Michael strutted in front of him, carrying an armload of shit from the hospital, having lost the toss with Justin, who had won the enviable position as Pusher of the Sacred Wheelchair. Brian's two attendants had been mildly snipping at each other during the whole trip--he could see them biting their lips to keep from a major tussle, but he was in no mood to play referee, so he ignored them and focused on getting his movements coordinated and keeping his lunch in his stomach. By the time Justin keyed the door and pushed him through the threshold, all he wanted was to go to bed and take a nap. Some fucking homecoming. . .

Weary as he was, the sight of his loft was both satisfying and disturbing. It was home, after all, and its familiarity was like a balm to his wounded spirit. Yet as he glanced around, an eerie feeling of despair settled over him.

It was his loft--and it wasn't. The floors looked naked without his carpets. One section that led up to the bed and bath level had been fitted with a hideous plywood ramp and handrails. Worst of all, in the corner where his comfortable lounger had been was a standard hospital bed not unlike the one he had just left behind. He blinked rapidly, hoping that by refocusing everything would be back to normal, but the trick didn't work.

"Here we are!" Michael exclaimed jubilantly, tossing plants and boxes on the kitchen counter. Brian eyed him critically.

"Don't put that shit there."

Michael frowned. "Well, where should I--"

"Do you want to get undressed and get to bed?" Justin asked, overspeaking Michael.

"The home nurse is coming at 3 o'clock," Michael reminded.

"Fuck the home nurse, and fuck going to bed in the middle of the afternoon," Brian growled. While in truth bed was exactly what he wanted, he was loathe to admit his weariness. "Let's party!"

Justin wheeled him over to the side of the sofa and put the brakes on the chair. Brian stood and Justin helped him to transfer to the cushioned comfort. Will I ever get used to this being helped with every fucking move I make? he wondered in exasperation as he settled back and heaved a deep sigh.

As Michael puttered around finding places for the plants and other assorted items that had collected in Brian's hospital room, Justin examined the contents of the pharmacy bag Brian had been issued.

"Hey, you've got Naprosin--I took that. . . " he announced, holding up one of the bottles. "It's a muscle relaxant."

Despite himself, Brian felt his eyes sinking shut, felt the waves of sleep claiming him. It had been a busy morning with all of the discharge flurry and last-minute procedures. Then the ordeal of being transferred in and out of Michael's car. His arm, encased in a sling to keep it immobile, was aching. The brace on his right leg felt too tight and his left leg was throbbing from overwork. He still felt queasy and the little man with the hammer inside his head was banging him right between the eyes.

"Give me one of those Percodans, will you?" he mumbled, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his left thumb and forefinger.

Michael came over and sat down next to him. "Are you in pain?"

Brian could hear his concern from behind closed eyes and he struggled to dispel it. "I'm all out of 'E', so the legal shit will have to do," he quipped. He felt the hands unfastening his sling, sliding it off, freeing his useless arm, which did take some of the pressure off it.

He must have dozed then, right there on the sofa, because the next thing he knew, he was jolted awake by the sound of the door scraping along its track, and an unfamiliar black woman was being greeted by Justin. She introduced herself as Betsy Cale, one of his home health nurses.

She didn't wear a uniform--she was dressed in a Steelers sweatshirt and jeans--but she had the detached professionalism that he had grown used to in the hospital, a manner he appreciated for its neutrality. With patience and skill, she helped him to the bathroom where he managed to pee without missing the bowl, was sponged off and changed into his black silk robe. Then she helped him into the new hospital bed and took his vital signs.

There was a strangely familiar comfort to it all. While he had been in the hospital, he couldn't wait to get home, to resume his regular life. Yet now, with his goal attained, he almost missed the atmosphere of the institution, the regularity, the pattern of it. It had been a safe haven, a conduit between what had been and what was to be. There had been no need for pretense, for maintaining any kind of image or show, just the mind-numbing, mechanical monotony of his daily routine. Coming home changed all that, and the change made him anxious and slightly nervous. Yet with the nurse here, with her doing the predictable things, he felt more at ease than he had since his arrival.

"Do you want to stay here in bed for a while, or would you rather get up and sit somewhere else?" she asked when she was through with him.

Justin, who had been messing around over in the kitchen, came toward them. "Excuse me," he interrupted politely, addressing the nurse. "Would you care to stay for dinner?" He glanced at Brian. "I'm fixing chicken and rice casserole... " he explained.

And probably making a fucking mess. . . Brian gave him a sardonic smile. "How nice," he said facetiously.

Michael joined them, hanging just behind Justin. "Ben went grocery shopping for us. He got all kinds of shit. You didn't have any food in the place."

Brian merely glanced from one to the other of them, wondering when the hell they were all going to clear out and leave him in peace and solitude. Then it struck him, like a fist in the middle of his stomach. They weren't going to. They--or someone--was going to be there every minute of every fucking day.

He had known that, of course, had been apprized of the situation, but it suddenly struck home. He was a person who was used to being alone, living alone, content with his privacy. He needed his periods of isolation, his time apart from the maddening crowd. There had even been down time in the hospital when he was by himself. But now... He swallowed convulsively, not quite able to comprehend it. In this fucking tiny little apartment, which he had always maintained was not big enough for two, how was he supposed to cohabit with a passel of do-gooders?

