Chapter 22

Ben had fully intended to join Michael at the hospital after the conclusion of his last class of the day, but he'd been summoned to the dean's office to deal with a couple of disciplinary issues concerning a group of his students who'd been targeted by gay-bashers, and it had been late when he'd finished.

He was slightly ashamed to realize that he was marginally grateful for the . . . alibi? Okay. For the excuse.

Thus, he was already at home, seated at the kitchen table working on a study plan and waiting for a pot of curried tofu with spinach and tomatoes to finish simmering on the stove. He was generally the cook of the family, and he usually endeavored to convince Michael and Hunter to share his enthusiasm for ultra-healthy, vegan cuisine, but - given how the last few days had gone - it wouldn't surprise him at all if Michael walked in with a Pizza Hut Meat Lovers' Special. And if it provided any comfort for his young husband, then he would gladly put aside his aversion to America's favorite fast food. And Hunter, of course, would be delighted, if he decided to show up at home tonight.

But Michael was the issue; Michael, who needed comforting right now, and if pizza could provide it, Ben would be happy to grant his enthusiastic approval. He felt it was the least he could do, since he found himself seeking ever more rationalizable reasons to avoid what was becoming a more and more onerous obligation.

It wasn't, after all, like he hadn't spent almost every evening over the past ten days (Weeks? Months?) sitting around in various spots at Allegheny General, in waiting rooms and hallways and conference rooms and cafeterias and coffee shops and - on the rare occasions when it had been permitted - in Brian's room. But episodes in that last location had been few and far between, and even fewer and farther between as the days had passed, and it had become more and more obvious that their presence there, along with that of other members of the unofficial, extended Novotny family, was becoming problematic - for the hospital staff, the security people, for the police . . . and for Brian.

All of that, Ben was pretty sure Michael could have dealt with. Except for the last. That final straw had almost broken the back of a friendship born in the angst-ridden years of early adolescence and enduring through a series of trials and tribulations that would have destroyed most relationships. Enduring - that was probably the term that best described what Michael and Brian had shared. Except, perhaps, for "magical", but that was a place where Ben was not yet prepared to go, still occasionally struggling with ambivalence in his feelings about a relationship that, try as he might, he could not quite comprehend. So "enduring" would remain the adjective of choice.

Except that there now seemed to be reason to doubt that it would continue to endure.

The last week had been exceptionally difficult. And there was hardly any chance that the next one would be any better.

Of course, there was some good news; Brian, despite the severity of his injuries and the original gloomy prognosis from the medical staff, was on the road to recovery. From a certain point of view.

Damaged and bludgeoned organs were healing and beginning to function within normal parameters; bruises and contusions were fading; lacerations had been cleaned and closed and sutured; bones were re-knitting themselves, and the initiation of a stunning variety of physical therapy programs was laying the groundwork to re-establish the functions of muscles and sinews and nerves. His strength was beginning to return - hand-in-hand with his temperament. Never one to suffer fools willingly, he was rendered even more impatient and less forgiving than usual by the pain, weakness, and frustrations generated by his wounds. At the best of times, he would have been a demanding, infuriating patient, and these were far from the best of times.

In one sense - the most negative sense - Brian Kinney was making a comeback. But so far, that only seemed to apply to the hospital staff members and security people who had to deal with him directly.

For others, for the people who had known him for most of his life, it had begun to seem as if the man they had known might be gone forever. And the glaring omission - from every medical briefing, every doctor's statement - of any mention of his appearance and what might be done to repair it only served to emphasize the degree of the problem. No one spoke of it; no one asked, and the unmistakable conclusion was that no one really wanted to know.

