CHAPTER FIVE

"No, I'm not. I had a stroke," Brian deadpanned, waiting for the predictable reaction.

"You're a total asshole, Brian." Justin pulled off his scarf and coat. "You called me to tell me you had a stroke? So what, now you also have amnesia?" He was clearly worried, though. Brian knew he would come by later that evening anyway--why the sudden phone call?

"I missed you," Brian intoned with his most innocent smile.

"I missed you, too, and, unlike you, I actually mean it." Justin smiled back as he squatted down by Brian's chair and carefully pulled him into his arms for an embrace. "How was your first full day at Rehab?"

"The greatest. We started with rock-climbing," Brian joked, clearly stalling. "No, seriously, they did a full evaluation of my abilities and 'deficits,' as they delicately euphemized my sorry state. Like my entire body is some fucking balance sheet."

"And what's the balance?" It was a hard question to ask, but Justin knew that Brian probably wanted, needed, to talk about it.

"Still no return in my right arm and hand. I have some feeling in my right leg, very little movement in my toes. No control over my knee and ankle." Brian paused, fumbling to lift his still right hand with the left, staring at his limp fingers. Justin reached over and took the hand, squeezing it lightly as Brian continued. "They kept on talking about me like I was some big rehab 'project' with lots of potential--when what they meant was that it'll be a damn difficult job to try and patch me back together. Anyway, I managed to effectively bring their little bull-session to a halt when I asked about the plan for my penile rehab--after all, my cock is a vital organ to me."

"Your cock is vital . . . to all of us," Justin intoned with a sincere face, "but I can probably help you with that particular organ. All in the name of medicine, of course."

He stood up, only then noticing that Brian was fully dressed, sweatsuit, shoes and all. "Going somewhere?"

"Hope so. Thought I'd show you the arboretum, if you don't mind chaperoning me. It's up on the top floor."

The arboretum was small but well appointed. Its circular center was dominated by subtropical trees and plants, edged with a stone-lined walking path, generously scattered benches and chairs. The domed roof and three of the walls were made of glass, collecting the heat and dying light of the setting winter sun. It was dinnertime, and, as Brian had hoped, the place was empty.

Justin parked the wheelchair near one of the window panels, pulled up a chair for himself, and stared out at the dusky skyscape punctuated by city lights. He waited.

"Justin, why did you come to see me in the hospital after my stroke?"

Brian's tone was deceptively low, his question catching Justin unawares. A claxon of alarm sounded in his head as he pivoted to look at the older man. "I wanted to see for myself how you were doing. Brian, why are you. . .?"

The other stopped him with a motion of his hand. "And once you found out I would live, however feebly, why did you continue coming back? Why are you still here?"

The amorphous sense of ill-ease in the pit of Justin's stomach graduated to full-blown apprehension. He realized he'd just bumped, full force, into Brian's hidden agenda. There was nowhere else to go but forward. "I'm here because that's where I want to be. With you."

"And how did my stroke help you come to this sudden realization? Did you have a spontaneous cerebral event to coincide with mine?" The words were cutting and Brian's face was an emotionless mask as he continued. "Are you here out of pity?"

Recoiling from the words, Justin reacted as if Brian had physically struck him. "That's what you really think? Pity? How the fuck can you even ask me that?" Anger rolled through him like rumbles of thunder and he grabbed Brian's shoulders, about to shake him. As his fingers sunk into the other's muscles, Brian lost his balance, awkwardly tilting to his right. Justin dropped his hands, watching silently as Brian struggled to straighten up in the chair. He did not speak, did not offer help.

Brian squared his gaze on Justin. "Remember you once asked me, 'Why are you here? Would you be here if I hadn't gotten bashed in the head?' Different head, same question."

Justin's face blanched as the words took him back for a dizzying moment to that moment in time, that never-forgotten pain. He hadn't gotten his answer--at least not right then. But Brian now deserved one, needed one. Justin owed him the truth. He stood, his body half turned away from Brian, and began to talk. "I'm sorry . . . really sorry for losing my temper, but are you willing to listen to me?" At Brian's nod, he continued. "I'm nineteen. My age entitles me to make mistakes. And I made a huge one, a stupid one, when I walked out on you. I realized it a long time ago, perhaps right from the moment I headed out of Babylon that night and looked back at your face." He stopped, suddenly concerned as he took in Brian's figure, pale and fragile, vulnerable to the painful specter his words conjured, and possessing little in his depleted arsenal to fight it.

