"Aha." A non-committal vocal from Lindsay.

"And you know what the penalty is for such a heinous act. Hard time. Penitentiary. Female chain gang."

"A bunch of gun-packing Ma Barker babes? Could be hot." Lindsay chuckled and patted his shoulder as she steered the wheelchair down the aisle. "Besides, once you get to the witness stand and show the judge what a total pain in the ass you are, I'll get off scotch free. Better yet, I'll get a civic service award for ridding the community of big-mouthed, ungrateful, opinionated, bitchy Scrooges like you."

Brian was stunned into momentary silence, then began to laugh against his better judgment. "You've been around Melanie for too long--becoming as much of a cunt as she is."

"Better me than you, dear," she commented wryly and kissed the top of his head, to bring the bickering session to an end.

They were inside Saks Fifth Avenue, heading toward the department identified with prominently bold letters as 'MEN'S CASUAL WEAR.' Their being there on a snowy Saturday was, actually, all Brian's doing, not Lindsay's.

She'd arrived at the loft earlier that afternoon to find Chuck, the home care nurse, at the end of his wits, trying to deal with one of Brian's famous Irish tantrums. His high maintenance ward was systematically decimating his wardrobe, pulling out item after item from the bedroom closet, flinging it onto the growing pile of garments on the floor, and cussing up a storm along the way. It took Lindsay a series of questions to figure out Brian's problem, and a lot of newly acquired maternal restraint not to throttle him in the process.

Brian's haute couture wardrobe, collected with great care and at great expense, was geared toward the high profile business demands of an image-conscious ad executive. It was supplemented with clothing to suite his extracurricular activities as night prowler and stud extraordinaire. He was neither of those any more--at least not right now--and, according to his colorfully expressed complaint, he had 'nothing-the-fuck to put on his fucking goddamn body.'

That's why Lindsay, with Chuck's willing cooperation, had packed up Brian, drove him downtown and, giving instructions to Chuck to retrieve them in a couple of hours, was now embarking on a shopping adventure in Saks. And listening all the while to Brian's tirade.

But she also understood. Having back his signature temper, showing renewed interest in his appearance, were good signs, signs of recovery. But it also meant that Brian began to acknowledge, if not necessarily able to deal with, his changed life and reality. Underneath the bluster and fits of temper, he was scared. The two foundations of his adult identity--his professional success and sexual prowess--were threatened by his illness; for the first time since the stroke, Brian began to fear losing himself. And Lindsay was scared for him.

High scale, expensive, and known for service, Saks was not crowded even on this Thanksgiving weekend, a fact that helped Brian to feel a little less self-conscious. As they began to look around, they were approached by a young male sales representative--straight, Brian concluded, assuming his gaydar was still in working order. Directing his best smile at Lindsay, the assistant inquired, "Are you looking for anything in particular, Ma'am? Is it for your husband," and he nodded toward Brian, "or somebody else?"

"For my husband," Lindsay replied sweetly. "Something casual but nice--cashmere, cords?"

"This way, Ma'am," he started down one of the isles, waiting for her and Brian to follow. "What size does he wear?"

"I don't know, but as you may have noticed, he's actually right here. Why don't we ask him?" She was clearly offended by the assistant's treatment of Brian as if he were feeble-minded or invisible.

Angry, embarrassed, but having no stomach for a scene at the moment, Brian curtly answered. "Tops--large; bottoms--medium; both extra long. But I lost a lot of weight lately, so my size might've changed."

Saks' finest directed them to the proper section and withdrew, while Lindsay launched into her mission of 'dressing Brian.' There were some ground rules. She was to defer to his style and color preferences, but rely on her own common sense and select items that were easy to put on and comfortable to wear. He made it very clear he would not submit to the indignity of trying on any items in the store, so size and fit were a gamble to be remedied, if wrong, by returns the next day. But all in all, after an hour's intense negotiations and jockeying with her difficult partner, Lindsay was pleased with the results. They netted two cashmere turtlenecks, one black, one deep red, a loose and warm grey Polo sweatsuit, two pairs of cargo pants, and assorted accessories. Exhausted by the whole affair, Brian still couldn't help but observe that his selections regressed from his sophisticated best toward the collegiate. He could only hope, as he acerbically pointed out to Lindsay, that he won't wake up one day looking like Justin or, worse yet, Michael, in all their casual splendor.

They still had some time to kill before being picked up, and headed for Saks' top floor café for a talk over cappuccino.

A smiling waitress placed the two steaming drinks in front of them--Brian's a double generously topped with whipped cream, Lindsay's a skinny single. Her hips didn't need the cream, and, taking care of two toddlers meant she also didn't need the uppers extra caffeine would deliver. Slowly sipping their still too-hot drinks, they sat for a while in companionable silence, like an old married couple reading each other's minds without the benefit of words. Lindsay placed a hand on Brian's resting on the table, her gaze examining his relaxed form. Illness and a long hospital stay had brought back a leaner, younger look to his face, still as strikingly handsome as ever but somehow more open and vulnerable. She also preferred his longer 'do, with chestnut bangs falling over his eyes and the hair in the back touching his collar--obviously, he hadn't the time or need to worry about a neat business-cut. His eyes were huge, and in their unguarded depth she thought she saw a shadow left behind by his recent ordeal. Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of compassion for him, an affinity of blood they forever shared through Gus, she rose to cup his face between her hands and kissed him on the lips.