Betsy the nurse was responding to the invitation. "Thank you, Justin, that's kind of you, but I have to be getting on to my next patient. Sounds good, though, doesn't it, Brian?"

He managed a dutiful smile. "Sure does. And be sure to thank Ben for me, Mikey." Curiously, he felt the pinch of tears starting behind his eyes. Everyone was being so fucking nice and he was an unappreciative asshole. Well, some things never change. . .

It still stuck in his craw that he needed them, that he couldn't be independent, at least not for now, but he had to suck up and face it and make the best of it. It was his life at present, whether or not he liked it, and he had to focus his energy and attention on changing it, making it better. He had to work like a fucking dog to resume his former glory. He had remade himself once before, and he could do it again. He was, after all, Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake, and he could accomplish anything he set his mind to, battered or not.

But this Thanksgiving was different. It was all about Brian. The sight of Brian looking up at Justin, a shit-eating grin tugging at his lips. The weight of his hand resting on Justin's arm for support. The dry warmth of his skin against Justin's as they lay beside each other in bed, just for the pleasure of touching and nothing else. The clean smell of soap and shampoo as he emerged from the shower, his fine brown hair still dripping wet and plastered to his forehead. Brian. Alive. Back at home with Justin.

This was Justin's first Thanksgiving to heed the emotion the holiday was named for, and feel his own share of gratitude. For Brian.

It hadn't even been a week since Brian's release from the Rehab Center, barely enough time for setting up routines. He was far from any semblance of independence, and the reason his doctors signed off on his early release, he suspected, had less to do with his powers of persuasion and more with the plan his "family" prepared for his care. And a master-plan it was. It revolved around full nursing aid for the first couple of weeks, and generous contributions of time and care by Michael, Justin, Lindsay, and all the others within the circle of their strange, close-knit alternative family. When he wasn't too exhausted, confused, in pain, or just plain overwhelmed, Brian was gracious enough to recognize it and be thankful for what he had. Somewhere in his mind there was also the unarticulated certainty that, were it not for his Liberty Avenue Gang, he would have to go to a nursing home--his own blood, he knew, would not take on his care. Sometimes he felt like he was raised by wolves--with due apologies to the canis lupus species everywhere.

He was still weak as a kitten, as much from the pneumonia as from the stroke, and ran out of breath and energy with the slightest exertion. He could stand up with some help to stabilize him, but couldn't navigate well or go the distance--any distance--under his own steam, binding him to the wheelchair, which he despised. There was still no measurable return in his right hand and arm, perhaps the most debilitating of his 'deficits,' requiring him at times to shelter the useless arm in a sling to protect it from further injury. At least, as his doctors reassured him repeatedly, he'd suffered no lasting mental deficit, although when tired or surrounded by too much talk and commotion, he tended to get confused. But on this first Thanksgiving of the rest of his life, Brian Kinney, flying in the face of all predictions, was glad to be alive, and allowed himself the luxury of hope. He was actually looking forward to the day--not, he thought, that he would ever admit it to a living soul.

It took Brian forever to get ready, but it was worth it for the heady sense of accomplishment that followed. Then again, he thought with self-deprecating sarcasm, it raises me to the developmental level of a four-year old. I can dress myself--woohoo! Taking a last look in the mirror, he recalled the many times when, none too modestly, he'd appraise the view and compliment his reflection with an "I'd fuck you." He smirked, saluted his mirror image. He lost quite a bit of weight, his hair was longer and he was too pale, but otherwise he still looked good--except for the gimp-mobile, the slinged arm, the crutch attached to the chair. With a sigh he turned from the mirror.

"Mikey, Justin! C'mon and move your cute little buns. If I sit much longer in this fucking chair, I'll turn into a pumpkin and never get to meet the handsome prince."

"Stop yelling already, we hear you!" Michael walked up to him. "Besides, you got your fairytale all backward. And you sure wouldn't make a very convincing Cinderella."

"No, he's more the handsome prince type," Justin chimed in, sauntering to stand behind Brian and kissing the tip of his ear. "Ready to roll, your Royal Highness?"

They were all invited to Lindsay and Mel's for the holiday. Their original 'motley crew' group though, Brian mused, had begun to resemble a suburban bridge club of mundane doubles. The Munchers were into their happy play-family bliss; Ted and Emmett still walked around starry-eyed enough that Brian kept on expecting them to bump into the furniture; Michael and Ben played 'the perfect gay couple' to rave reviews on the daily soap opera of their own production; and even Debbie, pairing up with copper Horvath, had taken to new levels the 'support your local police' edict. Vic, sadly, was still single and banned to the periphery of gaydom by his age and AIDS, and Jenn . . . well, Brian usually didn't speculate about the sex life of heteros if he could help it. He stopped his ruminations about the paired bliss of his friends short of touching on one last obvious pair: Justin and himself. He hadn't found the courage to face his own feeling about it yet, to trust his heart and expose his soul again.

By the time Michael parked the Jeep in front of the Munchers' house, an image of middle-class Rockwellian utopia with a 21^st century twist, Brian was a tangled knot of nerves. Excitement and anxiety were warring inside him, singling out his stomach as their battlefield of choice. As Justin helped him transfer from car seat to chair, he felt oddly naked, vulnerable, and utterly non-presentable to public scrutiny. Definitely a not-ready-for-prime-time player . . . And, worst of all, he knew that the old Brian, the one who didn't give a fuck about others and their opinions, would kick the ass of this sorry new self. Which, of course, didn't really help matters one bit.