As if reading his mind, Brian looked up at him with hollow eyes. "I'm okay. I want to hear this."

Still tentative, Justin continued. "It had nothing to do with where I was heading, and everything to do with what I left behind. You marked me," and he smiled with a shadow smile, knowing that Brian remembered, as well as he, their first night together, "and I came to realize that you are, and always will be, the love of my life." He actually blushed, pausing as he swallowed on a dry throat and thought, to hell with false pride. "I know it sounds ridiculously romantic--after all, we're not lesbians, as you are always quick to observe--but I'm not ashamed of it. I would 'go and tell it on the mountains' if I could . . ."

" . . . And what a beautiful sight you would be while you did it." It was the first sign of the easing tension, and there was an almost imperceptible softening in Brian's features.

Resisting the lighter tone, Justin added, "You know how tenacious I can be. You've already been on the receiving end of my true bulldog personality once before. I've spent the last couple of months trying to think how to get back with you, how to . . .regain your trust. And then…then I found out you had the brain hemorrhage." Even now, uttering the words scared him, shocked him to his core--the thought of possibly losing Brian, of living in a world where Brian no longer existed. Instinctively, he reached for the solid reality of the other's body, and the touch helped dispel his fears. "So, you see, pity has nothing to do with any of it." He knew the road would be a long one to convince Brian. If he could... ever. And the stakes were high. All he wanted now was the other's tacit permission for him to stay--he wanted time.

"Aha." Brian nodded noncommittally, then shifted in the chair. "I'm as stiff as a board. Would you help me stand up for a while?" Short of an answer, still it was not a dismissal. Thankful, Justin began to help Brian to his feet.

Finally pulling up to his full height, Brian grunted with satisfaction. His right leg could not bear his weight, and he was leaning heavily on Justin, his good arm around the other's shoulders.

Justin looked up at him, the bright blue of his gaze unreadable. "I haven't seen you standing in a long time." His voice was almost wistful. "Brian, could you just hold me tight for a moment? Please?"

Without questioning, Brian pulled him closer, matching their bodies. The old familiarity asserted itself between the two of them, a touch of the passionate physicality of their shared past. Justin tightened his embrace around the slim waist, his head on Brian's chest. Listening to the strong, slightly accelerated heartbeat, he found a moment's utter peace. "It's been such a long time since we shared a simple hug, a simple feeling. Body touching body, inch for inch." As he looked up, his eyes were bright with the sheen of tears, and he knew Brian noticed.

With a sudden shudder Brian let go of him and grabbed at his midriff. A deep groan escaped his mouth before he could bite down on it.

Paling with alarm, Justin asked, "What's wrong, Brian, what's happening?"

"M-muscle spasm, in the small of my back and around my s-stomach," the slight stammering had returned with the pain. He caught his breath, trying to control it. "The muscles... overco-compensate so I d-don't fall on my face." He was panting now, his palm pressed against his stomach, face beaded with sweat.

Regaining some sense, Justin finally launched into action. "Let me get you seated first, then I'll call the nurses' station." Carrying most of Brian's weight, he steered him toward the closest armchair, lowering him with great care to the leather seat. Brian gave a muffled cry as a new wave of spasms stabbed through his solar plexus. His hand grabbed for Justin, trying to stop him, "D-don't go. It'll pass soon. I don't want to pop any more of their fucking muscle relaxants, they only make me sleep. And I'll have my entire death ahead of me for sleep."

Unsure about the wisdom of listening to Brian, Justin stayed anyway. He helped the other make himself more comfortable in the armchair, then, kneeling in front of him and lifting his sweatshirt, he began to massage the aching muscles. His strong fingers moved in smooth, deliberate circles around the tight knots until the muscle tremors subsided and the pain seemed to ebb away. The skin on Brian's stomach--a terrain Justin had known intimately--was flushed from the rubbing and warm to the touch.

Brian's breathing slowed, evened visibly, the small sounds of agony fading into silence. "Better?" Justin asked. Reassured by a nod, he rose again and used his bare hands to wipe away the sweat on Brian's brow, to caress his still sickly-white cheeks. "Want to get back to the room? You should eat something too, you look positively anorexic."

"Soon. Wanted to show you something first." Pointing to the back pocket of his wheelchair, he asked, "Could you get it for me?"

The minute he began to pull out the wrapped packet, Justin knew what it was. Opening and placing the item on Brian's lap he waited, his heart in his throat.

"It's an exquisite piece of art." Brian lifted the painting, eyeing it with obvious pleasure.