He gulped, and trying to make light of his embarrassment, cocked his head, "Mrs. Marcus, what will all your lesbian sisters say if you'll be caught kissing a guy in public? Have you no moral qualms, no shame?"

"I follow President Clinton's edict, 'don't ask, don't tell'," she responded with mock serenity.

"Yup, but in case you haven't heard, that fella from Texas was selected President by the Supreme Court now, and all of us queer folk better look out who we kiss in public . . ."

They both grew quiet, politics having a chilling effect on their appetite for humor. Then, without any preamble, Brian asked, "Lindz, you think I'll lose my job? Lose my edge in advertising?"

Taken aback by his frontal approach, suddenly aware of his naked anxiety, it took her a few moments to gather her thoughts. "I don't really know, Bri, but I honestly don't think so. You're the same person you were three, six months ago. Perhaps even deeper, for all you've gone through. Your mental faculties are intact, your skill and gifts--the same. The rest will come back . . . you'll see."

"Maybe. And maybe I won't be given the chance, or the time, to come back."

"I have every confidence in you, so does your son. And in any case, we'll all still be there for you." She swallowed hard. "By the way, speaking of Gus, he sent you a present." Digging into her feed-bag size leather purse she pulled out an item wrapped in silver paper and handed it to him.

With a quizzical look he took it and fumbled to peel it open. Neatly folded in the sheets of tissue was an oversized version of the same mittens Gus had worn all last winter. It was clear that Lindsay, the Mad Knitter herself, made it for him patterned after his son's, although she spared him the embarrassment of knitting Barney's smiling purple face on the top of each mitten.

Lindsay grinned and tried to imitate Gus's inflection, "He thought his Dada might need it when he comes for a snowball fight with him this winter." She lifted his right hand and slipped on the mitten, embracing his limp fingers. "See, there, you look just like a larger version of our Rugrat."

"A much larger version..." he joked and slightly squeezed her fingers.

Their eyes met, both noticing, acknowledging the significance of that squeeze. Hope. They smiled at each other. "Let's get rolling, Dad. Your ride is waiting and you have some practicing to do in the snow."

It wasn't as if he were abandoning his education--he would never do that, it was too important to him. And lots of students took off a semester, or even a year, to travel or simply take a break from academics and to learn from life, especially in the arts. He had Rage to think about, too--he and Michael would have more time to devote to the comic, which was really starting to take off in popularity. But most of all, he could spend more time with Brian, dedicate himself to helping him get ahead with his recovery. That goal had to be his primary concern right now.

When he finally arrived, he found Brian in a fairly good mood for a change. He even agreed to go over to the little park for a while. Although cold, it was a crisp, clear day and the fresh air would do him a world of good--they tried to get him outside as much as possible, as much as he would allow--so it was a major triumph that he so casually agreed to the excursion.

Justin noticed that he had put on one of his new outfits that Lindsay had helped him pick out--a soft, deep red cashmere turtleneck and a pair of black cords that fit him oh-so-fine. . . Justin sighed dreamily as he helped him into his black leather Boss jacket and arranged a coordinating black laprobe over his legs, full of regret at covering the satisfying image of those long, lean legs. Impulsively, he bent over and gave him a tender kiss on his cheek.

"You're looking particularly good today," he murmured.

Brian's eyes twinkled. "Flattery will get you everywhere. . ." he teased, and Justin thought, for just a moment, that he preened. It was good to see him smile again.

The park, if the tiny strip of trees and benches could be called that, was a mere block from the loft, one of those small enclosures that people used mostly to walk their dogs or eat a quick outdoor lunch on pretty days. At this time of day, it was mostly deserted, only an occasional pedestrian cutting through on the way to or from somewhere, which was probably one reason why Brian hadn't protested too strongly.

Justin knew he still felt awkward being seen in public, and was probably wary of running into someone who knew him, someone who would see him compromised by his disabilities. He understood that, knew how important Brian's image was to him, but it was something he would have to work through, come to terms with. He couldn't--they wouldn't let him--become a hermit.

It was amazing, Justin considered, pushing the wheelchair into the park, how so many small details you never bothered to consider became of paramount importance once you had to deal with someone in a wheelchair. The term "handicap-accessible" took on a whole new meaning, and cut-down curbs, something he had never taken notice of before, became vital to mobility. He paused beside one of the benches and reached down to put the brakes on.

"This okay?" he asked, settling himself on the bench beside the wheelchair.

Brian took a deep, exaggerated breath. "Mmnn. . . smell that fresh Pittsburgh air. S'wonderful what smog can do for a person!"

