Jennifer looked up from her book when she heard the front door open and close. She glanced at her watch: it was 8:40.

"Justin. . .?" she called out. She heard his footsteps falter, then obediently head into the living room.

"Hi, mom." He gave her a perfunctory smile as he slipped out of his jacket and backpack in one fluid movement.

She looked at him, this man-child she had tried so very hard to understand. Acceptance was easy; you always accepted your children, no matter what they were or did, she believed. Or you should. But understanding, that was something that came harder, had to be fought to win. Jennifer believed she was getting there, but sometimes it wasn't easy. You lost that understanding as they grew up and away from you.

"How is Brian doing, honey?" she asked, really wanting to know the answer.

"Better, I think." The smile flashed more earnestly as he responded, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. "He's really making progress with his rehab."

"That's good," she affirmed, setting her book down on the table beside her. She had been wanting to get over to visit Brian, but somehow hadn't found the time, hadn't made the time. She truly regretted what had happened to Brian Kinney, and although she still felt a degree of ambivalence toward him, she didn't dislike the man. It was just that she didn't know what she would say, how she would act, if she went to visit. She didn't really know him all that well, although she had gotten to know him slightly when Justin had lived with him last year.

Justin sat down in the chair across from her and leaned forward. "Michael and I had a conference today with Brian's doctors. We're making plans for him to go home soon."

The we unsettled her for a moment. "What. . . kind of plans, honey?" Somehow she had thought it would be months before that particular subject came up.

"Well, he's going to need full-time care, he won't be able to be left alone. The alternative is a nursing home, and none of us want that."

She considered. "His family--?"

Justin shook his head. "They don't give a fuck. His mother said she had neither the resources nor the stamina for it." His voice was hard, bitter.

It seemed a harsh pronouncement for a mother, but Jennifer was not one to judge. "Well, maybe that's true. . . You don't know her situation, Justin." He looked unconvinced, but said nothing. She picked up the initial thread. "So. . . who would care for him at home? Professional nurses?" She was familiar with home health care; several of her friends had utilized the services for aged or terminal parents.

"Well, yeah, at first. But he'll still need someone staying there with him. That's where Michael, Lindsay and I come in. We've agreed to work out a schedule so that one of us is there at all times." He swiped the hair away from his face and took a deep breath. "Mostly Michael and me, though, 'cause Linz doesn't have as much free time."

A dozen objections sprang to mind, but she kept her voice even and casual. "That's a huge responsibility, Justin. Your school--"

"I'll continue with my classes, that's not a problem," he assured her, sounding just a little patronizing. The familiar I'm not a baby reaction, she recognized.

She tried to choose her words carefully. "I thought you and Brian were over. I don't understand why you're making this your problem, why you're getting so involved." But of course, she did. She saw it in his eyes every time Brian Kinney was mentioned. She had seen it in his shock and fear when he'd first found out that Brian had been admitted with the stroke. It had never been over, maybe it never would be.

Justin met her eyes steadily. "I love him, mom. Anything that happens to him is my problem, my concern."

She could not refute that--love was subjective, and if Justin believed he loved Brian, then it was as valid as truth. She still thought that Brian Kinney was wrong for him, that it would ultimately be an exercise in futility, but Justin was old enough to make his own mistakes and there was nothing she could do about that. Still, the current situation exceeded the boundaries of common sense.

"Justin, do you have any idea what you're taking on? Caring for. . . an invalid. . . . it's very, very difficult. Don't you remember when Grandma Taylor had a stroke?"

"Grandma was 72, and she couldn't talk or move, hardly," Justin refuted. "Brian's going to recover. . . "

He was romanticizing, she knew, believing that he would do for Brian what Brian had done for him after his release from the hospital. But from what he had told her of Brian's condition, that would hardly be the case.

"He can't walk, can he?" she pointed out. "Or dress, or bathe. . . ?"

"He's learning to do some of that," Justin defended. "Mom, it's just the way it has to be. I can't ask you to like it, just accept it."