"Klimt was a great artist."

"So are you." Rarely given, Brian's compliments were that much more precious. "Is this how you see us? We are…beautiful."

"You are beautiful." Throat dry, Justin's eyes were riveted to Brian's face, effectively blocking out the rest of reality. "But actually, this time it isn't the point."

"And the point is?" Brian wanted Justin to say it.

"They're a couple. There's something between them that pales all the shades of gold, transcends love. Defeats time. It's their unity--they're one, and therefore untouchable." Pointing to the painting, he added simply: "This is where I want to be. With you."

Silence stretched between them as Brian stared out into the now-dark night sky, lost in thought. He was growing visibly tired and uncomfortable. Finally succumbing, he began to rise. "Let's go back to the room."

He was already seated on the bed, Justin helping to take off his shoes, when he spoke again. "You must have worked on it for quite some time."

"I did. Two months. It was how I felt--feel. It was meant as a peace offering."

"It is." The words were a first indication. They made Justin's heart sing.

"I sent it to you a month ago, hoping for…you know. Sent it before your…."

Brian's gaze lifted from the painting to Justin's face--pure, drawn in clear lines of white and blue and gold. Almost translucent, and very akin to the idealized canvas image before him. "I know. I saw the date you mailed it. Before my stroke. It couldn't have been a 'Get Well' gift." Bone tired, his words had begun to slur, and all he wanted was to lie down and close his eyes.

Justin watched him for a moment, feeling lost. He moved toward the door. "Should I leave now? On my way out I'll tell the nurse you're back." There was a tinge of dejection in his voice.

"No. Stay with me until I fall asleep." Brian was already drifting when he felt Justin lift his right hand, palm open, and place it against his face. Then this last sensation too was claimed by sleep.

"Try to move your arms and legs and don't worry, I've got you," Dwayne's voice broke through to him. "Were you a swimmer before?"

"Yeah, sure, 'Flipper,' I was just training for the Three-Rivers marathon," Brian sneered, "when I decided to pull out of the competition and have a stroke instead." Actually, he knew how to swim, but in most of his trips to the sunny beaches of Florida and the Caribbean his exercise of choice only marginally involved water sports.

"If it wouldn't be against hospital regulations to spank a patient, I would." The therapist sounded serious. "Now paddle, or I'll let go."

Concentrating on the task ahead, Brian attempted to do the breaststroke. His left arm and leg, although weakened by the long bed rest, obliged, but his paralyzed right limbs floated in the water uncoordinated and uncontrolled by the damaged nerve centers in his brain. With a frustrated sigh, he stopped trying. "It's no use. Could you just get me out of here?" Quietly, he added, "Please."

There was something in the tone that made the other comply without argument. Using the pool-side hydraulic sling, Dwayne lifted Brian out of the water and into the waiting wheelchair. As he helped him dry off and put on a sweatsuit, he mentally reviewed the medical information about his patient. Kinney was clearly behind the curve on his rehabilitation, mostly due to the delay forced by his severe bout with pneumonia. He was still too weak to fully participate in the wide range of therapy and exercises prescribed for stroke patients, tiring easily and running out of breath if he exerted himself. As a passive participant, he did reasonably well on the range-of-motion and stretching exercises to help retain muscle tone and joint flexibility on his affected side. But he was lagging on the strength training, transfers from bed to chair, sitting to standing, and hadn't graduated to the treadmill yet. And the biggest concern, he had no discernable return in his paralyzed arm and hand, severely curtailing any occupational therapy to prepare him for the target tasks of the coveted "activities of daily living" degree.

"Hey champ, ready to swim the English Channel?" It was Michael, on his customary morning pilgrimage to see Brian. He leaned down to kiss him, noticed the cold cheeks, bluish lips. "Let's try and warm you first." He laced the fingers of both his hands in Brian's, then rubbed the four palms together in quick repeat motions. Placing Brian's hands back to rest on his knees, he asked, "Better? How 'bout something hot to drink?" Brian only nodded and Michael began to steer his chair out of the pool area. He turned back to Dwayne. "You don't mind if I kidnap your ward for a while, do you? I'll deliver him back to you by his next scheduled session in Dr. Frankenstein's spa for rest, beauty and character fortification."

Michael returned with two steaming cups of coffee, handing one to Brian, who was still shuddering with periodic shivers. "You sure you should let them soak you in that cold bucket of water so soon after your pneumonia?" Michael's happy-puppy features were redrawn by concern. "Maybe they should just wait till you get better."