Justin laughed and swiped at his own reddening nose. "Better than recycled shit," he maintained. He noticed that Brian seemed preoccupied, looking around at the ground in all directions as if he were searching for something.

"Looking for a four-leaf clover?" Justin asked.

"Sure. . . pick some of the Irish luck that goes with it," Brian played along.

Grinning, Justin was about to come back with a smart retort, when he saw Brian's eyes tracking something and he followed the gaze to see a small silver-grey tabby kitten trotting delicately on tiny paws toward them.

"Awww. . . look," Justin gushed, popping off the bench and going down on his knees to approach the emaciated, straggly looking stray. But the animal skittered away from him and sidestepped over toward Brian's chair. With a proprietary air, he put his front paws up on the soft robe covering Brian's legs and stretched his head back, emitting a soft meow.

"Hey, Rufus. . . " Brian's good hand came down to touch the young cat on the top of its head, his fingers stroking behind the prominent ears.

Amused, Justin settled back on his butt and grinned. "You two are acquainted?"

"In a manner of speaking," Brian replied. "He was here last week, before Thanksgiving, when Mikey brought me over here."

"He's all dirty and skinny," Justin remarked, continuing to watch the man and the animal with surprise. As far as he knew, he'd never seen Brian react to any animal with anything other than annoyance. He'd often said that people with pets should be leashed instead of the animal.

To compound the wonder, he saw Brian awkwardly reach into his pants pocket and pluck out a small wedge of cheese. With one-handed finesse, he broke off an even tinier piece and offered it to the kitten.

"Why do you call him Rufus?" Justin asked, genuinely curious and entranced.

"Because he's a doofus. . . that's what Mikey called him," Brian explained patiently, illogically.

Justin giggled. "Rufus the Doofus," he sputtered.

Brian glanced at him with mock severity. "You got something against cats?" he challenged.

"No, I--" Justin bit his tongue. He had almost said, I adored Wolfram. Realizing that would certainly open a can of worms he preferred to keep closed, he picked up, "No. I like them."

Scenting the cheese, 'Rufus' made a spectacular leap and landed in Brian's lap, where the rest of the wedge was resting. As the cat nibbled in singular concentration, Brian's hand stroked softly at the bedraggled fur. The expression on his face, Justin decided, was one he had only seen bestowed on Gus, and then only when Gus was just a baby.

The wind was picking up, and Justin shivered in the cold. He noticed Brian's hair riffling and the slight redness of his nose and fingers. "It's getting colder," he observed, an unspoken hint for them to depart.

"We're supposed to have frost again tonight," Brian responded. "And they're predicting more snow or freezing rain tomorrow." He cupped his hand around the kitten and gently placed its pliable little body inside his jacket for warmth.

So now he was making like the fucking weatherman? Justin wondered. Then he caught on. "Awfully cold for Rufus to be out here. . . ." he encouraged.

"Would be a pity if he froze to death." Brian's tone was perfectly neutral, completely without inflection, but he continued to hold the cat to his chest and stroke it as Justin stood and released the brake and took up his position behind him.

His heart felt as if it were going to break out of his chest; there was a sensitivity about Brian that he had rarely seen manifested, and it made him more aware than ever of why he loved him so much. For some clouded, unknown reason, he had taken on the task of being the champion of the tattered little kitten. Perhaps it was simply because he could--because it was an opportunity to give in his current netherworld of being given to, done for. Or maybe the gutsy little stray struck a chord of familiarity with him, exhibited a tenaciousness he found appealing. Justin was no psychologist, and he couldn't fathom the deeper meanings of the gesture, but he knew that it brought a fresh wave of affection and admiration for this man who claimed to want no part of commitment.

As they headed back to the loft, Justin's thoughts turned practical--they would need a litterbox and cat food. And the animal would definitely need a bath. . . .

Justin rode it out, keeping a safe distance for much of the time, trying to ignore or tolerate the violent storms of emotion. He, better than anyone, could empathize with Brian's frustrations and anger at his diminished lifestyle, and yet what he had suffered, his own rehab, had seemed to him so much lighter compared to what Brian was struggling to get back, that there could be little comparison.

After Michael, shaking his head in exasperation, had left, Justin headed for the kitchen alcove. "You want a cup of hot tea?" he called over to Brian, on the sofa. "We've got some chamomile... or peach... " he inventoried.

"I'd like a beer," Brian countered, challenging. He rarely drank alcohol any more and it wasn't recommended with the medications he was on. But Justin figured this was one of those exceptions. Without commenting, he got a bottle out of the refrigerator and carried it over to him. Brian looked up in surprise, a question in his eyes.

Justin shrugged. "You're over 21, aren't you?" He could see the tension in Brian's muscles, the rigid way he held himself, the lines of fatigue on his face. And despite the insolence of taking the beer, Justin noted that he only took a small sip from the bottle before placing it carefully on the table next to him.

