping not to fall on his face, and pulled open the legs of the tray as he placed it on the bed over Justin's still-sleeping form.

"Getting too old for late night fucking, Sunshine? Need your beauty sleep?" He shook the other's bare shoulder slightly, then moved the freshly-made French toast under Justin's nose. The small nose wrinkled a few times, sniffing the heavenly scent of butter and cinnamon, and the blue eyes popped open with clear-focused interest.

"Hmm..." The tip of his tongue appeared, licking in a lazy circle the full, pouty lips.

Brian just stared at those lips for a moment with naked desire, then picked up a thin slice of toast and brought it to Justin's mouth. "Care to taste?"

"Always," Justin smirked at him, looking up from under half-lowered eyelids. He pushed the hand and the proffered food away, and went straight for Brian's mouth.

The kiss, long, deep and wet, left both of them breathless as they finally came up for air. "Breakfast in bed?" Justin remarked smugly. "I take it you had no complaints with last night's performance."

"Fucker," Brian butted his forehead against Justin's. "And I mean that in the nicest possible way." Clearly, a Brian-compliment. Grinning, he added, "Encore anytime?"

Justin was already munching on his toast when he asked, with a contemplative look on his face. "Brian, why didn't you call me from Philadelphia?" It was a multi-layered question--why didn't you call and, when you did, why Michael and not me?

Brian thought for a while, the silence stretching as he dug deeper, sought for the level of truth Justin deserved--they both did. "I wasn't sure why I'd taken off. And more, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. But I knew as sure as hell that you would be the one person, the only person, I wouldn't be able to say good bye to. Not to your face, not even on the phone. So, like the fucking coward that I am, I didn't call."

Whatever Justin expected, hoped to hear, Brian's answer seemed to satisfy. He raised the glass of juice in mock salute, "Well, at least you did return to good old Pittsburgh!"

Sharing the juice and French toast, they fed each other and licked each other's syrupy fingers and lips, giggling by the end like two teenage boys high for the very first time. Sticky with the night's sex and the morning's food, they headed to shower--together, as they preferred to do any time they had a chance.

They were already in the car, on their way to meet the guys in the diner, when Brian glanced over at Justin. "I've been thinking."

"Oh-fuck-no... again?" First-hand experience taught Justin to consider it an ominous preamble.

"I plan to sell the loft."

Thud. It was beginning to sound seriously ominous. "Are you moving back with your mom?"

"Yeah, sure, why not? You think she'd mind if you came by a couple of nights a week, to help with my 'sexual' therapy? We'd have to plan around her drinking bouts and church visits, but..."

Justin stuck his tongue out at him, and Brian continued. "No, seriously, do you have any plans for Sunday? Maybe we can ask your mom to show us some houses. The damn loft is getting too small for the two of us... It'll take some time, but we need to move."

"Brian! You are not serious...You are serious!" Mouth agape and blanching with shock, Justin was about to jump into Brian's arms, realizing last minute that it would not help Brian's already tenuous driving skills. He rubbed up against the older man's shoulder, whispering. "Bite me?"

"What... foreplay in the car?"

"No, Brian, bite me to make sure I'm awake and not dreaming... "

The diner was slowly stirring to life when they arrived. The party-animals of Liberty Avenue were just beginning to stagger in, still worse for the wear after a long Friday night of sex and drugs indulged in excess, and searching for solid food and caffeine to counter their hangover.

Brian and Justin settled at the counter and were greeted by an exuberant Debbie, all decked out in her decor-du-jour: flowers. Her red wig was freshly puffed and adorned with a variety of plastic and silk flower combs and an assortment of flower pins, buttons and jewelry was stuck to every part of her body and outfit. Justin couldn't help staring at her, guffawing.

"What's so funny?" She challenged him, hands on hips, making him bite his lips to stop. "Don't like my fashion designer? It's spring; I'm celebrating," and she reached over the counter to smack him on the head. Then, with a grin, she conceded, "I know, I look like a fucking Daisy Cow."

"More like the Spring Fairy from some schmoopy Disney travesty," Brian mumbled sotto voce but making sure he's heard. "Definitely a make-over candidate for the 'Queer Eye' guys. By the way," and he winked at her, "did you notice how being queer has become the latest rage on TV? Who knows, maybe Mikey and all the rest of us will become rich and famous one day."

Exuberance restored, Debbie pulled out her order pad and asked cheerfully, "So, what'll it be, boys?"

"Coffee," Brian tapped the empty cup in front of him, and, looking at Justin, added, "Two."

"Haven't you two heard of food? You, young man," and her finger singled out Brian, "are still too skinny."

"Mercy, woman! Marlon Brando would be too skinny for you... But because you called me 'young man,' how about an order of your Daybreak Special?" He punctuated the order with his most charming smile.

Justin stared at him for a moment before brushing his arm fondly. Ah, he thought, the pleasure of a kinder, gentler Kinney.