During the first few days after his release from the ICU, virtually all the members of the 'gang', as Michael called them, had been in, around, and about the hospital every day, waiting for the doctors' briefings, available for running errands or handling day-to-day tasks as needed, and loitering near Brian's room in hope of being allowed in for a visit or - better yet - being summoned by the man himself. Even Melanie had lingered nearby, despite her unrelenting disdain for Brian and his lifestyle. She claimed that it was only because she wanted to offer her support to her partner, who was, in turn, only involved because Kinney was the biological parent of their son, Gus; no one bothered to challenge her contention, having no wish to incur her wrath. But, beneath their reticence, everyone knew the truth of the matter. Melanie hated Brian, not in spite of her partner's devotion to him, but because of it, and she would not risk leaving Lindsey alone and unsupervised within the sphere of Brian's influence, because she was so jealous of their relationship, she could not abide the thought of them interacting beyond the limits of her oversight.

However, in this case, she needn't have worried. Any visits or interactions between Brian and any members of the group - including Lindsey - were extremely sporadic, unfailingly brief, and thoroughly upsetting from the group's perspective. Whenever any of them managed to gain access to the room, Brian rarely spoke, barely seemed to listen, and appeared to recoil from any suggestion of intimate contact. The only facet of his familiar personality which he exhibited regularly - and relentlessly - was the razor-sharp wit which enabled him to slice and dice his acquaintances with a minimum of words and a maximum of efficiency.

Except for the medical staff, chief members of his security team, and the police, only Cynthia and Chris McClaren had unrestricted access to him, and neither was shy about stepping up to bar the way when anyone else tried to intrude where they were obviously neither wanted nor needed.

Each of the extended family members had reacted differently, of course - according to his nature.

Melanie and Ted were initially annoyed by being excluded, but, as the days passed, their annoyance grew and morphed into smoldering resentment.

Melanie found it particularly difficult to accept that not only were she and her partner denied regular access to Gus' father, but that the little boy - the legal offspring of Melanie Marcus and Lindsey Peterson-Marcus, according to the marriage documents issued by the province of Ontario - had been spirited away in the company of his biological (as opposed to legal/official) maternal grandfather to some secret location deemed "safe" by the powers-that-be . . . and Brian Kinney. And Lindsey. The complicity of her partner in this little conspiracy rankled most of all. In short, by the end of the week, Melanie was fuming.

As for Ted, his emotional pique was a binary blend, an expression of both personal and professional perception. Since he had assumed oversight of the financial aspects of Kinnetik, he had come to think of himself as a colleague of Brian's, rather than an employee. And most of the time, that was how Brian had treated him. But there were limits to how far that relationship could take him, especially within the realm of Brian's personal life. He had always understood that boundary, even though it had never actually been mapped out. But now he had smashed face-first into the impenetrable transparent wall of that limit, and his frustration was compounded by the fact that he had to stand by and watch others walk through it, apparently at will. Having spent much of his life denying an almost bottomless capacity for envy, he found it difficult now to admit and confront the reality of his weakness.

Debbie, of course, had reacted predictably - and loudly - being quick to question every restriction placed on the group's access to Brian, and then to denounce any explanation offered for said restrictions. And, when her denunciations failed to produce the desired effect - namely the lifting of said restrictions - she had proceeded to blame Brian, his doctors, the hospital staff, the individuals chosen to speak on his behalf - and the Almighty - for interfering with 'family matters' which should not concern them. But the volume of her protests, over the course of the week, had begun to lessen, as the quantity gradually decreased, and the intensity of her emotional frenzy slowly settled to a level that was barely detectable. Silence did not sit well on Debbie, and the shadows in her eyes had grown in inverse proportion to the frequency of her verbal harangues. For one of very few times in her life, it appeared that Debbie did not know what to say or how to use her legendary 'big mouth' to manipulate people and circumstances to achieve what she wanted. In truth, it seemed that she might not even know what that might be.