The house seemed to come alive and burst into action as they proceeded up the garden path in the light swirling snow. A veritable stampede approached Brian, towering over his seated figure, concerned faces hovering over him, reaching with what seemed like a legion of hands to grab his chair and lift him up the steps. Weak with a wave of dizziness he closed his eyes for a moment and took a few ragged breaths. Here goes nothing, you sorry son-of-a-bitch, he admonished himself sternly, you can't even turn now and make a run for it. Take it like a man . . . He opened his eyes, smiled one of his signature Kinney smiles, and began to sing off-key to his assembled kin, "He ain't heavy, he's my brother."

His valiant attempt at entertainment broke the tension as they all surrounded him with smiles, hugs and kisses, each touching him in some manner in their turn. Even for the rites of his tactile clan, it almost bordered on physical mugging--as if through the touching they were able to comfort themselves and find reassurance that Brian, indeed, was still among them, one of them. And the clan, united around him, was intact.

They all filed back into the warmth of the house, still hovering over Brian as they chatted, laughed and traded gossip. As they passed the threshold, a small bundle of squealing joy hurled itself in Brian's direction with cries of Da-da, Da-da. Gus had been to the hospital to visit Brian a few times, but this was different, having his father back in his own two-year old's domain. He made a leaping dash for Brian's lap, only to be caught by his mother's restraining arm. "Gently, honey, Daddy is still a little wobbly."

"Booboo? Da-da has a booboo?" The little face, already resembling his father's, was scrunched with concern. He pursed his lips for a kiss then leaned his cheek against Brian's. "All better now?"

"Much better, Sonny-Boy." Brian, suddenly awash with emotion, could barely swallow around the lump in his throat . . . Gus, his son, his own ticking flesh-and-blood time-clock and contribution to the gene pool. He squeezed the little boy into a hug with his good arm then eased him back to the floor.

Mel, taking charge, began to shepherd the group into the living room. "We'll be ready to sit down and eat in about an hour. Until then, why don't you all play nice, make merry and enjoy the fire. Drinks are on the bar."

The whole house was decorated for the season, the fragrance of flowers mingling, competing with the distinct aroma of baking pies and meats. A large wood fire was roaring in the fireplace, spiced with pine-shavings releasing their scent as they burned and crumbled into sparkles in the deep marble-framed hearth.

Looking around the room Michael directed the wheelchair toward the well-worn armchair by the fire. "I think you'll be more comfortable moving over to the chair," he offered. Removing his feet from the footrest, Brian awkwardly rose, pivoted slowly on his left leg and lowered himself into the plush seat. Michael helped lift his legs onto the ottoman as he settled with a sigh and a 'thank you.'

His anxiety ebbing, Brian scanned the surroundings. His friends were all decked out in their holiday finest which, in Debbie's case, meant wearing the colors of the season, all at the same time, on her body and in her hair. Lindsay, for a change, gave up her usual mismatched 60's chic for a long red velvet dress, adding a warm glow to her blond tresses and pale skin. Taking care of their guests, running after Gus, and making return trips to the kitchen, Lindz and Mel were like a pair of magicians, performing in perfect synchrony, as if they were in possession of a secret script that helped them coordinate--better yet, anticipate--each other's moves. Behold--a real, working relationship, Brian acknowledged in a moment of rare generosity toward 'his' lesbians. Those two might even make it and grow old together. He tucked away the thought for later pondering. His eyes traveled on to Justin, busy at the bar getting their drinks. He was wearing charcoal cargo pants and a grey wool sweater, his blond hair long enough to touch the back of his collar. He'd slimmed down during their months of separation, whether from sharing home and hearth with a starving musician or from pining after him, Brian wasn't sure. As he watched the younger man, the blue gaze connected with his, warmed and dilated as it came to focus on him.

Justin walked back to his side. "Hot cider for you," he offered the steaming mug, making sure Brian had it safely gripped in his good hand before letting go. "Bordeaux for me," he took a sip, his lips turning red and glistening from the drink, and leaned over Brian. "Want to taste the wine?" The question was clearly suggestive and their lips locked for a moment, Brian savoring the mingling taste of the wine and full-mouthed kiss. He grabbed Justin by the arm with a quiet "stay," suffusing with warmth the other's entire body. Complying, Justin plopped down on the floor by his chair. At eye-level with each other, he noted the shadow of a wince cross the much-loved face and, ever attuned to Brian's body, he asked sotto voce, "Are you in pain? Is it your arm? " Brian only nodded, wordlessly acquiescing as Justin unfastened the sling, freed his arm and began massaging it with the ease of practice.

"You okay, Brian?" Neither of them had noticed Ted, standing by the fireplace with a drink.

"Never better, Ted . . . Just a little muscle-fatigue, from all that beating off. But then, you should know all about that," Brian gave Ted one of his wicked smirks.

"You asshole, still haven't changed a bit!" Ted retorted. Then, more seriously, he added. "Glad to see you wear the shell bracelet again. Wasn't quite the real 'you' without it."

"There is no real me anymore. It's been discontinued. But . . . thank you." This time, the smile he gave the other was genuine.

"What on Earth are you talking about; what's with the bracelet?" Justin felt left out and puzzled.

They both looked at him, then Brian shook his head. "Don't worry about it--just a bit of our shared history."