Ted and Emmett arrived next, followed shortly by Michael and Ben, and they all moved over to a booth large enough to seat the six of them.

"So, Brian, I heard you graced Babylon with your presence last night?" Ted could always be counted on for stirring up things. "Talk about making a full comeback."

"Nah, just a nostalgic excursion into my sordid past," Brian didn't rise to the bait. "Not much there." He stole a passing glance at Justin's face.

"That's okay, honey," Emmett grinned at him, "we can all go back one night, get roaring drunk and dance our asses off... It'll be fabulous."

Michael pinched him, hard, and Justin entwined his fingers in Brian's, as they answered in unison, "I don't think so."

Everyone broke out laughing, and Emmett nodded, "Okay, I guess we all saw the light and settled into sedate married lives. 'Two-by-two,' as The Good Book says. All we need is to build ourselves a fucking ark."

"Ark?" Michael, always the dense one, asked.

"As in Noah--Noah's Ark, you know?" His professor explained patiently, his voice carrying over the collective groan around the table.

"Speaking of which--what do y'all think of the latest about the gay marriage initiative?" Not concerned in the least about the non-sequitur, Emmett batted his eyelashes and rubbed up against Ted.

"Personally, I think it's another diabolical clandestine effort by the Religious Right to defeat the gay community by absorbing them into hetero society," Justin deadpanned, with a wink in Brian's direction.

"My heeee-ro..." Brian responded, "haven't I done a splendid job in raising the child?" Turning to Justin, he asked, "And by the way, where the fuck did you learn all these big words?"

"PIFA--see what a great education you're paying for? Seriously though, the marriage initiative is important to many gays, including your favorite lesbians."

"True," Debbie, in the process of delivering their orders, chimed in. "Mel and Lindsay are planning a big display for Gay Pride Day. They need volunteers to help with campaign planning, posters, ads, the works. Hint, hint..."

Finishing their second serving of coffee, Justin began to fidget in his seat, caught between Emmett on one side and Brian on the other.

"What's the matter, Baby?" Emmett intoned innocently. "Didn't get enough last night?"

Ted and Ben snickered, Michael frowned, and Justin ribbed Emmett with a sharp elbow in response. He only blushed when Brian turned a questioning, bemused stare at him.

"It's never enough, right, Sunshine?" He teased. "Wanna go home?" Fumbling with his wallet, he pulled out a twenty to pay for their brunch and scrambled to get up, Justin scooting out of the booth behind him.

Their friends watched as Justin handed Brian his cane then lifted Brian's arm on his shoulders and wiggled into an embrace with him, his arm tight around the other's waist.

"Good to see you guys," Justin turned his megawatt smile on them, "but we have to go."

"Yeah," Brian sighed dramatically, "We promised to take Gus to the park. A father's job is never done; he's trying to master the Jungle Gym. Go figure--with four perfectly fine queer parental models, my son is a future jock. He must get that from Mel... "

Four pairs of eyes followed them to the door and finally, as they disappeared from sight, Ted voiced the thought on all their minds. "Who would've thunk--Brian-fucking-Kinney finally settling down." There was only a tiny, barely detectable tone of regret in his words.

Stopping in front of the car Brian turned Justin to face him and pulled him into a full-body squeeze. Their lips met for a long, hungry kiss, then Brian leaned his forehead against Justin's and whispered, "You're a great fuck--both ways." Laughing, he buried his face in the blond mane and inhaled the scent of shampoo and clean hair.

"And you make a mean breakfast in bed," Justin returned the compliment. "C'mon, Tiger, let's go and tackle Junior."

Holding onto Justin for another moment, Brian added, "Remind me to ask Lindsay what the fuck she has in mind for Gay Pride Day. If the gay marriage initiative is to stand a snowball's chance in hell, we can't leave the planning in the hands of a couple of hapless dykes..."

"Am I hearing voices, or have you just volunteered to help the Initiative, for free?" To demonstrate his shock, Justin let his jaw drop.

"Fuck volunteering. Did I mention the word 'volunteering'?" Brian was all righteous indignation. "I'm just doing my share of giving back to the community... "

Brian spent the day working out the details for his upcoming trip to Chicago in June. Vance was falling over his own feet with enthusiasm--avarice always did that to his partner; and Brown showed enough guarded interest in his idea to invite him to present his case to the Brown Athletics Board of Directors.

He was about ready to leave for his meeting with a client, just needed to make one more phone call. Cynthia put him through to Sigmund.

"Everything okay, Brian?" The familiar voice inquired.

"Changes, Doc. You talked to me about the necessity of change."

"And?"

"You are a clever s.o.b. I should pay you... "

"You are."

Brian hung up with a contemplative half-smile on his face. He should talk to Justin. Definitely Justin, maybe Mikey, too. Tell them about Jack, the memories...and Philly. And as much as they deserved to know, he needed to tell.