There was that word again. Accept that your son is homosexual. Accept that he's in love with a man more than ten years older than himself. Accept that he's going to take on duties and responsibilities that can break people with twice his maturity and experience. Accept that he's probably going to get his heart broken all over again. She tried for a smile, but it came out crooked.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked softly. "Do I ever?"

He stood up and, to her surprise, came over to sit beside her and took her hand. "You had the choice to raise me to be who I am," he said softly, giving her one of those sentimental smiles that she saw so rarely from him these days. "And I love you for it, even if I don't always say so."

Chagrined, she smiled back at him. "You've always been who you are. I had nothing to do with it." She freed her hand and slapped at his wrist. "And you've always tried to sweet-talk your way around me," she teased. Impulsively, she embraced him and hugged him tightly, ruffling his hair just as she had when he was little.

"Just. . . be careful, okay? Don't take on more than you can handle, don't sacrifice yourself or your goals. That's all I ask. And," she pulled back and regarded him seriously, "promise you'll come to me, if you need anything--anything at all."

He rose and stretched himself. "Don't I always? I promise." Crossing to the chair, he hefted his backpack. "I've got an assignment to complete. See you in the morning."

"Hey, Chucky, my man!" He greeted the male rehab nurse who entered the room with his chariot. The wheelchair was a familiar sight by now, an old friend. Fucking gimp-mobile... He stifled the sour thought and managed a weak smile. Compliance, Kinney, that's the ticket....

"Mornin', Brian! All ready for your trip home?" The big man, strong as a linebacker and twice as wide, positioned the chair at the bedside and fastened the brakes. Brian uncharitably thought that the man, who had a good ten years and fifty pounds on him, could use some time in the exercise room himself, but to each his own, he supposed. Chuck Anders was strong, that was for sure, and quite proficient at his job. Now, he held out an arm for Brian to pull himself up for the transfer to the chair.

"Oh, yeah--nothin' like home, sweet home," Brian gasped laconically as he struggled to maneuver his body from the bed to the wheelchair. After he was seated, panting hard from the exertion, the nurse paused before he unlocked the brakes.

"Well, just take it one step at a time, okay? This isn't always an easy journey. It can be a real ordeal sometimes--messes with your head, you know?"

Brian regarded him with amusement. "My head's already been messed with, Chucky..." He gave a high-pitched laugh, scoffing at both the man and himself. Oh, you are one fucking funny dude, Kinney... a real barrel of laughs.

Chuck returned the smile tentatively. "We'll wait down in the lounge for the rest of the team, okay?"

"Whatever." Brian knew the drill. His physical therapist and occupational therapist would be coming, along with his case manager, Wilma Dodd, and Chuck. Those four regulars would be joined by the hospital social worker who would be in charge of the event. His team. Rah-rah. I don't do groups... Well, now you do, Bri, old buddy. Now you're just a regular fucking team player. The internal sarcasm made him bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

They would be met at the house by the other members of his team--Michael, Lindsay, and Justin. That particular recollection turned his smile into a scowl of real displeasure. He detested having those nearest and dearest to him putting themselves in the middle of this situation. He resented it. He resented the hell out of it, but, once again, what choice did he have? They were duty-bound to do it, come hell or high water. And he was duty-bound to let them--at least for now. It was only temporary, after all.

He was anxious to get this show on the road.

He remembered Justin, after his injury, coming up to his loft one day--after Jennifer had virtually thrown him out of her son's life--and his comment: "I almost freaked five times coming over here." Brian hadn't understood the remark at the time, but now he did. Now, he most definitely did. He shuddered and pressed his eyes shut, blinding himself to his incoherent surroundings, allowing himself the small weakness.

"Here we are..."

Brian opened his eyes as he heard the voice and felt the van brake to a stop. It was time to endure the ordeal of ignominiously descending in the mechanical lift, holding his chin up and looking pleased as he greeted first Lindsay, with her brief hug, then Justin, who just stood there with an insipid grin on his face. He glanced around the sidewalk.

"Where's Mikey?"

"He got held up at the store. He'll be here soon," Justin volunteered.

Lindsay smiled brightly. "I bet you're really excited. Isn't this wonderful?"