"I'm already better--I'm the best, remember?" Brian quipped. "And yes, mom, they should exercise my sorry ass as much as they can--the main gains in post-stroke recovery are within the first three-to-six months. I have no time to waste." With a voice suddenly turned sober he added, "I can't wait to be back on my feet."

" …And, as always, your wish is my command." They both turned around at the unexpected interruption. It was Dwayne, a full row of impossibly white teeth lighting up his dark-skinned face as he grinned at them, back to take Brian for his next round of physiotherapy. "Parallel bars, gentlemen, the latest in preparing today's young for tomorrow's Olympics."

"Yeah, if you mean the fucking gimp-Olympics. Let's go." Setting down his cup, Brian reached for Michael's hand. "You coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Holding on to Brian's hand, Michael fell in step with the therapist as they headed with their charge toward the gym.

Still seated, the therapist first stretched and rotated Brian's leg, to warm up the unused muscles. After a few minutes' work, he moved the chair to face the parallel bars, encased Brian's right arm in a protective sling, and lifted his feet off the footrests. "Left hand on the bar," he began the routine that was fast becoming familiar to his patient, "and lift yourself out of the chair--lift!" He stood directly behind Brian, both hands holding, stabilizing the other's back. "I've got you. You're not gonna fall." He waited for Brian to find his balance, braced his affected leg from the back with both his, and continued with the clipped commands. "Take a step with your left." Brian did, felt his right leg begin to buckle under him, and panicked. He wasn't used to falling yet, although, being a fast learner, he gathered it would be prominently featured in his future life as a cripple.

Dwayne tightened his hold around Brian's waist, his legs preventing the other's knee from folding. "Now, swing through with your right leg."

Closing his eyes to concentrate, Brian visualized the move, willing the relay between brain cells, neurons, muscles, and joints to work. Slightly raising his right hip he moved his paralyzed leg forward in a wide swing. The jerking motion shifted his body weight to the weak leg, almost making him fall, but the other's strong arms were right around him, holding and supporting. With dogged determination he continued, slowly making his way to the other end of the parallel bars. His eyes lifted, only to meet their twin image staring back from the full length mirror on the wall. He didn't like what he saw, lowered his gaze back to the floor, and with grim purpose returned to his task. At thirty-one, goddamn it, he was going to learn to walk.

Brian was drenched in sweat and trembling with fatigue by the time Michael retrieved him from Dwayne's claws to take him back to his room. At the doorway, they ran into Justin.

The two creative partners eyed each other for a moment, the uneasy truce between them a tangible presence. For the past three weeks, Michael has been vacillating between the realization that Justin might be just what Brian needed now, and a deep resentment of the younger man for sins of the past he wasn't yet ready to let go. And underneath it all, Michael was grappling with an emotion he wouldn't name, couldn't deal with if he did: his own feelings for Brian. You're happily married now, he could almost hear Brian's teasing sing-song, why can't the good Prof keep you satisfied? He could and he did--Ben was a good man and gave Michael all he ever wanted in a relationship. And he loved Ben. Still . . . seeing Brian daily, touching him, administering to his every need, brought them closer again in every way that counted, and left Michael confused.

Mentally berating himself for indulging in this line of thought, Michael began to pull on his jacket. "Gotta blaze." He bent to hug Brian, affectionately brushing the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "I'll be back by dinner time." Turning to Justin, he added, "He's all yours--sore muscles, shitty attitude'n'all."

"I'll take it," Justin smiled with a confidence he didn't feel, and Michael noticed his possessive grip on Brian's shoulders.

Michael left, and Justin greeted Brian with a belated kiss. "Hello, charmer. How was your session this morning?" After their talk in the atrium earlier that week, Justin felt he'd gained some ground, but didn't allow himself to take anything regarding Brian for granted.

"The morning was a fucking waste of time, I'm tired and sore and grumpy," he interrupted his own tirade with a deprecating half-grin, "and I still can't dance Swan Lake."

On a whim Justin rose on the tips of his toes, began flapping with his arms, turned in a fast 360-degree pirouette, and gracelessly collapsed at Brian's feet. Hugging the other's knees, he smiled up into his face. "Remember the grand opening of my go-go career, complete with sneakers and white-feathered wings? I'm lucky lynching is a thing of the past, at least amidst the mild-mannered art critics of gay Pitts--otherwise I'd be long dead. So what if the Bolshoi will pass up both of us? Your best performances have always been between the sheets . . . " He bit his lips even as he uttered the last words, wishing he could call them back. In a sudden flashback he was back at the loft, only days following his release from the hospital, still awkward, wounded, afraid to be touched. Brian's pleading arm was on his shoulder, his voice gently cajoling behind him, trying to break through. And he couldn't. There was nothing he wanted more than Brian's touch, his sex, his love--and he still couldn't. What if Brian couldn't, now--what if he never would? How must he feel, not knowing, and too afraid to find out?