His phone rang, Sigmund calling back, as he knew he would. Picking up the phone, he teased, "Was my message too cryptic for you, Herr Dr. Freud? How about an unscheduled session later this afternoon? In the way of explanation... and a 'thank you'."

He was just exiting the Pittsburgh offices of CitiCorp after a successful meeting to map out the next phase of their campaign, when he was caught in a downpour. It was a late spring cloudbreak, quick, violent and unpredictable. His car was parked a couple of city blocks away, no big deal to get to except when it rained and you were unable to make a run for it.

He tried to accelerate his pace, but his paralyzed leg cooperated only to a point, and the cumbersome brace wearing him down didn't exactly help either.

His jacket was rapidly soaking through and the rain, beating down on his uncovered head, ran in watery tributaries down his face, tiny rivulets trickling down his neck and back. He wished he had an umbrella with him, but that was one of the luxuries he couldn't afford with only one good hand. That hand he needed for his cane.

He was still a block away from his destination, and he started to shiver, more from the humid, damp air enveloping him and seeping into his pores than from the rain. Gracelessly swinging his bad leg he landed repeatedly in the cresting puddles along the way, water saturating the expensive leather of his shoes and splashing his trouser legs with murky runoff from the flooded streets. He stepped into another puddle, this one deep enough to harbor marine-life, almost lost his balance, and broke into a fanciful string of obscenities as he bent to adjust his leg-brace.

He heard the sound of running footsteps behind him and felt a pair of arms snake around his waist. "Hey good looking, is it raining on your parade?" It was Justin, materializing out of nowhere, fulfillment to an unformed wish.

"It's always raining on my parade," Brian shrugged mournfully, half-turning to look at the younger man, a slicker-wrapped bundle of smiles and blond energy. "Where the hell are you coming from? Did the Twinkie Fairy send you this way, or are you just stalking me?"

"Classes are over for the day; I was cutting through to catch a bus," Justin responded while feverishly digging into the bottomless depths of his backpack. Triumphantly producing an umbrella, he snapped it open and, raising it to accommodate their difference in height, lifted it over Brian's head. "Ready to try for dry land?" He grinned as he entwined his free arm in Brian's and fell in pace with him, the two of them making their way in the deluge.

They hurried as best they could, leaning close to each other and sharing the meager shelter the umbrella provided, encapsulated for a moment in time in their own private world. Open to the flow of emotion between them, Justin hugged Brian's arm, rubbing his forehead against the other's shoulder. "Rain partners, huh?"

Brian looked down into the eager face, the wide open eyes almost sea-green in the collecting twilight mist. "Partners." The word came out sincere, clearly annunciated, making Justin feel like he wanted to flip a wheelie right there on the sidewalk.

Distant lightning electrified the cloudy skies, followed by the low rumble of thunder. "Storm's moving this way," Justin commented, his protective hold on Brian's arm tightening imperceptibly.

"No big deal," Brian looked down into the other's concerned eyes. "I'm okay." And with a sudden, matter-of-fact certainty, he knew he really was.

They reached the Lexus and Brian, still not fully reconciled with his wheels, grumbled. "Okay, so the damn beast is black, but it'll never be a Jeep. How can I reclaim my title as 'Studmuffin of Liberty Avenue' without my fuck-mobile?"

Justin gave him a frown and a mock shove, holding the umbrella above his head as Brian fumbled with the keys. Ready to climb in, Justin stopped him with a hand on his elbow. "Payment for services rendered," he nodded toward the umbrella.

"Credit?" Brian tried to bargain.

"No, cash only, pay as you go," Justin intoned in a businesslike drawl then rose on the balls of his feet, lifting his face to the taller man.

"Oh, okay then, if you insist," he bent his head, mouth seeking the red, sinfully ripe and slightly pursed lips. The kiss, more like Deep Throat, would have made a Frenchman blush. A gay Frenchman at that.

"First-rate payment, big tip. I'll be happy to be of service at any future date, Sir," Justin sounded appreciative.

"How'bout you plop your cute little ass in, and we speed home for Act Two?"

Unabashedly rubbing up against Brian's lean form and fully aware of their twin hard-ons, Justin commented with studied nonchalance, "Seems we're ready for a public act right here on the street. Why wait?"

Faking total shock, Brian pulled the door open and leaned on Justin's shoulder as he slid behind the steering wheel. "You're a shameless brat and a public nuisance. Hasn't your mother taught you any decency; haven't I beaten into you the basics of proper fag etiquette?" He signaled Justin to get in, started the engine and pulled into traffic as he added, "Let's go home."

Half-turned to look at his man, Justin gave Brian one of his sunshine smiles. Home? Partner? He kept the thought to himself; discretion, especially with Brian Kinney, often turned out to be the better half of valor. He looked out the window, his index finger tracing the runes of rain on the glass, quietly humming to himself, "Rain, rain go away . . . " All in all though, he noted with a content sigh, rainy days weren't all bad.