Crossing to the entertainment center, Justin switched on the CD player. The CD he had chosen was one of his favorites--Smashing Pumpkins. The rock music flowed out at a reasonable volume, not loud enough to deafen, but enjoyable. After only a half a chorus, though, Brian uttered a curse.

"Turn that damned racket off!" He glared at Justin. "If you want music, go to Babylon."

Justin sighed and obeyed him. The silence settled deeply into the room.

"Matter of fact, why the hell aren't you at Babylon? It's Friday night -- go on, get the hell out of here."

Justin turned to face him, pensive, suddenly realizing it was Friday night--a fact which had not escaped Brian, and was probably part of his problem. "Ahh, yes," he remarked knowingly. "Party night. Time to get down and boogie. Pick up a trick--or two, or three. What a pathetic waste of time."

"You never used to think so."

"I always thought so," Justin countered. "It was you who liked that scene. Not me." He slipped another disk into the CD, one of Brian's melodic New Age collections from Narada. Smooth synthesizer and percussion, light and pleasant.  Music to soothe the savage beast... he mused.

"Oh, that's right, I remember. You like wandering around art galleries and attending violin recitals."

The barb struck home and Justin winced, wounded and trying not to show it. He attempted to pick up a light tone. "Strolling along Liberty Avenue, watching you lose at the pool table at Woody's... " he added nonchalantly, bright memories surfacing. Belatedly, he realized his mistake. It was all too much of a reminder of a life Brian could no longer enjoy. The silence from the other side of the room told him he, too, had hit a nerve, without meaning to.

His first impulse was to tiptoe around it, as they had been doing ever since Brian had been home. This time, however, he determined to confront it. Cautiously, he crossed to sit in the armchair across from the motionless form. "You miss it all, don't you?"

Brian's voice was harsh, rasping. "What I miss... " he said deliberately, "...is my privacy. Did it ever occur to you, or Michael, or to any of you, that sometimes I would just...like...to...be...alone!" With his left hand, he picked up the bottle of beer beside him and took a deep, fast gulp. Abruptly, he choked and began coughing. The half-full bottle clattered to the floor as he reached up to cover his mouth, its liquid beginning to dribble out the opening.

Swiftly, Justin bent and retrieved it, placing it back on the table. Automatically, he positioned himself beside Brian, reaching for him.

Catching his breath, Brian shoved at him, ineffectually pushing him away. "I'm all right!" he insisted angrily. "Stop it!"

Stop what? Caring? I can't...and I won't. Justin pulled back, retreating to the other end of the sofa. "I'm... sorry..." he attempted.

"Fuck your 'sorry'," Brian growled, noisily clearing his throat as he recovered from the choke-cough. "God, leave me...alone!"

Justin didn't understand why he was so worked up, what had triggered this mood, but he thought he knew the underlying emotions that had brought it on. Or, rather, the suppression of those emotions. Brian was wound tight, all controlled rage and fury. He slid himself closer and spoke knowingly.

"In all this time... ever since the stroke... you still haven't cried, have you?"

Brian looked at him sharply, clearly startled. "What...? Why the fuck would I -- " He gave a derisive laugh, more of a croak. "What will be, will be. Or rather, 'Shit happens.' Take your second-rate psychoanalysis and --"

"Get it out, Brian. Grieve and let it go..." Justin reached for his shoulders, attempting a gentle embrace.

Brian's strong hand grabbed at Justin's wrist, forestalling the touch. They struggled for a moment, Brian's defiance matching Justin's determination as their wills clashed, as Justin reached beyond the facade of anger into the core of sorrow and fear that prompted it. The contest lasted only a moment, Brian clinging to his resistance the briefest of seconds before releasing his grip and letting his hand fall uselessly into his lap.

"It's all right to feel... it's what you need..." Justin's voice was the barest of whispers, knowing he had made the right connection.

As Justin drew him close, wrapped his arms around the quivering shoulders, Brian's taut muscles contracted in soundless heaves. Justin's hand stroked the soft silk of his hair, his nostrils breathed in the sweet fragrance of soap and sweat that was so much a part of him. Brian buried his face against Justin's shoulder and sobbed convulsively, mutely, huge wracking motions that seemed to come from someplace deep inside. Justin felt tears moisten the side of his neck even as his own eyes stung and his own throat tightened. He clung to Brian, conscious of all that had been lost, all that may never be again, grieving for the devastated soul whose current life had been reduced to a fraction of its former glory.

Gradually, Brian stilled and Justin could tell that some of the tension had left him. They sat that way, simply touching and calming, for a long time. Brian was more in control as he pulled his head back from its place on Justin's shoulder, but he did not lift his face, did not make eye contact. That, too, Justin understood, the slight awkwardness after such an open display.

"Better...?" he asked softly.

"Better," Brian affirmed, his voice strained. Releasing him, Justin stood up, then gently picked up Brian's right hand and held it between both of his own.

"I have an errand to run. Will you be okay by yourself for about twenty minutes?"