The way he phrased it, 'our shared history,' made Ted blush. Who would've thought that Brian Kinney, his role model and fantasy alter ego, would ever lower himself to admit that he shared anything with the likes of Ted Schmidt? Wonders never ceased . . . He recalled the day, more than a month ago, when he'd stopped by the hospital for his daily visit. Brian, still in ICU, had just been removed from the critical list. And as he'd surveyed his friend, cataloging the telltale signs of stroke and pneumonia ravaging his body, he'd noticed something was amiss. Brian had no bracelet on his wrist. After some inquiries, Ted had come to find out that the piece had to be cut off Brian's arm in Emergency, amidst the rush to hook him up to the tools of modern medicine and save his life. But it was a visible symbol of Brian Kinney, part of his identity--with its own, hidden significance for Ted. So, after some search in endless real and virtual stores, he'd found the cowry-shell bracelet--at a North Carolina beach retailer's website, of all places--and ordered several for his friend. Had brought it to the hospital, neatly wrapped and with no card, and left it on Brian's bedside nightstand.

He reached out now, following the trail of Justin's busy fingers, and touched Brian's arm. They were not "touch" friends, as a matter of rule, but today, somehow, he felt the urge to connect with Brian more tangibly. He traced the other's thinned-out arm, reached the wrist, paused for a moment to finger the delicate row of shells, then dropped his hand again. It was forbidden territory, and finished with trespassing, he returned it into Justin's care. Eyes downcast he turned, but couldn't help the stray thought teasing at him--what would he have liked more, to have Brian, or to be like Brian? No matter, he brushed the question aside and began looking for Emmett, he would never have the chance to find out either way.

Brian and Justin were quiet for a moment. Then Justin raised the other's inert hand to his lips and kissed it, fondling the slightly bent fingers. "Love you, you know," he whispered into the warm palm, then nodded toward the rest of the guests, "and I'm not alone in it. They love you too."

"For what? For being the meanest, most acerbic, inconsiderate and vain fag in Pittsburgh? Winner of the SOB of the year award?" Brian was on a roll, recounting what he viewed as his sins. "Love me for my slogan--'no boyfriends, no relationships, no commitment'?"

"A-ha. Are you done? Remember a long time ago I told you I was onto you? Well, so are these other folks. So why don't you just cut the shit, retire the tough-guy mask, and ease yourself into the supporting arms of your ever-loving family." To demonstrate, Justin rose to his knees and gave Brian a full-body hug.

When no smartass answer came from Brian, Justin pushed back to look at his face. The huge hazel eyes were liquid with tears. "It's okay, Bri, it's okay. Remember how your therapist said emotions are close to the surface during recovery from a stroke? Just let it go. You're among friends here."

Brian only nodded, fighting the tears, and leaned back on Justin's shoulder. Friends indeed.

Mellowed by the crackling fire and the hot cider, exhausted by his own emotions, Brian dozed off. He woke with a start to Debbie gently shaking his shoulder. "C'mon, honey, time to carve the turkey. Think you can make it to the dining room?"

"With some help," Brian nodded.

"I'll help him," Justin pushed his way next to Debbie, but she moved him aside with an unceremonious nudge. "You'll just have to learn to share Brian with the rest of us once in a while. Got it? Besides, don't you think you can trust me with him?"

"As a matter of fact . . . " Justin was cut short by the ominous look on Debbie's face. Thinking better of it, he retrieved Brian's crutch, handed it to him, and surrendered his position to his surrogate mother.

"How about a double guard?" Jenn walked up to Brian's other side, acknowledging him and Debbie with a smile. The two women flanked him as they slowly made their way to the dining area.

Lindsay outdid herself in the best Martha Stewart tradition. The room was aglow with light, vibrant with the colors of Autumn, awash with the smells of the feast. In the background, the rich sounds of orchestral music swelled as a choir climbed toward the triumphant heights of Beethoven's Ninth, calling all souls to join--on this night of thanks--their 'ode to joy.'

They all settled around the festive table, ready for that most basic of social rituals--a shared meal. Unfailingly thoughtful, Lindsay designated a comfortable armchair for Brian, cushioned with extra pillows to make his sitting through the long ordeal as comfortable as possible. Without a word, Michael and Justin took the two seats by his side.

Dinner was a traditional affair rooted in remembered textures and tastes from grandma's table of Thanksgivings past--it was not the time to experiment with Nouvelle cuisine. Brian, not much of an eater even at the best of times, had little appetite and even less fond memories of holidays around the Kinney hearth. Having only his left hand made eating slow and awkward, leaving him, he felt, with table manners on a par with his two-year old son. He could sense the anxiety emanating from Justin, seated to his right and waging a silent battle between the urge to help him and the need to respect his meager attempts at independence. With his right hand still useless, he allowed his closest circle of friends to assist him at home, but now he felt too exposed and self-conscious with a dozen pairs of eyes straying surreptitiously in his direction, following his every move. Chagrined, he realized he was still vain enough to care about the tatters of his image and not allow his young lover to cut up his food and hand-feed him. At least not with turkey meat, he added the thought wickedly, going back for a moment to memories of their versatile sexual cuisine. Justin, of course, subtle and resourceful as ever, had offered him a turkey leg--easy to hold in one hand and in no need of cutting --but Brian opted just to pick at some of the trimmings and save what little room he had for dessert. He sighed, keenly aware of the knot in the pit of his stomach - excited to be released, at times he still missed the institutional security and predictability of the rehab ward, the comfort of being just one of the crips.