Brian flashed a momentary sardonic grin. "Peachy-keen," he smirked. He wondered, absently, where Gus was. He had hoped she would bring his son along.

The social worker from the hospital, a skinny woman named Beth Strong, stood eyeing the front of his building. There were two steps into the entrance, which was a moderately wide doorway. "I think the chair can make it through there, but those steps are going to be a minor difficulty. Chuck, can you manage, do you think?"

"No problem, Beth. After this, though, you might want to get a strong piece of plywood," he advised. "Probably keep it in the hallway, propped up against the wall, lay it down when you go in and out."

He was gentle bumping the chair up backward over the two steps, but Brian still felt the jolt go up his spinal column, a sharp pain in his butt and his neck as the chair settled on each level. His teeth worried at his lip and he frowned slightly, reflecting that he wouldn't be making the trip in the chair for that much longer.

The others milled around, following, and since Brian was facing them and not forward, he managed to look cheerful and competently in control. Lindsay's smile was more tentative now, and Justin seemed slightly apprehensive. The medical people looked indifferent.

There was more discussion at the lift. They all crowded around the lobby, talking and pointing, and Brian closed his eyes for a few minutes, disgusted with the details, just wanting to get upstairs and into his loft, not caring how they managed to do it. He was wheeled into the lift at last, and Justin moved to the front and lifted the gate amid more talk and gesturing. Eagerly, Brian eyed the steel door ahead, finally looking forward to getting inside.

He was mildly surprised to see Justin produce a key and use it on the door, then swiftly enter and disarm the alarm system. Where did he get. . .?. . .Oh. Brian dimly concluded that Justin had never returned the key he'd had made when. . . when we lived together. . . He brushed the disturbing thought aside as Chuck wheeled him across the even threshold.

For what seemed like an eternity, they left him parked just inside the doorway as the other seven people began to examine and dissect his home. They clumped from spot to spot, poking their collective noses into every nook and cranny as he desperately tried to follow the rapid-fire and varied conversation taking place. His beleaguered brain was whirling with the onslaught of confusing input, and he wanted nothing more than to get up out of the damned chair and go over and tell them all to shut the fuck up and leave his place alone.

"We can put the bed right over here. . . ." Justin was saying, indicating the spot where the black leather recliner now sat. "We're having a hospital bed delivered on Thursday," he added to the social worker.

. . .something about a triangular bar from the ceiling. . . . the ceiling! They want to put a fucking hole in the ceiling?. . . And who said anything about a damned hospital bed, anyway?. . .

"Oh, this bathroom is very good," purred Beth Strong. "You've already got the vertical bar in the shower enclosure, and a hand-held shower head--I was going to suggest one of those."

. . .I don't need a hospital bed. Did anyone mention that to me? Maybe. . . My bed's just fine . . .isn't it?. . . No. . . wait. What's this now about the bathroom. . .? Using his left hand, he awkwardly managed to maneuver the wheelchair a few feet forward, listing to the right as he did so, grateful that the brake had been left off. He closed the distance between himself and the group, who were now up in the bedroom alcove, which he couldn't access because of the steps.

. . .Horizontal bars on either side of the toilet. . .? More fucking holes! Why do I need bars everywhere? Is this a home or a fucking prison cell. . .? Brian cleared his throat noisily. "Excuse me. . .? Hey, there. . ."

Almost as one, they turned, seeming startled to find him where he was. He pulled himself out of his slouch, sat up as straight as he could in the confines of the metal contraption. "Don't you think it would be wise to consult the man who's paying for all these damned renovations?"

Patty, the soft-spoken OT, took a step toward him. "Brian, these suggestions are all going to benefit you greatly when you come home. It's not going to be as easy as you think."

"You could," Beth mused, apparently deciding to ignore the exchange, "rent one of those portable commodes and put it down by the bed. They rent them over at Walgreen's on Paradise."