Brian nodded his head vigorously. Justin knew that right now, he needed those minutes alone, to pull himself back together, to gather his dignity and self-respect, to put the incident into perspective. Justin, too, needed them. Beyond granting Brian the solitude he had requested earlier and that he now required, Justin had to get his own grief under control. He knew that when he returned, they would go on as if it hadn't even happened, and probably would never speak of it. They would go on attempting to be optimistic about the future, continue the battle that was the rehabilitation process, live their lives each day as it came without undue complaints or recriminations. But for the moment, the lid on the pressure cooker had been lifted, some of the steam allowed to escape, and the pot, hopefully, would not boil over again for a while.

Justin bent over and kissed the top of Brian's head before he grabbed up his coat and left the loft.

He was just about to call the comic book store when he heard running steps behind him. "Brian, Brian, wait!" It was Sigmund, all out of breath and visibly glad to catch up with him. "How're you doing?" Crouching by the wheelchair he threw his arms around Brian, then, slightly taken aback by his own spontaneity, he rose and let his arms drop. "Heard you were in to see Palmer and thought I can offer you a ride, perhaps with a cappuccino-stop along the way. Are you game?"

"Yeah I am. What do you have in mind?" His gaze swept the psychiatrist, taking in the slim body, the attractive face made oddly young by the shock of silver hair framing it. He liked what he saw.

Something in the look transmitted to Sigmund, for he answered with a teasing smile. "Whatever's on your mind notwithstanding, we'll just have to make do with concentrated doses of caffeine and carbs. The 'Sweet Tooth,' okay?" It was a nearby favorite of hospital staff, a small hole-in-the-wall café with authentic French patisserie and ambiance.

They drove the short distance and, mindful of Brian, the doctor stopped the car right in front of the café. Brian insisted on making it on his own steam, leaning on his crutch and the proffered arm of his friend. He had a point to make. As they settled at a cozy table by the window, Sigmund acknowledged the point. "You're doing quite well. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, I know--in the race between the turtle and the hare, I'd come in third." Deserting the cynical tone, he added, "but at least I'm walking. Considering where I was, I can't take that, or anything, for granted."

After placing their order, Sigmund decided to get down to business. "So, how was today's meeting with your treatment team?"

"The good news is, I'll live. The bad news is, I'm not sure how. I won't be able to support myself in the extravagant manner I'm accustomed to--I always liked to fuck in style."

"Why not?"

"Why not what? Fuck in style?"

"No, Mr. Smartass, why can't you continue to woo them in the advertising business?"

"'Cause it's all about type A behavior, creative turmoil, high stress, back-stabbing competition and fuck-or-get-fucked ethics. The very things that might make my brain explode again." Unintended, anxiety permeated his words. "If I can't pitch ideas anymore--and sure as hell I can't return to my early and promising career in soccer--what can I do? How can I go back to the bottom of the rung after being spoiled by the sweet taste of success?"

"Wait," Sigmund raised a hand in protest, "hold off before you final-edit your own epitaph and send it to the printer. There is a whole host of things to do somewhere between pitching and kicking."

"Sure," Brian interrupted him with a mirthless laugh, "I could be a contender for Jerry Lewis's new poster boy."

"Pretty that you are, dear Brian, self-pity doesn't become you," Sigmund retorted. "First though, back up for a minute. What did Palmer say?"

"Well, the trolls-in-green-scrubs spent the day peeking into my brain, poking at every corner of my anatomy, and extracting generous samples of any'n'all of my bodily fluids. And yes," he grinned wickedly, "before you even ask, that body fluid too."

"And?" the other prompted.

"They finally ran out of organs to expose to Gamma rays and were ready to pronounce verdict. Brain scans, blood profiles, neurological functions - all within normal range. In simple English, I'm recovering. The obvious caveat, of course, is the area damaged by the hemorrhage."

"Well that's good news. Anything else?"

"Dr. Palmer seems to think the stroke was a one time fluke, not likely to recur. They found no anatomical abnormalities, no structural or functional flaws in the cerebrovascular or neurological systems. Healthy as a horse, other than being hemiplegic. Of course that's when Palmer and that dragon-cunt, Wilma Dodd, began lecturing about stress and lifestyle choices."

"Brian, you are a type A personality. High strung, driven, intense, passionate. That would carry over into anything you do. You'll have to learn how to come down a notch, but there are some proven techniques to help with it - meditation, biofeedback, relaxation exercises, drugs."

"Drugs are good," Brian joked. "'E' by any chance?"

Shaking his head, the doctor ignored the question. "Tell me though, why do you think you can't be effective in advertising any more? What changed?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm part of the package I sell. And I'm damaged goods." Brian stared down at his limp arm resting on the table at an awkward angle. Self-conscious, he lifted it with his good hand and lowered it into his lap.

"Have you looked at the ad exec community lately? They are not likely to be confused with the cast of 'The Bold and the Beautiful' anytime soon. Take your very own partner, Garner Vance. He is no beauty in any world, straight or gay, that I'm aware of. It's not your ass you're selling, Brian, it's your mind."