Leaning back against the cushions, he allowed the ebb and flow of conversation around the table to gently lap at his consciousness without becoming fully engaged in it. He was still easily confused by too much commotion, and had a hard time following the multiple threads. Withdrawn into himself, detached from his surroundings, still he felt nourished by the positive energy generated by the others. Eight weeks . . . he thought back on the past eight weeks, or at least the portions he remembered, and felt scared and vulnerable and fortunate, all at the same time; awash with an onslaught of emotions he hadn't the energy to control or fight. He was scared for almost dying, for now he'd finally and fully comprehended the Valse Triste he'd danced with death; vulnerable for all the losses, some most likely permanent, that marred his present life and would, no doubt, curtail his future. And yet, with all that, he felt fortunate too - for against all odds he was still here, alive and with a functioning mind, surrounded by friends who meant more to him than family.

"So, honey . . . Brian, honey . . . Brian?" Emmett's voice called him back from his ruminations. "How was your first week home? Has Justin fully moved back with you yet?"

There was a moment's silence around the table; they could always count on their favorite queen to come up with a show-stopper.

"Can't really speak for Justin," Brian's smile was tight as he finally answered, "but I don't believe he's packing just yet. Too much baggage." Ignoring the quick shadow that crossed Justin's face, the puzzled look on Emmett's, he turned to Michael. "I'm tired. Can we . . ?"

Michael and Lindsay came to their feet together. Between them, they helped Brian up and to the living room sofa and tucked him in with a light blanket. Within minutes he dozed off. Justin, silent and unmoving, remained at the table, his white-knuckled hands grabbing the sides of his chair.

He drifted up toward consciousness in a slow, painful process, arms heavy as they whacked away at imaginary vines embracing him, tree limbs clawing his face, roots tripping his stumbling feet. Clearing the cobwebs from his mind Brian surfaced to greet the pain--it was real, ripping at his entire right side. Damned spasms. Damned body that won't oblige him. Damned hassle that his life has become. Too proud to call out, he lay under the blanket, quietly riding out the spasms whipping through his muscles. This time they were mercifully short. Still, by the time they subsided, his body was drenched in cold sweat and his bloodless lips carried the mark of his teeth.

His eyes were closed--it was something familiar in the footsteps nearing him that he recognized, the rustling of fabric, the scent that called back pre-verbal childhood memories. His mother. He opened his eyes to find Joanie standing before him, her face etched with worry, her dark eyes intently scrutinizing him.

"How're you doing, Brian?" She asked with a stiffness he was well-accustomed to. "Lindsay called and invited me over for coffee and pie . . . and a chance to see you," she continued in way of explanation. Lamely, she added, "I baked your favorite chocolate cake--remembered you were never one for apple pie."

He almost blurted out an unkind retort, one that would have come to him naturally - a verbal shield he'd developed in childhood, perfected over the years, wore to protect the inner child still vulnerable, still and forever seeking approval and love in vain. But then he saw something in his mother's eyes--a flicker, a softening--and he refrained. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he only said, "Can't wait to taste your cake. How about you bringing me a slice?"

Aware of the kindness in what he didn't say, she reached with a tentative hand to touch his shoulder. It was not a kiss or a hug--in his family it never was--still, the unacquainted contact was like a nimbus of heat radiating through the rest of his body. It suddenly struck him how ironically incomprehensible it was for two people like his parents to raise a son as tactile as him - always touching, kissing, hugging. And that wasn't even counting all the sucking and fucking, cornerstones of his gay life philosophy.

Joanie returned with the cake and Gus in tow. The toddler climbed on the sofa and settled in Brian's lap, fidgeting and full of giggles. She sat next to the two of them and held the dessert plate while Brian alternated spooning the gooey cake into his own mouth and his son's. Gus must have been following family tradition, for he too loved his grandma's cake, smearing the rich creamy filling all over his lips and chubby cheeks. Grabbing onto Brian's shoulders he stood and kissed him with sweet, wet, chocolaty kisses, and in a perfect imitation of his father leaned his forehead against Brian's, whispering, "Love Dada. Stay."

Alone in the bathroom and unobserved with his pain, Justin leaned against the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He felt raw inside, unshed tears burning his eyelids. He tried to pretend Brian's words were innocuous, their meaning unintended. But he knew damn well they weren't.

He's been a sorry fool, marching in a fool's parade, eyes closed and head firmly planted in his own ass. Marching along blindly, pretending that all was well between them, believing his full reinstatement as the love of Brian Kinney's life was just around the next bend. How much more of a fucking, stupid, optimistic fool could he be? Brian hasn't more than tolerated him hanging around--his anger, resentment and mistrust still boiling under the surface, breaking through once in a while like some noxious, toxic eruption scorching both of them.

He caught his ragged breath, swallowing hard to hold back a sob, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw. The young, distraught face was naked, indulgent in its own sorrow and self pity. He had to stop. Brian was still fragile and recovering, subject to mood swings and in need of support. Justin had already made his choice--the rest was really simple. He would stand by Brian, do what he can, and hope that with time Brian, too, will make a choice--the right choice for the two of them.