Brian must have read something in Justin's eyes for he pushed back in the chair, effectively severing their body contact. "I need to get out of these clothes. I stink." His voice was subdued as he began the laborious process of undressing himself with one hand. Justin stopped him.

"Wait. Shouldn't we first go and get you some lunch in the mess hall?"

"Fuck lunch. I'm too wasted to chew."

"Let me help you change, then. But I picked up a Philly hero, in case you want to share; you have to start eating sometime."

"What, so now you're smuggling contraband food into the asylum? Trying to fatten me up like Debbie, my Italian mother?"

Deciding to ignore the objection, Justin pulled out a somewhat greasy paper bag from his backpack and proceeded to unwrap the cheese-steak sub. "As I recall, you used to enjoy sinking your teeth into 'heroes.' It's all fat and carbs--just what the doctor ordered."

"Damn, I wish you'd all stop babying me like I'm some feeble-minded invalid . . . " Brian stopped, realizing the slight absurdity of his last statement. Scrambling to stand up his weak leg caught on the footrest and he almost fell. Justin managed to catch him and helped him over to the bed. Overwhelmed, Brian lay back and covered his eyes with his good hand. Justin watched him, wondering if the older man was crying. He didn't think so. Finally, as the silence stretched around them, Brian removed his hand. His voice was muffled as he asked, "Could you help me undress?"

With sure hands Justin removed the other's sneakers and socks, worked the pants off the long legs, and pulled off the sweatshirt, careful of Brian's affected arm. Unable to resist, he held the still-damp shirt to his face, inhaling the familiar masculine scent. Eyes closed, he was momentarily transported to another plane of existence--of sensuous sins, tactile pleasures, textures and tastes and flesh. A simple world where love was sex. His eyes opened, locked into the exploring hazel gaze. He threw the shirt to join the pile of discarded clothes. Reality was here, with Brian--and in that reality, nothing was simple.

Brian lay perfectly still, stretched out on his back and clad only in briefs. His eyes were full of challenge, his voice strangely commanding as he said, "Look at me." Seeing the question on Justin's face, he repeated. "Look. At. Me. Do you like what you see?"

Justin averted his eyes for a moment. His fine skin was flushed by the time he looked back.

Attaching his own interpretation, Brian continued in a harsh monotone. "For fuck's sake, you can't even bear the sight of me. Do you find it that revolting? The bum leg, the wasted muscles, the useless hand? Do you still want me between the sheets, ramming you senseless ? Do you still find me irresistible?"

Stunned by Brian's anger, swept away by the torrent of bitterness and aching with the other's pain, Justin stepped closer to the bed. With sudden boldness he reached for Brian's hand--his good hand--and placed it on his groin. He was hard and fully aroused, straining against the ungiving fabric of his jeans.

Brian's fingers touched the tight, pulsing organ, his brain registering the unmistakable message. "It's for you," Justin whispered hoarsely, presenting his answer. Physical, tangible, undeniable. His body responding to that other body that forever held the power over his. Magnet to his sex, his passion, his soul. He placed his fingers over Brian's, both hands cupping his engorged prick and balls. "I never told you this. It was after our first night together, when you dropped me off at school. Daphne asked me what was going on. And I told her . . ." his voice broke, his eyes boring into Brian's, willing him to read the truth in them. "I told her that I just saw the face of God--and his name was Brian Kinney." He paused, then added, "It still is."

The grip of Brian's fingers turned into a caress, igniting fires of desire in Justin's crotch. For a moment, all dimensions around them shifted, moved, rearranged into a new pattern, and the focal point in that pattern was the touch, the heat between the youth's erect organ and the man's hand.

"Justin, look!" Brian's voice was bright with wonder and newborn hope. Justin's gaze instinctively shifted down the long and languid body, stopped at his cock--full and hard and arched in anticipation. Brian's beautiful cock.

"You have a 'woody'." He used the funny, out-dated high school term as laughter began to bubble up inside him in an unstoppable tide. "Now you know why they call me Boy Wonder."