Tilting his head, Brian gave the other a strange look. "So you're saying there is something wrong with my ass. You're not in the market anymore?"

Sigmund sighed in mock exasperation. "But alas I am, Sweet Prince. I still dream of you in the privacy of my austere and celibate chambers."

Brian laughed. "It's quite amazing, Sig. You're just as eloquent when I'm sober . . ."

Suddenly tongue-tied, he only stared at Brian for a long moment. "I need to get over this. Then perhaps I can take you on as a patient and get inside your head. You will need a shrink." And soon so will I, he added wordlessly to himself. He reached for the check and added. "Let's go and get you home."

They were already in the car when the downpour started. The rain, driven by a gusty northern wind, pelted at an odd angle the downtown buildings and the bare trees; brought their SUV to a near-halt in the sea of cars caught in crawl-pace traffic. Brian felt a nameless dread rise in him as he shivered and instinctively pulled his jacket tighter around him.

"What's wrong?" Sigmund asked, observant by trade.

"Nothing. Hate the fucking rain," Brian answered curtly, sinking back into moody silence.

"And here you are, a native son of the Pitts, surely you're used to what passes for weather here."

"Never mind. It's really nothing," Brian brushed off the other's attention with a shrug. After a good checkup earlier in the day and a passable evening, he felt control slipping away from him as his mood headed south into glum retrospection. It didn't help to remind himself that riding on an emotional seesaw was par for the course of post-stroke recovery. It was still a bunch of shit, hard to swallow and embarrassing.

Sigmund parked his SUV and insisted on accompanying Brian up to the loft. Justin was already in, and the two exchanged perfunctory greetings before the psychiatrist departed with a quick embrace and a promise to come by again during the holidays. Brian felt like an inanimate object being passed from hand to hand.

He looked around the loft, the four-square of his world. That, and nothing--no one--else. That's all he could count on. At the periphery of his consciousness he heard Justin's chatter but it didn't reach his comprehension. He wanted to be alone, undisturbed, shrouded in the black cloud of his own mood. And he felt a strong, irrational sense of betrayal--by Justin, his friends, his own body. He wanted nothing more than to regain the life he'd lost. But this much he knew with certainty: whatever his future may bring, he will never get his old life back.

"Mmm... food!" the younger man enthused.

"Yeah--Mom gets carried away," Michael responded. He shivered slightly as the heated air met the chill he carried from outside. Shrugging out of his coat, he crossed to the chair by the window where Brian was seated.

"Hey there, stud!" He bent over and kissed the pale cheek. Brian lifted his left arm and snagged him around the neck, then turned his face to press their lips together.

"Aagh... you're cold!" Brian drew back his head in mock dismay.

From the kitchen area, they heard Justin's voice. "Oooh, Deb sent her pasta primavera!"

Brian smirked. "Thank your mom for me, Mikey."

Michael nodded and crossed to sit on the couch. He stared down in disbelief.

"Oh, no... is that thing still here?" His tone was accusatory.

"It's not a thing. It's a cat," Brian chastised.

Michael couldn't believe the sight he was seeing. In the middle of the sofa, lying on a small white blanket, was the pesky stray. It lay on its side, paws up in the air, blissfully sleeping.

"Is that one of Gus's blankets?" he asked, wondering where he was supposed to sit, tempted to push the beast out of his way.

"Yeah," Justin said from the kitchen. "Lindsay left it here for Rufus."

Brian just smirked again. "Can't have him messing the furniture..."

"Well, he wouldn't mess the furniture if you kicked him out the door," Michael grumbled, gingerly sitting on one unoccupied edge of the sofa.

"It's too cold out," Justin said defensively. He added, "There's salad, too, and garlic bread."

Michael regarded the cat. "Doofus is more like it," he muttered, but he couldn't help but feel a surge of affection toward the innocent little sleeping animal. He did look a lot better since they had cleaned him up and put a little weight on his scrawny frame. Stealing a surreptitious glance, he noted the goofy smile that Brian was wearing as he watched the cat stretch in its sleep. Brian Kinney going apeshit over an alley cat. Go figure.

Justin came back into the room and crossed to Brian's side. Bending over, he put an arm around the older man's shoulders and planted a kiss on the side of his forehead. "It'll just take a few more minutes for everything to get warmed up. Do you want to eat in here, or at the table?"

Brian frowned, seeming to consider. "Table, I guess. Do we have any of that Chianti left?"

"About half a bottle, I think." Justin went to check. "But it's not cold..."

Michael contemplated the domestic scene, still kind of stunned by how well it was working out with Justin being here. The Boy Wonder had been trustworthy and responsible, and Michael couldn't fault his devotion or his determination. He just hoped, for Brian's sake, that he kept it up. Stretching, the cat woke itself and sat up. A tiny meow escaped as it yawned. Then, without hesitation, it jumped onto the floor and padded over to Brian's chair, where it put its front paws on the upholstery and meowed again. Brian's hand dipped down to stroke the upturned head.