Emmet came up behind Ted, tickled his sides and whispered loud enough for all to hear, "Ready to go home, Porn King, and enact some of your better productions? Or would you rather try Babylon? I hear they designated tonight 'Stuff the Turkey Night'." Ted smiled back at him, shaking his head. "Hell no, I'm going home to sleep. You're forgetting my advanced age." Pushing him toward the door, Emmett intoned at his sweetest, "In that case, dear, let me put you to bed and tuck you in."

Michael was helping Brian into his wheelchair when Ben walked up, zipping his jacket. "Good night, Michael, see you tomorrow," he kissed the shorter man, the longing plain on his face. Michael kissed him back, clearly torn.

Aware of the subtext, Brian pulled on his friend's sleeve. "Mikey, go home with Buddha-boy and help him meditate. C'mon, can't I have a moment's privacy from you?"

Still hesitating, Michael turned back to Brian, helping him into his coat. "Are you sure you're gonna be okay?"

"Justin and I will be just fine. Now give me a goodnight kiss and get the hell out of here."

The kiss was long and passionate enough to raise even Ben's stoic eyebrows. But only Brian heard Michael's whispered words, "You're my reason for giving thanks. Sleep well, love."

Brian looked up at Justin, a silent presence by his side, pale face still with a resolve he couldn't read. Lifting his right hand with his left, Brian touched his limp fingers to the younger man's arm. "Ready to roll? Let's go home."

"It was good."

"We have good friends."

"It's family. Only better."

"Hope Brian knows it too."

"He does."

"And not a minute too soon. Our past notwithstanding, I'm glad the sonofabitch made it."

"Me too. Happy Thanksgiving, Love."

Content and exhausted, they slid into an embrace eased by eight years of practice, and fell asleep before the fireplace.

"Why," Brian berated himself, why did he have to be such an utterly thoughtless shit? Striking out blindly at Justin, airing dirty laundry--to the likes of Emmett-the-gossip-mill, and in front of the rest of the clan.

He kept his silence as he was wheeled into the loft, his body pliant under the equally silent ministrations of Justin's hands as the younger man helped him change clothes and saw him through the lengthy process of his nightly ablutions. Finally finished, Justin moved him down the ramp, aligned his chair with the hospital bed and asked, "Ready?" But his eyes remained downcast as he locked his arms under the other's.

Brian only nodded, still unwilling to break his silence, and watched passively as Justin shifted him from chair to bed, lifted his legs, and pulled the covers over him. "I'll be back with your medication. Anything else?" The clear blue eyes finally made contact, but whatever emotion hid in their depths remained safely locked away behind a veil of polite disinterest.

Returning, Justin handed the pills and a glass of milk to Brian, watching him swallow. He took the glass, mouthed a quiet "Goodnight," and turned off the light.

Brian's voice found him in the sudden darkness. "I shouldn't have said what I did. It was uncalled for."

"It was the truth." The statement was plain, the words devoid of any inflection. Still, Justin stepped back to the bed, and his touch was tender as he again adjusted the blanket around Brian's still form. "Go to sleep now, you had a long day."

Eyes closed, Brian recalled his own word . . . baggage. There was altogether too much baggage between them. Too much history. Too little honesty. A sexual attraction so fiery its flames blinded them to truths never spoken. A combustive reaction between youth--Justin's; and inability to grow up--his. Emotions, a rose by any other name, that were never fully defined or articulated, and were sure as hell never synchronous between them. And, finally, the deep wound of betrayal, a pain he hadn't fully claimed yet much less managed to move beyond.

He was tired. Exhausted to the bone, too weary to think or feel. Things had to be simple; he was too broken to deal with complexities. The economy of his reality required all his energies for healing. The complicated 'baggage' that was Justin would just have to wait.

The sound of the door sliding stirred Justin with a jolt. He was still not used to wake up in Brian's bed, he was even less used to waking in that bed without Brian at his side. His first instinct, as always, was to reach out and seek the warmth of the other's body--only to bump into the new, hard-to-assimilate reality. He was alone in Brian's bed, Brian slept alone in a hospital bed, and mornings were a bitch.

"Happy Thanksgiving, boys! Rise and shine!" The cheerful voice of Betsy Cale, the morning nurse, echoed in the loft as she marched over briskly to her patient's side and began raising the head of his bed. She was a large, squarely built woman with short-cropped hair and an imperturbable disposition. She needed it, too, trying to deal with the many moods of Master Kinney, all variations to the left of rude, sarcastic or morose.

Justin pulled his legs under him and remained seated on the bed, invisible for a few more moments in the privacy of the dimly-lit sleep alcove. He let the sounds--her high-pitched running commentary, punctuated by Brian's grunted half-answers--wash over him as his mind drifted.

Brian had hurt his feelings the night before at Lindsey's, but that was old news. It didn't change anything--couldn't. Things had changed between them long before that, when the game they'd been playing mutated from a quest for manifestations of love--at best a flimsy thing he thought with sudden bitterness--to a demand for trust, a solid and necessary anchor in any relationship. And Justin realized the full irony in the changing rules and the heightened stakes--he'd needed words from Brian, romantic, spoken words to attest his love. Brian now needed time to rebuild a trust that could never be scaffolded and secured with words, only with deeds . . .

The commotion around him brought him back from his ruminations--Betsy trying to get her ward into his wheelchair, Brian hurling obscenities at her in a battle of wills. Of course, superior strength--hers--carried the day and in no time she was pushing him to the bathroom for a shower. Justin got off the bed and out of their way, padding over to the kitchen to start the coffee.