No. Fucking. Way. They went on about the bathroom, discussing a contraption that would raise the existing toilet to a more convenient height, mirrors that folded out from the wall for easier access, installing a seat in the shower stall; Brian slid back down in the chair, ignored again, tired of struggling to keep up with all the talk. "It's not going to be as easy as you think". . . easy for her to say. Easy. . . nothing comes easy, lady. He felt himself start to tremble as the reality came crashing over him, as he began to get a glimmer of what that long-awaited homecoming was going to be like. His eyes darted around his spacious, well-appointed apartment as if seeing it for the first time. Seeing it through the eyes of a cripple. How in the hell would he function here? A wave of panic washed over him. He shut his eyes tightly to blot out the imagery.

He started at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Abruptly, he shoved away the confusion and fear and twisted around to see who was behind him. A pair of soft blue eyes regarded him fondly.

"You'll do fine," Justin said softly, with steady conviction. Brian was taken aback by the omniscient sentiment, amazed by how easily his silent thoughts had been pegged. He managed a cocky smirk, desperately trying to come up with a smart retort, but nothing would come. While his brain was processing that, Justin bent over and pressed his lips to Brian's temple in an affectionate peck. "It's good to see you here again."

Nicely put, but Brian again felt the sting of his lack of control. He couldn't even manage to form a response, not an ounce of witty repartee seemed to be left to him. Just dull old addlepated Brian Kinney, no good to anyone any more.

The team had moved out to the kitchen area; Justin moved the wheelchair toward the divider counter before joining the others for the latest discussion. This one centered around rearranging everything so that it was reachable for wheelchair access, particularly the items he would need to use on a daily basis.

Unfortunately, from this angle, Brian couldn't see them at all, the counter blocking his view. Unsteadily, he groped for the nearest stool with his good hand. He could probably pull himself up, and he knew he was capable of standing, balancing on his left leg. He would feel better if only he could meet them at eye level--he acknowledged the disadvantage of being the only person seated and thus, psychologically, inferior. . . .

"Do you normally do much cooking, Mr. Kinney?" the social worker was asking.

As they turned, and he grasped the back of the stool and began pulling himself up, he heard Lindsay gasp, "Brian-- !"

Her sharp cry set him off-balance and his sweating palm slipped on the smooth metal of the chair frame. He could feel himself pitching to one side, the one that he couldn't feel, the damned, dead weight of his right arm and leg remaining motionless as his left side flailed, struggling to stay upright.

Oh, shit. . .! Stupid. . . fuck. . . .!!

Suddenly the tilting ceased and he could feel, on his left side only, someone supporting his weight.. . no, two someones. As he sagged, allowing himself to be braced, he recognized Chuck Anders on his right, Justin on his left, one pushing, one pulling, to restore his balance. He threw his good arm around Justin's shoulders and managed to balance briefly on his left leg before they helped him back down into his chair. He leaned back, breathless, in defeat and disgrace. There was a deadly silence in the room, an awkward impasse which no one seemed to know how to break. For Brian, it seemed to stretch out forever, although it was undoubtedly only a few seconds. Mustering his dignity, Brian spoke in what he hoped was a natural voice.

"No, I rarely cook." He paused for emphasis, then, "Or stand, it seems."

There were a few strained chuckles, then a tentative resumption of the talk. Brian stole a glance over at Justin, who still stood at the side of the wheelchair, his face ashen but a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

"I see," he said, sotto voce, to Brian, "that you still know how to make a dramatic statement when you want to."

The acceptance, even approval, warmed Brian, tickled him for some reason. It made his gaffe almost bearable.

The unlocked door slid open. "Hi, everybody--sorry I'm late."

Brian looked up at his friend. "Better late than never, Mikey."

Beaming broadly, Michael crossed to him and bent over, giving Brian a hug and a quick kiss in greeting. "Look at you," he enthused. "Back in the saddle again. . . Welcome home, pardner." Mikey looped his thumbs in his belt loops and managed to look like a goofy cowboy. Brian laughed with the first real humor he'd felt that day. What a pathetic pair we make. . . Gratefully, he reached over and grabbed Mikey's hand, squeezing it before letting it drop.

Greeting Lindsay with a grin and a light squeeze on the arm, Michael joined the hospital team and the inspection went on. After a few more suggestions regarding the kitchen, they moved into the living area. Cautiously, Brian managed to turn his chair in a semi-circle and wheel along behind them, over to the end of the sofa.