"It should be something more like 'Miracle Worker.'" Brian smiled nonchalantly.

"Can I touch you?" Justin was all eager hands.

"No, hell no," Brian pushed him away, laughing too. "My warden should be back any minute, and will have my ass if he catches us in a compromising position. Although . . . it might not be bad as a new line of therapy." Clearly, he wasn't quite ready.

Dwayne was just checking his watch as he pushed through the door to his patient's room. He found Brian and his young visitor laughing, their faces flushed. He noted the sparkle in their eyes, the way they looked at each other, and mentally patted himself on the shoulder. Yeah, he thought, he could definitely lay his suspicions about these two to rest. He knew.

Frustration and failure were ever-present. Results were marginal at best. It was repetitive, agonizing -- and that didn't even factor in the pain or the fear.

The fear. Yes, there was fear. Every step was like jumping off a cliff, not certain whether you would end up on the floor or not. It terrified him to fall, to lose control of his balance, making him dread the exercises that would cause such an occurrence. His brain kept sending messages to his muscles to cease and desist, synapses warned of imminent collapse. His subconscious mind rebelled with every effort he made. His muscles wouldn't obey his commands, would not cooperate when he tried so hard to do as he was instructed. He would tremble, break out in a cold sweat, his mind panicking with fits of fear and self-loathing at his weakness.

Yet he was determined to get well again, to get that 100 percent return that everyone seemed to think he would never achieve. And in order to do that, he had to push harder than he was told, had to work longer and more intensely than they thought he should. If there was anything Brian Kinney understood, it was personal achievement, success against impossible odds. He was the working-class high school brat, son of a pair of alcoholics, tormented gay teen who had not only made it through college with exemplary grades, but landed a high-paying job in the field of his choice, and made it to partner in the advertising firm by the age of thirty. And he had used not only his mind but his body and image, learning to keep himself toned and taut with diet and exercise, to dress with style and panache, to move with a grace and skill that sold himself as well as the product he was promoting. He had invented himself once, and he would do it again. A mere stroke wasn't going to defeat him, and he would never accept a prognosis that fell short of his own expectations.

Thus, he found himself utilizing his time to the fullest. Beyond the scheduled sessions with his physical therapists, he managed to sneak down to the exercise room during nearly every free period of time he had. He would rush himself through meals, eating only half of what was provided, in order to gain an extra fifteen minutes on the equipment. Whenever he had visitors, he would cajole them into taking him down and helping him through whatever regimen he was currently being coached on. In the evenings, when everyone else was taking it easy, he was back at it; if he couldn't use the gym, he devised ways of doing exercises in his room using a chair or a table to steady himself.

No pain, no gain, he told himself grimly, as he exerted more effort in learning to walk again, attempting to strengthen the muscles of his hand and arm in order to coax any semblance of movement from them. He ignored the discomforts, fought off the exhaustion, both mental and physical, which threatened to defeat him.

He was into his second week of rehab; Brenda, his primary physio-whiz, was putting him through his daily routine on the parallel bars.

"Okay, Brian, I think we've had enough for today. Let's -- "

"Once more," he cajoled, giving her a charming smile to ensure her compliance. They had developed a fairly good rapport, due in part to the fact that they both belonged to a complementary minority--Brenda Sorrell was a proclaimed dyke.

At that moment, Justin arrived on the scene. His fair face was flushed from the chill outside, and he was bundled up in a heavy coat. Within the past few days, winter had arrived in Pittsburgh, a fact Brian was aware of only by the comments and appearance of his visitors. Justin slung his backpack to the floor and crossed to the parallel bars.

"I thought you'd be finished in here by now," he greeted Brian warmly. He smiled at the physical therapist. "Hi, Brenda."

"Hey, Justin. Good to see you. Maybe you can get this hardheaded Irishman to slow down a little."

Brian grimaced. His legs were aching. " I want to try it again," he insisted. "One more time, okay?"

Brenda reached for his wrist and took his pulse. "Your heart's racing now. I don't think you should--"

Annoyed, Brian managed to turn himself around so that he could pull himself along the bars facing the other direction. He saw Brenda and Justin exchange a look of exasperation as he slid his hands forward a few inches and concentrated on lifting his right foot.

"Use your back muscles," Brenda coached, her tone resigned.

Suddenly, he felt very light-headed, as dizzy as if he'd downed half a bottle of tequila. Everything went slightly out of focus, and there was a buzzing in his ears. His left hand gripped the bar tightly as he felt the right one fall free. Unbalanced, he realized he was in danger of falling, but before he could react and prevent it, he felt a chill rush through him with an accompanying wave of vertigo.