The sound of running water in the bathroom ceased, and from the corner of his eyes he saw Betsy emerge, her clothes soaked and her person worse for the wear, wheeling a much-subdued Brian in front of her. He was flushed and looked exhausted from the shower, his body wrapped in an oversized terry robe, dark wet curls plastered to his forehead. The predictability of his own reaction made Justin stifle a smile; as always, seeing Brian stirred something within him, a feeling deeper and more profound than sex or desire.

Still unsure, Justin kept to himself as the nurse helped Brian over to the leather recliner, lined up her tools of the trade, and began massaging his limbs. He couldn't keep away though any longer, Brian looked too delectable. "Want any help?" He addressed Betsy with his best choir-boy smile. It worked without fail.

"Sure, honey. I think you've seen it enough to know how. Go with the direction of the muscle and keep your strokes deep and long. Just make sure not to press too hard and bruise." She handed him the vial and as he applied the rich, aromatic cream to both hands, his gaze sought out Brian's. The lazy, half-closed eyelids lifted to reveal the large hazel orbs, and Brian nodded imperceptibly, adding, "Go ahead." As Justin's hands, starved for contact, descended on Brian's body, savoring the feel of the other, the warmth . . . the consent, the thought flittered through his mind, guess nobody is ready to pack just yet . . . but I'm going to hang around for a while longer.

The late-November night descended early, the dusky edge of sky visible from their windows bleeding into indigo black. Justin ambled around the loft turning on the lights and straightening some of the day's mess along the way. He'd sent Chuck, the second-shift nurse, home early to be with his family, and began raiding the refrigerator to prepare their dinner. He volunteered to stay the entire Thanksgiving weekend; he had no desire to go home to his mother's--Brian was all the family he needed.

Warming the leftovers Lindsay insisted to pack for them, he busied himself to set the plates, pour the wine, and after some hesitation, retrieve a large beeswax candle to serve as the centerpiece for the small table.

Brian was tired to the bone from the day's exercise routines and sat quiet and placid in his chair, mounting none of the customary objections as Justin pushed him to the table.

"Would you like to light the candle?" Striking the match, Justin offered it to him. With a slightly unstable hand Brian touched match to wick, and watched with constricted pupils as the fire shot up in a hungry flame, carrying the faint scent of smoke and honey to his nostrils.

Surveying the feast, a smaller version of their Thanksgiving meal, Brian began to play with the food on his plate. Even with the special wrist brace to aid his paralyzed hand, he was struggling with the fork and, finally, pushed his plate away with a disgusted grunt.

Jarred by the sound of china hitting crystal, Justin placed a calming hand on Brian's. "May I?" and proceeded to cut the turkey on the other's plate to manageable pieces.

Too exhausted and hungry, Brian didn't argue. As he continued with the meal, he lifted his gaze to his dinner partner. The candlelight enveloped the young face, a puzzle of smooth, rounded angles, adding luminescence to the almost-transparent skin and turning the long strands of hair to molten gold. Tendrils of the old attraction stirred in him as he thought, with absent satisfaction, that he must be recovering . . . he was just as horny and fuck-ready as ever. What the hell was it about Justin, he pondered. He was certainly against type in the overcrowded menagerie of 'Brian's conquests' - he usually preferred tall, dark, muscular types closer to his own age. He always enjoyed topping the tough ones, winning mano a mano in some unarticulated contest he'd been competing in all his life. And then he'd met a slight blond twink with a sharp mind and hungry eyes, a smoldering ember igniting into burning faggot just for him . . . They'd both been scorched, almost instantaneously, and then he, in his infinite and mature wisdom, had spent the next two years in various phases of denial. Until they landed in the here and now, whatever the fuck that here and now was . . .

Justin felt the other's eyes on him and blushed under the intense scrutiny. "Are you okay?"

"No, but I could be," Brian's voice was molasses as he reached out, "come closer."

Reality melted away around them and Justin felt his body move, as if in a trance, guided by the rudder of Brian's open-palmed hand. Fingers entwined, Brian pulled the younger man onto his lap. "N...no, no, don't," Justin tried to resist, afraid to put his weight on the other's thinned-out frame, but Brian only laughed.

"C'mon, my leg is numb, not broken." His left arm encircled the slim shoulders, pulled in the blond and their foreheads touched for a moment's silent confirmation. Then their lips met, first tentative, gentle and probing, tasting each other's fullness, slowly warming into passion as their tongues touched to savor the other's still-familiar taste. They came up for air and Brian, dizzy, closed his eyes for a moment only to reach again for the other's moist, inviting and now clearly hungry mouth. Justin squirmed, angling to raise his arms around Brian's shoulders, hands caressing the warm nape of his neck. Their bodies molded into one as if to frame and support the point of living contact binding them--their mouths. Lips locked, they continued kissing, biting, sucking and exploring, more out of desperate need to fill a void of longing than as foreplay to a sexual interlude.

They broke apart, skin flushed and lips swollen, both somewhat shaken by the intensity of the moment. Brian's fingers played in Justin's hair, his voice a low baritone breathing into his ear "Baby" --a term of endearment private and guarded between them Justin had last heard months ago, a lifetime away. He turned, planted a kiss in the palm stroking him and whispered into it, "Bri," eyes moist with the sheen of tears. He wasn't about to comment on it, but this was the first time since their reunion that he was given the license to kiss Brian, really kiss him, like they used to--like Michael still did. He did not want to presume, but he fervently hoped the privilege was not going to be revoked.