"One very important precaution," Patty, the OT, was saying, "is to make sure there are no electrical cords that aren't fastened down. You can secure them to the baseboards and the floor with electrical tape."

Brian eyed a naughty, unsecured cord from the computer station and mentally chastised it. Bad cord, bad, bad. . . . Hit that sucker going ninety in the gimp-mobile and I'd be on my ass. . .

He simply couldn't take all of this seriously. His decorator had made very sure, at great expense, he might add, that the loft was completely up to par on safety and security standards. An image, a memory flashed into his mind: Donatello, the Italian decorator/stud who'd made the loft so fabulous, accepting partial payment in gratifying trade, the two of them christening the central focus--the bed--in a wild orgy of sex and poppers. Brian had derived both the pleasure and a nice discount that night. He smiled wistfully, remembering the moment. . . Will there ever be such moments again? Frantically he shoved the thought away. Not 'will there be'--when will there be? Stay focused on that. . . .

". . .and you'll want to remove all the area rugs in here. They make navigating far too difficult," Brian heard Patty saying as he tuned back in to the conversation.

"Ooh, I'll take the white one," Michael teased--at least Brian hoped he was teasing. "Lindsay, that other one would look good at your place, don't you think?" Yes, he was teasing. Brian forced a smile.

"Think again, 'pardner'--there's a storage area in the basement they can go in." He dutifully arched an eyebrow. Michael chuckled.

As Lindsay and Patty moved back to the kitchen, discussing that area some more, Justin came back to Brian's side.

"I think we're just about finished--would you like to sit over on the sofa for a while? Get out of that chair? I could help you. . ."

Brian glanced up at him. "Learned that. . . by myself." Brian recognized that his words were slurring slightly, that his fatigue was making him slower. Although he knew Justin hadn't made the offer as a challenge, he took it as such. If he wanted to sit on his fucking sofa, he damned well would.

With grim determination, he moved his chair into the proper position. Concentrating, he fastened the left brake easily enough, then reached across to fumble with the right one. It was a slight stretch, but he made it. Folding back the footrests was a bit more difficult but he managed, just as he did it at the hospital. Carefully, he slid forward, inching his butt to the edge of the seat. With his good hand he moved his useless right arm, folding it across his chest, then, gripping the arm rest with only his left, he lifted himself slowly to a standing position, pausing to gingerly balance himself. With a supreme effort, he made a half-twist and gracelessly jockeyed himself around, transferring his hand to the sofa's arm. He flopped down onto the cushioned seat. It was lower than he had judged and softer than he had anticipated, and he landed with a bounce and a grunt. He shut his eyes, dizzied for a moment at the near-fall.

When he opened them again and looked around, his friends had moved closer, and their expressions were strained. He imagined shock, horror, concern. . . what? Was he so grotesque a sight, was he the pathetic object of sympathy? Any pride he might have felt at his accomplishment vanished under their stares. He desperately longed for a cigarette.

Abruptly, Justin flopped down beside him, sprawling languidly and reaching over to pat his left thigh. With a bright smile, Mikey came over and perched on the arm of the sofa on the other side of him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Yet Brian felt cold inside. He recognized the effort they were making, and he hated it, hated the duplicity, the pretense, as he saw it.

And then he saw something else. He saw the awkward expressions on the faces of the hospital team, and he knew those looks weren't because of his disabilities. No, those looks he had encountered before, many times. They were typical breeders who were witnessing three men giving a demonstration of their queer lifestyle. Well, fuck 'em all, as Emmett liked to say.

Grinning triumphantly, defiantly, he reached over with his left hand and tweaked Justin's crotch, at the same time turning his face up and kissing Michael passionately on the lips. Both of his friends started laughing as Brian, displaying a bravado he didn't really feel, threw his head back and crowed.

"This is more like it, boys! Brian's back, and Mikey and Justin have him! Top o' the world, ma!"

Lindsay laughed and clapped her hands. Brian noticed Brenda, his PT dyke, grinning, too. Fuck these proper people and their safety precautions and their home inspections. He was still alive and as long as he was alive, he wasn't going to change.