Dimly, he heard Justin call his name sharply, anxiously, as he clung crookedly to the bar.

With a stab of fear, it occurred to him that he could be having another stroke--a totally terrifying moment of uncertainty, and then blackness descended and he collapsed to the floor.

When he came to, he was lying on his bed in his room. An icebag was behind his neck and an IV was being inserted in his arm by a nurse. Justin was sitting at his left side, looking about as pale and drawn as Brian had ever seen him. Confused, Brian remembered what had happened in the physical therapy room, but remained clueless about what it had been. One minute he was pulling himself along the parallel bars, the next he was dizzy and blacking out. Chilled, he glanced around the room in bewilderment.

Justin noticed that he was awake. "Take it easy... It's okay..."

"What... happened?" Brian was gratified to hear that his voice worked okay.

"You passed out." Justin was gruff, fright sharpening his tone.

The nurse finished what she was doing and looked down at him. "I hear you've been overdoing it." She stepped away from the bed. "Dr. Peters will be in to speak with you shortly."

Brian eyed the needle in his arm. "What's that for?"

"Just some electrolytes, to get you back in balance, fortify you. It will only take about an hour."

Assured now that it was not another stroke, that it was really nothing big, Brian took a deep breath and sighed.

Justin put a hand on his shoulder. "You scared the shit out of me," he complained tightly.

"You mean, you messed your pants again?" Brian teased, taking the statement literally.

Justin managed an embarrassed laugh and colored slightly. "Asshole," he accused fondly.

Before Brian could respond, a familiar doctor from the staff, an orthopedic specialist, entered the room, rapping lightly on the door before greeting the patient.

"May I sit down?" he asked, pulling up a chair to the bed. Brian nodded silently. "How are you feeling now?"

"A little... confused," Brian admitted. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing to worry about, I don't think. We'll get a few tests in, and I've called Dr. Palmer for a consult, but it appears to have been simply the result of overtaxing yourself. Your therapists seem to think you're pushing yourself too hard."

"I disagree. I don't think I'm being pushed hard enough," he contradicted. "If I'm going to get better--"

"That's a relative term, and I'm afraid that what happened today indicates that you're wrong." The physician made a note on the pad he was holding, then looked back up at Brian. "You're going to have to learn how to pace yourself, how to listen to your body as you proceed with your therapy. I don't mean to discourage you, but you're going to have to face your limitations and learn to live with them. You're only five weeks post-stroke, with complications brought on by the pneumonia. Give yourself time to recover."

Brian frowned but he made no response. He could understand their need for caution, but he wasn't sure he agreed completely. He had set goals for himself and he was determined to keep them.

"Okay." The doctor took his silence as acquiescence. "Now, I've ordered some blood tests, an EKG and a CAT scan just to be on the safe side, but it's my opinion you'll be fine. I've taken you off PT for 24 hours to give you a chance to recover your strength. Just range of motion exercises for the present. When you get back to therapy, take it slow. I'll check in on you later, after I get the test results."

When he had left the room, Brian let out a pent-up breath. "Damn!" He glanced at Justin. "Help me to sit up, will you?"

"Sure..." Justin's hands were warm and gentle, his touch almost caressing as he assisted Brian into an upright position and arranged the pillows behind him. For a moment, Brian relished that warmth; he was cold from the icebag and the IV fluids dripping into him. He shivered.

Justin put his hands on either side of Brian's face. "You're cold..."

"Uh-huh...." Brian swallowed, feeling suddenly very miserable.

Settling on the side of the bed, Justin snagged the folded blanket at the foot of the mattress and wrapped it around Brian's shoulders, then let his hands linger there for additional warmth.

Brian blinked, frustration and despair leaking out. "They don't believe I'll be able to recover. None of them do, I don't think. They want me to accept limits that I refuse to accept."

Justin's eyes were on him, soft and bright. "Remember what you told me? That they always tell you that you can't do something--walk, draw, piss--so that when you do it, they'll be able to charge you more."

The memory sent a rush of fondness through Brian; he recalled the occasion and the pain on Justin's face that he had been attempting to erase. Now, it seemed, the tables were turned, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. But he did know that Justin understood, in a way few others really could. He'd been there, gone down this road. It was an insight he had not considered before.

Justin's hands were rubbing his arms, the brisk but gentle ministrations bringing the warmth back into him. He managed to smile. "I was right, too."