And Michael smiled, suddenly liking the little tramp. After all, any friend of Brian's was a friend of his.

Justin left right after dinner; he had promised his mother that he would babysit his sister that evening while Jennifer was showing a house. Michael had brought along his Scrabble game and soon after Justin's departure, he brought it out and set it up, a twinkle in his eye. Brian, seated on the sofa, laughed softly.

"Are you still playing that?" he marveled.

"Yeah." Michael set the board on the coffee table in front of him. "But I don't play it the way we used to."

Brian smiled. "No more 'Strip Scrabble'?"

Michael frowned with mock seriousness. "You used to make up the rules just to annoy me. I used to get so embarrassed!"

"Yeah, 'cause you used to have to take all your clothes off and I stayed fully dressed." Brian's tongue toyed with the inside of his cheek as he tried to suppress a laugh.

"Not all," Michael protested, remembering the panic he used to feel every time he'd get damned near to naked and Brian would sit there grinning at him like a wolf hovering over its prey. Panic, and desire; hot blood flooding him, flushing his cheeks and making his cock hard. And then Brian would make up some excuse as to why he had to rush home suddenly. "You just did it to tease me."

"I just had a bigger. . . vocabulary than you did." Brian made the pause deliberate.

"You still do." Michael felt his throat constrict as he said it, acknowledging the double entendre. Brian's expression was unreadable. "What do I always say, Mikey? It's not the size--"

"--it's how you use it," Michael finished with him. He busied himself turning over the tiles in the lid of the box.

"Speaking of clothes," Brian stood and reached for his crutch. "I want to get out of these things and this brace. Get comfortable." He limped over toward his hospital bed.

Michael watched him move, gracelessly now as he hitched one leg slowly ahead of the other. His body showed signs of fatigue. "Need help?" he offered, as Brian sat on the edge of his mattress and struggled to remove his shirt.

"Sure. Three hands are better than one," he quipped.

Michael crossed to him and pulled the shirt over his head, then tossed it aside. Using the movements he'd been taught, Brian managed to unhook and unzip his pants with his left hand and Michael helped him remove his trousers, skimming them down the long legs and removing his shoes before discarding the whole mess onto the floor. The brace was next, an ugly, strapped contraption that looked like something left over from Torquemado's torture chamber. Michael tried to imagine being trussed up in something like that all day, every day, and failed. It left angry red welts where the leather and metal cut into the flesh, even though they were padded.

Sitting there in nothing but his jockey shorts, Brian picked up a tube of cream from beside the bed and concentrated on dabbing some of it on his leg, using his good hand to squeeze the antibiotic directly onto the affected areas. Michael watched him struggle for a moment, then reached for him.

"Here--let me do that." He rubbed the cream into the red spots, attempting to concentrate on the task of his fingers, but extremely conscious of the overall presence so close to him. Brian was still as beautiful as ever, still an incredibly attractive package despite the ravages of the stroke on his physical perfection. And he could still make Michael feel the same overwhelming desire he had felt since he was fourteen years old.

That particular ache had never subsided, had, in fact, sharpened since the stroke, since Michael had spent so much of his time caring for Brian, being more physically intimate with his body than he had since they were kids. Dressing and undressing him, caring for him during the pneumonia and his recovery afterward, helping him with his rehab, all activities that had involved touching, physical contact. Michael didn't fully understand it, didn't know what to do about it other than to try to ignore it, work it out with an increase of sex with Ben. But it bothered him more than he let on, or thought he did.

Brian's hand rested on his shoulder as he finished rubbing in the cream. "That feels good, Mikey," he said softly, his voice husky. Michael looked up sharply, not certain how to interpret the tone. But Brian's face was innocent. "I think my robe's in the bathroom," he prompted.

Michael took the opportunity to get his breath back in rhythm, to calm the rapid beating of his heart, as he found the short black silk robe hanging on a hook and brought it back to the bed. He guided Brian's right arm into the sleeve and tied the belt for him, grinning confidently, proud of his control. Until Brian reached out and pulled him close, kissing him firmly and just a tad too long on the lips. Michael was used to their kissing, but this was somewhat different, contained some code, some secret message that he wasn't sure quite how to read. His own lips parted and he almost used his tongue, would have, but then Brian broke away and regarded him rakishly.

"Know what I remember?" he asked.

With Brian, it could be anything. "What?" Michael asked.

"The way you took care of Vic, when he was so sick. I'd go over your place, and there you'd be, cleaning up his vomit, or holding his head. . . at the time, I thought you were crazy."

Michael's breath caught in his throat. "And now?"

Brian grinned wickedly. "I still think you were crazy, but having been on the receiving end, I guess I appreciate it more." He pushed himself to a standing position and reached for his crutch. "Come on. Let's play Scrabble."