Then there was Emmett, who had lurked around the edges of the family dynamic - of it, yet - somehow - separate, standing on the other side of a pale stream of dissension that had grown wider and deeper with every hour that passed. Separate - as he had never been before. Growing closer by the day to Drew Boyd and his solid, slightly brooding presence, as he simultaneously began to withdraw from his connection to Calvin Culpepper and from other old familiar supports. Calvin was terribly fond of Emmett, but had always understood that they were not meant to spend their lives together, so he accepted Emmett's secession with good grace and a smile. Emmett, however, was less sanguine, still not sure of what he really wanted. His flame, ordinarily brilliant as a signal beacon, had dimmed considerably during the same time frame, and Ben had noted a tendency on the part of the big Nelly-bottom, to sit back and observe his fellow family members, with a growing sense of uncertainty. It was as if he were seeing them all in a different light and from a different perspective - and wasn't entirely sure he liked what he saw, although he'd been careful to avoid verbalizing his misgivings. Mostly, Emmett had kept himself to himself - a radical departure from his characteristic garrulous nature.

At first, Ben had believed that he was the only one to notice the difference in the young southerner, but apparently, he'd been wrong. Despite being wrapped in an almost seamless layer of introspection, Michael had seen it too and, eventually, remarked on it. But only to Ben and Hunter, and only within the privacy of their own little cottage, his demeanor akin to that of a small child confounded and confused by a deluge of strange, incomprehensible sensations.

Michael, Lindsey, and Justin formed the inner core of the cult of Kinney, even though none of the three would ever actually admit to that. They were all so intent on proving their strength and their independence and their lack of need for Brian or his approval or his support or his understanding that they were unable to face the truth - that it was all, fundamentally, a lie. The need existed; the need had, in point of fact, ruled their lives, even though Brian himself would never have made any conscious attempt to control them.

The control wasn't conscious, wasn't deliberate. And wasn't acknowledged by any one of them. But that didn't make it any less real.

They were floundering now, all without a rudder, without direction. All lost, and all virtually silent about the one vital question that occupied their minds.

What would happen next?

Lindsey and Michael had spent most of their time of late, seated in molded plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room. Waiting. Thinking. Dozing occasionally with faces braced against hands propped on hard arm-rests. Ingesting massive volumes of coffee and soda and vending machine sandwiches and stale doughnuts. Eyes fixed on a flickering television mounted up in the corner of the ceiling. But mostly just waiting. As the others chattered and gossiped and complained, the two of them spoke hardly at all.

As for Justin, he was a ghost that flitted in on occasion, just long enough to listen to the latest medical briefing, to ask pointed and pertinent questions about the patient's condition and prognosis. Then he would disappear again; no one really knew where he went or what he was doing, but it was obvious that he wasn't going far, as he was instantly present when there was any significant change in Brian's condition.

They were all there, at various times during the course of each day. They exchanged idle gossip and spoke of mutual acquaintances, of what they were having for dinner and the cannoli that had been added to the Liberty Diner menu, of what new film was playing downtown and the latest plots of favorite television programs and the new pianist down at the Rainbow Lounge, of how intensely they disliked Brian's new boytoy (even if he was drop-dead gorgeous) and how none of them had ever realized what a bitch Cynthia could be. Ted raved about the new production of La Boheme at the opera house, and Deb voiced her doubts that Meryl Streep could actually pull off playing the lead in the Mamma Mia movie that was coming out soon, and they all talked about things Oscar had gotten wrong in the past (Crash over Brokeback Mountain? Puh-leeze) and right more recently (The Departed as opposed to Babel, which nobody understood anyway) and about the new act that Shanda Leer was premiering for the next G&LC fundraiser, and the new house that Ted and Blake were looking to buy, and the upcoming production of Guys and Dolls at the local little theater.

Small talk, intended only to fill the empty hours.

They talked about everything and nothing, except what they pointedly did not talk about: Brian Kinney and the impact that the changes in his life would have on each of them. They were, in fact, so determined to ignore that subject that the silence around it grew and swelled and eventually threatened to consume them all.