"You were," Justin affirmed. "But it's also true what the doctor said. You're going to have to learn to pace yourself. If you keep conking out, you won't make any progress."

I guess I can see that... Brian nodded in tacit agreement. He wouldn't give up, but perhaps he would take it a little slower, a little easier. He was still determined to beat the odds, to show them all that he could make it back 100 percent. He had goals, and he would damned well meet them. He met Justin's look of concern with a wry smile. Without words, they mutually nodded their heads and smiled, the empathy flowing between them.

The technician, a short and plump guy with a shock of carrot hair, alert eyes and a bulbous nose, looked more like a carnival clown than a specialist in mainstreaming the disabled. He greeted Brian with a cheery, "Howdy," and introduced himself as Melvin. Folksy manners aside, he had a degree from Carnegie Mellon framed and hanging on the wall.

"I've seen your records -- neurology, physiotherapy, psych profile, the works," Melvin began as he bent to lift Brian's right leg off the footrest. He rotated the knee and ankle, expert fingers feeling calf and thigh muscles for mass and spasticity. "Any spasms?" His question was addressed to both Brian and Chuck, the nurse accompanying the patient.

"Just a few," Chuck responded then stopped, noticing the look on Brian's face. "Yes . .?" he asked pointedly.

"Well, actually more than a few," Brian corrected haltingly, then added to stem the tongue lashing that was sure to follow, "Now you wouldn't want me to bother those nice and busy angels of mercy at the nurses' station every time I have a little twitch, would you?"

"Damn, man, you're too much," Chuck sounded actually angry. "I'll personally ask to reassign you to another nurse, or better yet, to transfer you to the Psych Department. What were you thinking, not telling anyone? This is all about your future, your ability to ambulate."

Seeing that Brian was properly contrite, Melvin decided to come to the rescue. "In any case, the spasms will go away as you spend more time on your feet. Which is what I want to see next," and without further preamble he rose to help Brian out of the chair.

Bookended by the two men, Brian finally stood. Always the showboat, he tried to take a step forward, felt his right leg buckle under, and found himself on his knees before they managed to grab for his elbows and prevent him from landing on his face. Fucking-impressive job, Kinney, he observed to himself dryly. Before, it used to take a bottle of Jim Beam to reach this level of amazing grace . . .

"And, gentlemen, this was a textbook demonstration of why bracing is beneficial in almost every case," making light of the near-fall, Melvin addressed an invisible audience. "Take the subject in front of you--healthy, early-30's, attractive specimen with well-developed musculature and a stubborn streak." He laughed. "Okay, Brian, now that we have you secured, try to move your right foot forward, any which way you feel you can."

Focusing on the leg and working from his hip, Brian swung the numb limb forward. His foot caught mid-stride, and it would have buckled again had it not been for the others' strong arms.

"Now the left foot," Melvin directed.

Again, his right knee couldn't hold his weight as his unaffected left leg moved forward.

"And--swing the right leg," came the next command.

Working hard and concentrating, Brian inched forward again.

"Okay, let's get you seated for a moment." Pulling the wheelchair closer, they helped him settle. Melvin grabbed a notebook from his desk and began to scribble furiously.

Losing the little patience he had, Brian soon interrupted with a "Well, when can I walk out of here under my own steam?"

"That's up to you. Do you want it straight?"

"Not usually," Brian joked, but the look on his face was apprehensive.

"You have retained some function in the leg, might regain some more with time and therapy. But you also have some losses, an unstable knee, drop foot. To compensate, my best recommendation is a knee-and-ankle brace; a Canadian crutch, at least for now, for balance. And the more you exercise, the more you stand and walk, the better you'll get."

"When?" Brian's heart beat in his throat. He had things to do, places to go, a life to live.

"Hard to tell. You're a bit behind the curve, will need more intensive physio for at least four to six weeks; hydrotherapy, massages, flex-training, assisted walking--the more the better. The downside--your energy level. You need to get well first."

And how the fuck am I ever gonna get well here, Brian continued a soliloquy with himself back in his room. I'll never get back to normal in this godforsaken mortuary, buried among the old, the sick, the living dead. Frustrated, his left fist began to punch his affected arm and thigh, his knuckles impacting repeatedly with the flaccid muscles, leaving only a dull ache in their wake. He knew in his guts he would get well again if only he could leave, be back in his own environment, take back control of his own life.

He decided to raise the matter of his release with his team of wardens and see where it gets him. He was ready to go home.