Mistakenly, he had assumed that his discharge from the hospital, the resumption of his life at home, would be the ultimate goal. Contrary to what he had been told and counseled, he had nurtured that kernel of hope, taken it out in his mind and shined and polished it like some precious gemstone. Home--it had been the beacon shining in his daily darkness, the impetus for all the work he had done to rehabilitate his mangled body. Just let him get home, and all would return to normal.

Yesterday, that misassumption had come brutally crashing down around him. Yesterday, he had seen the future, and it was bleak, indeed.

He was not, he acknowledged with a frisson of sheer terror, ready to tackle the world outside the hospital. He had made a spectacular fool of himself--he had known it, his friends had known it, the people from the hospital had known it. He couldn't walk, could barely move unaided, couldn't think straight half the time, was a fucking embarrassment to everyone, including himself.

Every small task took an eternity, every movement a supreme effort of will power and endurance. He would be a royal pain in the ass to everyone around him. . . Well, nothing new about that. . . A glimmer of amusement broke into his darkness. People had been telling him that for years, he knew.

One of the nurses invaded his reverie. The one he referred to as "the Duchess" entered his room. "You're scheduled for another CAT scan this morning, Mr. Kinney," she intoned in her haughty voice with a touch of a British accent. "Here's your chair--let's go."

More fun and games. It was an effort to even sit up, but he forced himself to cooperate. Silent, miserable, he complied. He had no other option.

On the surface, Brian had seemed okay at the loft, and it had indeed been good to see him in his old surroundings. But Michael knew him well enough to know that something had been amiss. Perhaps it had been something that had happened or had been said before he had arrived. He had checked with Lindsay and the only thing she had reported had been that Brian had nearly fallen when he tried to stand up once. That, by itself, didn't seem like such a big deal--they had all seen him struggling to move around in the past few weeks.

No, Michael decided, it was something else, some intangible Brian-thing. His friend had a knack for getting weird ideas or holding unusual viewpoints on things. Being off the wall was part of what made him such a treasured companion, but sometimes Michael felt duty-bound to point him in the proper direction... or, at times, just to commiserate.

It was that purpose which brought him here now, even though he wasn't sure if Brian would be in his room. The hospital kept him busy during the day with therapy and a fairly rigid schedule.

Still dressed in the clothes he had worn yesterday, Brian was, indeed, in his room. He was sitting up in bed, leaning slightly forward, hunched over, and Michael realized that he was attempting to reposition his right leg, to swing it over the side. He looked up, startled, at Michael's entrance. His hair was sticking up all over, as if he hadn't bothered to comb it, and he needed a shave. An alarm went off in Michael's head and he realized he had been right to be concerned.

"Mikey. . .! What are you doing here now, in the middle of the day?" Brian looked like the proverbial kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

Michael managed a smile. "Oh--just wanted to see you, that's all. Took a lunch break."

"Oh, yeah? What's up?" Brian forced the leg over and then pivoted himself to drop the other leg down.

"Nothing. . . nothing's up." Michael tried to hide his worry and concern, to appear casual.

"Ain't that the truth," Brian mumbled, reaching for his shoes, conveniently located at his fingertips. "Help me with these, will you?"

Curious, Michael stooped and put the right shoe on the dangling, immovable foot. He was reminded suddenly of all the times over the years he had removed them from an inebriated Brian's feet. "Going somewhere?" he asked pointedly, fastening the shoe and starting on the left one.

"Yeah--for a walk. You're just in time."

Michael stood back up, regarding his friend in confusion. "Time for what? Don't you have to eat?"

Brian gave him a tight, smug smile. He pushed off the bed and balanced himself on the floor. Fumbling in his left pants pocket, he pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief. "I ran into Steve down in X-ray -- you know Steve, don't you? Used to tend bar part-time at Woody's -- has a mole on his left cheek like Cindy Crawford. . .?"

Michael knew who he was talking about--had made it with him several years ago, actually. Brian probably had, too. "Yeah, Steve Pruitt. What was he doing here?"