Ben took a sip of his beer and realized he had read the same paragraph in an interpretive treatise on the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald three times and still didn't remember what he'd read. So he gave it up and sat back in his chair, flexing shoulders and back to relieve muscle strain, and gazing out the window into a cold, heavy rainfall. That was when he heard the front door open, and he was up and moving before there was time for it to close again.

Michael was still shucking out of his raingear when Ben reached him, his hair and face dripping with rainwater, his skin pale and bloodless, and his teeth chattering.

"Hey, Baby," said Ben gently, quickly wrapping his arms around his young lover, disregarding the dampness of Michael's clothes. "You're freezing. Come on into the kitchen where it's warmer. And get out of those wet things."

Michael's only response was a nod as he stumbled forward, unzipping his jacket as he went, with Ben following close behind.

No pizza then. And no six-pack of the locally-brewed beer that he usually picked up every night from the little tavern down the street. No newspaper from the corner newsstand either, and no mail retrieved from the mailbox - all of which he usually brought in. No nothing.

Just Michael, hollow-eyed and shivering and wet.

And crying - without sound or sobs. Just waves of tears welling in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.

"Hey," said Ben softly, pulling his young lover into his arms and cradling him close. "What's wrong? Michael? What's . . ."

"I saw his face," said Michael, in a rough, broken voice,

"What?" said Ben slowly, sure that he must have misheard. "You saw what?"

Michael turned in his arms and looked up into Ben's face, his eyes filled with despair.
"He let me in. Called me in, and wanted to know why I was hanging around there. Why I didn't go home - to you and Hunter. To my life."

He turned again, and went to the window, and the rivulets of rainwater running down the glass was reflected on his face, emulating the tears still streaming from his eyes.

"I was so fucking stupid," he continued, talking as much to himself as to Ben. "When he called for me, I thought . . . I was so happy because I thought it meant . . ."

He fell silent then, obviously unable to continue.

Ben stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Michael's torso, pulling gently to brace his young partner against his chest. "Come sit down," he murmured. "You're exhausted, and there's no need for you to stand here shivering. You can talk just as well sitting down. Come on, and I'll fix you some hot chocolate."

Michael roused a little then, his face thawing just a bit as he mustered up a weary smile for his husband. "That sounds . . . surprisingly good."

He dropped into a chair at the table and sat for a while in silence, content to watch as Ben zapped a cup of milk in the microwave before stirring in some Nestle's chocolate mix and topping the concoction with a mound of miniature marshmallows. Angels' balls, according to Emmett. The thought made Michael smile, until it occurred to him that Emmett might no longer be capable of such sweet whimsy once this debacle was over. Then he allowed the thought to expand to include them all, in the realization that whimsy might be in very short supply for a very long time.

He accepted the mug of cocoa from Ben and was grateful for its warmth against his frigid hands as he allowed himself to fantasize that it might also manage to banish the chill that gripped his heart.

But that fantasy was short-lived. He knew instinctively that nothing would accomplish that purpose, except time. Maybe - with a bit of luck.

"Take your time," said Ben, his eyes soft with concern and a desire to comfort, to soothe, to console, and - beneath everything else - to punish whoever had inflicted undeserved pain on the young man who had become the light of his life.

Even in the extremes of his distress, Michael saw it and was touched by it. And even comforted, to some small degree. He took a swallow of his cocoa, savoring the warmth and using the process as a delaying tactic to allow him to find the right words with which to tell the story.

Only . . . there were no right words. There was only the memory, expanding to fill his thoughts and pulling him back into a dark chamber filled only with the echoes of despair.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He was standing at the window, watching rain lashing across the front of the hospital and reflecting that the first wave of spring had come and gone and been buried under the resurgence of winter. It was not an unusual event in Pittsburgh, and a faint, sporadic clicking suggested that there might even be a few ice pellets mixed in with the spates of raindrops. The lowering clouds had already blocked out any lingering remnants of the day, even though the clock on the wall claimed that it was still afternoon.