Brian shifted in the chair with a grimace of pain and, suddenly aware of being remiss in his duties, Justin jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry--you've been sitting in one place for too long. You must be all cramped and stiff." One of their marching orders upon release from the hospital was to keep Brian moving, make him change positions, stand or walk as much as possible.

Threading Brian's arms around his neck, Justin raised him to a standing position. "Let's go, Tiger."

"Yes, Nurse 'Hot Lips' Houlihan," Brian teased and stuck out his tongue, fully enjoying the becoming shade of crimson suffusing Justin's face. He was finally out of the chair and began the slow and painful process of walking to the den, Justin's arm around his waist making him feel warm and safe. His breathing was labored and his arm leaning on the crutch shook with weakness by the time he reached the window. Justin stabilized him with both hands on the small of his back, waited while Brian found his balance, then stepped away to retrieve their wine glasses from the table.

Looking outside, Brian's eyes surveyed the night view below. The city was awash with lights to celebrate the season, but the streets were emptied of people by the early cold spell of winter. He felt strangely alone and isolated in his tower, removed from the daily bustle of life, and wondered if he would ever be a part of it again. But tonight he felt hopeful. And, after all, he wasn't alone--Justin was with him.

Wanting to confirm the other's presence he half turned, eyes homing in on the familiar figure, when he lost his balance. He tried to lean on the window sill for support, felt his right hand miss and scrape against the hard surface of the wall, and his leg began to buckle under him. Justin, alerted by the sound, lunged toward him and grabbed for his waist. He was too late to prevent the fall, but managed to insert his body between Brian and the hard floor as they came crashing down in a heap of arms and legs.

There was a moment's utter silence as Justin held his breath, stricken and unmoving, with Brian's body sprawled over his. His face was ashen with fear.

The sound of laughter broke the frozen tableau as Brian struggled to roll off him and began to guffaw uncontrollably. Alarmed, Justin reached for him, hands flying over his body and searching for signs of physical damage, all the while wondering if Brian'd lost his mind. The gales of laughter subsided into intermittent chuckles, and when Justin found no immediate and visible evidence of breaks, sprains or bruises, he relaxed enough to ask, "What the fuck is so funny?"

"We are," Brian answered, lying flat on his back. "Look at us." Reaching for Justin's shoulder, he pulled himself to a sitting position. "Let's just make damn sure we don't tell Michael. If he finds out, he'll move in to watch me 24/7 . . ."

" . . . and boot my ass out of here for failing as your loyal guardian," Justin finished the sentence, for once in full concordance with Brian. This time they both started giggling in a high-pitched giggle until tears ran down their faces.

"You sound like a silly school girl," Justin grinned and hugged Brian from the back. "Oh yeah?" Came the high-browed reply. "Bite me."

Taking the dare literally, Justin leaned over and sank his teeth into the soft spot between Brian's shoulder and neck. "Ouch," Brian yelped. "Little bloodsucker--how'bout some wine instead?"

Reaching for the glass on the side table, Justin raised it and held it to Brian's mouth, watching as the full, perfectly shaped lips opened and the pointed tongue dipped into the amber colored liquid. Brian proceeded to lick his lips, then leaned closer to Justin and offered again, in a low growl, "Bite me." Justin did.

Thorough and committed as ever, they found out that one glass of wine can take an amazingly long time to finish if it involves licking and kissing the wine off each other's mouths, but neither complained.

Justin by then was cross-eyed with sensual overload, fully aroused, and wondering if, at 19, one could cum from kissing alone. He closed his eyes and leaned back with a sated grin, thinking he would just have to put into use some of the skills he learned from the master himself and control his own body--though probably willing, Brian was definitely not ready and able yet. With a sigh he rose to his knees, pushing the x-rated thoughts out of his mind.

"We need to get up, before our asses freeze to the bare floor." He turned serious as he added, "Sorry about letting you fall. I should've... "

"It's not your fault," Brian cut him off. "Besides, all these weeks at rehab taught me to get used to falling, just like a fucking toddler. Except less gracefully. Wanna see my bruises? Which reminds me," and his eyes took in the younger man's form, "did I hurt you when I landed on you earlier?"

It took some time and maneuvering before Brian was off the floor and comfortably ensconced on the sofa, TV on and remote in hand. Justin was about to head to the kitchen when Brian's hand on his arm stopped him. "Come, stay with me a while longer." He guided Justin to sit on the rug in front of him and began to tug at his shirt. Confused, Justin complied and pulled off his heavy sweatshirt, shivering as the cold air touched his exposed skin.

The large, warm hand first rested on the nape of his neck, rubbing the muscles in slow, circular motions, kneading the tight knots of stress until the tension eased. Long fingers snuck up his neck to the base of his skull, parting, playing with the soft strands of hair, stroking his scalp. The strong hand slid back down, paused to brush each vertebrae along the way, and moved over to massage the tired, stiff shoulders. "You work too hard, Baby," Brian murmured into his ear.

Justin wanted to cry. Or laugh. Turn around and hug Brian. Hold him forever. Instead, he only said, "It's not work."