"He was waiting for a buddy having his wrist filmed for a possible fracture." Awkwardly, Brian laid the handkerchief on his mattress and unwrapped the folds. From within, he plucked out a crudely rolled cigarette. "Look at what I have. . ." he crooned softly, smiling devilishly at Michael.

Startled and apprehensive, Michael swiftly reached over and covered the item with the loosened handkerchief. "That's not what I think it is. . . is it?" He was appalled at Brian's daring.

"God, if anyone catches you with that-- !"

"I don't intend to get caught. 'Specially with you helping me."

"Are you crazy?!" Michael exploded. Drugs were the last thing Brian needed, particularly the smoking variety. The man was one step away from a stroke, still under medical scrutiny, and he wanted to toke up? And he wanted Michael to help him get away with it!

"Marijuana has been proven to have therapeutic qualities," Brian intoned righteously. Then, "Christ, Mikey, don't be such a spoilsport! Where's your sense of adventure? Haven't I taught you anything. . .?"

The familiar taunt, the unquestionable dare that Brian offered tickled Michael. Nothing else, since that horrible day in September, had so completely assured him that Brian Kinney was truly alive and well in Pittsburgh. A smile tilted up the corners of his mouth.

"You are still such a brat. . . . " He glanced worriedly around the room. "Where the hell do you think you can-- "

"Not me--us," Brian emphasized. "Share-sies, Mikey. . ." He smirked. "Bring over my wheelchair. I have just the place."

The place to which Brian had directed them was a bathroom, one floor down located in the main hallway. It was handicap accessible, big enough to wheel in the chair, with a single commode and sink and, more importantly, a lock on the door. It was provided primarily for visitors, although ambulatory patients utilized it also. On the wall was the obligatory "No Smoking" sign.

"I hope you have a match." Brian smirked.

"Yeah--your face. . ." Michael began, and Brian's eyes actually sparkled for a moment as he finished the joke with him, ". . .and my ass." Their voices resonated together in the enclosed space as they chanted the childish phrase.

Brian stood, using the sink as a lever, and dug into his pocket for the handkerchief as Michael searched his pockets for a book of matches. When he produced it with a flourish, Brian chuckled.

"Always the boy scout, Mikey. . . ." He paused, thoughtfully, "...Or is that a Marine?"

Michael grinned. "Never a Marine!"

"Remember when I wanted to join the Navy?" Brian mused. He took the matches from Michael and tried to juggle both them and the handkerchief in one hand, never mind how he would unwrap the joint. Impatient, Michael got a grip on the handkerchief and took it away from Brian.

"Yeah--you fixated on it for a whole week, I think, back in Senior year." They fumbled with the matches and the joint for a moment; Michael finally put the cigarette in Brian's mouth and struck a match to it.

"Mmnn. . . I kept thinking of all those gorgeous sailors. . . being out at sea for months at a time. . . God, what a fantasy." He took a deep drag of the joint, began to cough.

"Well, you haven't done bad in Pittsburgh." Michael reached for the joint.

Ignoring the cough, Brian threw his head back, inhaling the smoke deeply into his lungs. "I'd probably be a Major or something by now."

"They don't have Majors in the Navy," Michael pointed out pedantically. The strong weed stung his throat too and burned his chest.

"Whatever." Brian reached out and took the cigarette back for another puff. "Point is, I'd have risen fast in the ranks with a lot of grateful senior officers. . ."

Michael met his eyes with affection. "Truth is, you'd be successful, no matter what you did. That's just a given." Brian's eyes shone into his with silent gratitude, then he looked away and took another deep drag before handing it back to Michael.

They were silent for a moment, and Michael noticed that Brian was beginning to tremble slightly from the effort of balancing himself in the standing position. He sat the cigarette on the edge of the sink and took Brian's arm.

"Here -- sit back down for a while. . ." He saw Brian eye the chair with disgust as he allowed Michael to help him back down. Michael handed the joint back to him and then sat across from him on the toilet seat. "I guess it must have been good to go home yesterday, huh?"