There was no clothing removal, and Brian's vocabulary was still larger than Michael's. The thing that seemed the oddest to Michael was that this was one of the few evenings he had ever spent with Brian when they weren't busy getting drunk or high. It seemed weird. Perhaps it was the sobriety of the time that made Michael's nostalgia more intense, led him back again to speak of those adolescent Scrabble games when he had disrobed under Brian's scrutiny.

"Something's on your mind." Brian's voice taunted, encouraging Michael to speak.

"I was just wondering. . . "

"Always a dangerous prospect," Brian remarked. He settled back and regarded Michael speculatively. "About the stock market? About the issue of world hunger? Please, tell. Father Kinney wants to know."

Michael smiled in spite of his trepidation. "Why'd you do it? Goad me to take off my clothes like that?"

"I was hot for your bod." The answer was swift, teasing, off-the-cuff. Then he shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I thought you should loosen up a little. Accept yourself." He picked up his glass of juice and took a long swallow. "We were kids. What's it matter?"

Michael leaned back in his chair and stared across the table at his friend. "I always thought it was kind of mean."

Brian smiled. "You loved it. Loved how it made you feel, loved the attention."

Michael felt distinctly uncomfortable and he physically squirmed. "That's not true!"

"Okay." Brian threw up his left hand, as if in capitulation. "So I was wrong. What do you want, an apology, after 15 years?" He looked genuinely puzzled at the direction of the conversation.

"No. I... actually, I haven't thought about it in nearly that long." A lie, but a little one. He had rarely thought of it.

"Is there anything else you want to get off your chest tonight? Any other ancient worries preying on your mind?" Brian invited tolerantly.

Michael seized the opening. "As a matter of fact--"

Brian rolled his eyes. "Oh, shit." The oath was light-hearted; he was still thinking the whole conversation was dumb, or funny, or something. For Michael it was more serious, but Brian's attitude was putting him off.

"Never mind."

"Look, two months ago, I nearly died." Brian's voice turned sober in the blink of an eye. "It makes you realize sometimes you don't get another opportunity to say what you want. So, if you have issues, raise them now. Who knows how long I've got left to answer them."

Michael jumped up, furious. "That's a hell of a thing to say! Why would you--" He broke off, sat back down again. "Brian, you're okay, now. You're not going to die." He heard the alarm in his own voice, and the reassurance. Brian's calm statement had rocked him.

"I'm saying any of us could--" he snapped the fingers of his left hand. "--like that. We never know, Mikey."

Michael took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay. You really want to hear the question? The big, $64,000 question?"

"I can't wait." Brian smiled, but there was no joy in the expression, just resignation.

"Not so much now--we've come too far for it, but. . . back then. When we were kids, when we were--" He was going to say 'young' and thought better of it, "--when we were just starting."

"Why didn't I fuck you?"

Michael swallowed, the words taken out of his mouth. He simply nodded, mutely, really sorry he had brought it up, not anxious to hear the reason, whatever it was.

Brian frowned thoughtfully. "Because I wasn't what you wanted, I never was, never will be. If I had fucked you, it would have meant too much, to you. You would have wanted more, and it would have destroyed our friendship."

There it was. The answer he'd been wondering about for sixteen years. And it made no sense to Michael. "I'd like to think that's not true. That nothing could destroy our friendship."

"Maybe you're right. I don't know. I do know I'm not willing to take that chance." Brian sighed deeply. "It's different for you than it is for me. That's all."

"You do it without attachments."

Brian nodded.

"Then, what about Justin?"

Brian looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. "What about him?" His voice went up an octave.

"Are you saying there's no attachment there?"

As he saw Brian striving to come up with an adequate response, they both heard the scrape of the door, and the subject of discussion came into the room with a whoosh of cold air and breezy talk.

"Hi, I'm back! God, I thought Molly would never shut up! What is it about kids that--" He suddenly seemed to become aware of the tension in the room and broke off abruptly. "Uh. . . am I interrupting something?"

Brian shrugged diffidently. "Not at all. We're just replaying old themes. Traveling down memory lane. Boring shit like that, you know."

Michael laughed self-consciously. "And he's beating me at Scrabble."

"He beats everyone." Still looking a bit uncertain, Justin crossed and leaned over the back of the sofa and gave Brian a hug. "Smart son-of-a-bitch, isn't he?"

"Thinks he is," Michael retorted. He stood up. "Well, now that you're here, I'd better get home to Ben. Although, when he's working on his book, he hardly knows I'm there!"

"You don't need to rush off," Justin protested, heading for the kitchen. "Go ahead and finish your game."

Michael's eyes met Brian's. "I'll just lose again. No sense in beating a dead horse."

Brian's eyebrow arched and he reached across the table and grabbed Michael's hand. His grip was hard, his eyes desperately searching Michael's face.

Michael stepped around the table and leaned over and put his arms around the wide shoulders, hugging him tightly. "Love you," he affirmed softly. He felt the tension draining away from the man he held. Brian's voice, too, was soft.

"Always have. . . always will." Their own particular mantra, their secret coda. Michael released him and reached for his coat, smiling warmly.