"Yeah, well. . . place looked the same." Brian passed the cigarette to him. "I've decided, though, to opt for an alternative living facility."

Startled, Michael drew back. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"There's this place some of the other patients were talking about--it's just outside town, run by the Catholic church--my mother would love it."

"The hell with your mother," Michael burst out. "Are you talking about St. Xavier's Rehab Center?" Brian's expression told him he'd bagged it right on the first try. "That's a goddamned nursing home!"

Taking another drag from the joint, Brian shrugged one shoulder with studied indifference. "It will be fine. . . "

"You wouldn't last two weeks! Forget it!"

Hard eyes met his. "It's my decision, Mikey. I'm going to talk to the counselor about it later today."

"You are not!" Michael exclaimed, furious. "I thought we had this all settled. You agreed."

"I changed my mind." Brian's look softened. "Mikey, I can't. . . I don't want to. . . it was dumb to even think . . . "

His very incoherence fueled Michael. "Sure, it'll be hard. But since when did you ever run from a challenge?"

"I'm not running anywhere right now, Mikey. I might never run anywhere again."

So. There it was. Appreciating the honesty, and aching for his friend, Michael leaned across the distance between them and took Brian in his arms, embracing him tightly. Tears suddenly clouded his vision.

"Look, we'll get through this the same way as we've gotten through everything else--together. You aren't going to do this alone. I won't let you."

Brian suddenly jerked. "Ouch!"

Michael released him and stood, wondering what had happened, fearful that he had somehow hurt him. "What--?"

The cigarette, which had been in Brian's left hand, had somehow gotten crushed to the other side in Michael's hug, and the tip had burned the skin of his right forearm. There was a small red spot peppered with ash on the skin that Brian was staring at.

"I burned my goddamned self. . ." Brian mumbled, petulant but untroubled.

The import hit Michael. "You felt that?"

"Yeah, I-- " And then it hit Brian. His eyes widened. "I felt it. . ."

Michael put a finger near the burn mark. "And that. . .?"

"Yes! I-- "

Anxiously, Michael clutched his right hand. "Can you feel that?"

There was a hesitation as Brian concentrated. "I. . . think so. . . " Then he grinned hugely. "Yes--I think so!"

"What's it mean?"

"Spontaneous return of sensation--it's a good sign, Mikey. A damned good sign." He took his right arm in his left hand and poked along its length. "I can sort of feel it. . . it tingles."

"You felt that burn, all right," Michael affirmed. "I'd better get you back to your room."

"Must have been the pot," Brian mused. "I told you it had therapoo. . .therapru. . . I told you it was good shit." He giggled. The cannabis was kicking in. "Where's that fucking joint?" he gloated.

Michael picked up the now-tiny roach from the floor where it had fallen. "I think we've totaled it."

"One more hit for the road," Brian demanded. Michael relit it and handed it over.

"Shh. . . be quiet now! Settle down. "

Brian reached his left hand out and grasped Michael by the wrist. His eyes were shining. "Love you. . . Mikey. . ."

Michael patted the hand holding him. "I know. I love you, too. Just promise me, no more talk about nursing homes, okay? You're going home, and you're going to get better, and you'll be out screwing half of gay Pittsburgh in no time, okay?"

"Half. . .?"

Michael made a stern face. "Pinky-swear," he demanded. He wasn't about to give up or let Brian get the upper hand.

Brian rolled his eyes. "You're pathetic. . ."

Reaching over, Michael smoothed the hair from his forehead with a tender caress. "Don't change the subject."

"I felt the burn, Mikey. . . " Brian marveled. He was really high, Michael recognized.

"You did," he confirmed. "You had a breakthrough. . . "

Brian was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes, and Michael wondered if he had conked out. Then he spoke, very quietly, two words. "Pinky-swear. . ."

Michael bent over and kissed him gently. "Okay. . . get some rest, now, tiger." He pressed his cheek against Brian's neck and took a deep, satisfied breath. If not the war, he had won the battle, at least. He hoped.

He went to find Brian's doctor and ask about the spontaneous return of sensation.

CHAPTER SEVEN will be posted on Sunday, August 24, 2003

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