It would be a long, nasty walk to the bus stop, and an even longer, nastier one to get home.

So maybe he'd splurge, and grab a taxi.

When he backed away from the window, pulling his jacket tighter around him to ward off a chill that was more a reaction to the vista beyond the glass than to any actual change in temperature, he was surprised to find that he was alone in the waiting room, except for a shabbily-dressed young black woman who seemed to always be there (prompting some in their group to speculate that she might simply be a vagrant who had no place else to go). Her name was Yolanda, he thought. Or Solana, maybe. He wasn't really sure, because he had hardly spoken to her at all during this ordeal of waiting for the disaster to be over and because she wore an air of aloofness, in spite of the shabbiness of her appearance, an air that stated that she did not wish to share conversation or confidences.

It was strange, he thought, that they had occupied the same space and time over an extended period of days and yet seemed to know virtually nothing of each other. He was vaguely startled to realize that he didn't even know who she was here to see. And he wasn't sure how any of them had come to know her name (conceding, of course, that he didn't actually know it at all). Neither he nor any of his extended group had ever bothered to ask about her purpose here, and she had never volunteered the information.

Suddenly, that bothered him. Someone should have asked, he thought. Wasn't shared tragedy supposed to bring people closer together? And perhaps this was the right time. He wasn't sure where Lindsey and Mel had gone, or why his mother and Ted had not appeared yet this afternoon, or where Emmett might have drifted off to, but the fact that there were only the two of them in the room seemed to demand some effort to communicate.

He cleared his throat then, and moved toward her . . . but it was at that moment that Cynthia leaned through the doorway and gestured for Michael to accompany her.

All else was immediately forgotten, as he turned away, but he did notice a strange look in the young black woman's eyes as he changed direction.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sharon Briggs, AKA Shoshona Jackson, allowed herself a quick sigh of relief as she watched the young man follow Kinney's assistant out into the hallway. She had realized early on that, if any of Brian Kinney's support group ever decided to approach her and try to figure out who she really was and what she was doing here, she had to make sure that it would be neither Michael Novotny or Emmett Honeycutt. The others were either much too self-absorbed or much too distracted to be perceptive enough to discern anything beyond the ordinary, but these two could pose a problem if they got too close. Thus, she had been careful to avoid situations in which she would attract the undivided attention of either or both. Only sometimes, fate took a hand. She had not realized until too late that everyone else had departed, leaving her alone in the waiting room with Michael, and she had been contemplating a quick dash toward the ladies' room to avoid any attempt he might make at opening up a dialogue when Cynthia had appeared.

She was very good at her job, possessing a singular ability to fade into the background - a skill much to be desired in undercover cops. But she also knew her limits. She had been watching this group for days now - not as part of Kinney's protection detail, but as a general observer. Watching for anything out of the ordinary, any details that might provide a clue to the identity of Kinney's attackers or the motivations behind the assault. In this aspect, she was alone in her task, completely separate from the other police/security people and from the FBI personnel who were undoubtedly assigned to the case, although she had failed to identify any of them. That was only to be expected, since, presumably, they were as good at their job as she was at hers. She was anonymous, as she preferred to be.

Thus far, she had learned nothing that might help to identify the assailants, but she had learned a lot about Kinney himself and the people who were a part of his life - enough to begin to understand the complexity of the relationships and to realize which of them were impacted most by the circumstances of the assault.

And to develop a reluctant, but abiding sympathy for a few of them. For young Taylor, with his huge blue eyes that tried so hard to conceal the depth of his love and failed miserably. For Lindsey Peterson, who so obviously did not want to love Kinney, but couldn't help herself. For Emmett Honeycutt, who seemed to have lost his moorings as a result of this drama and was floundering for a direction. And for Michael, who, in some ways, loved most deeply of all, and had schooled himself to live with what he could never hope to change.

Sharon/Shoshona sighed again and tried to shift into a more comfortable position in her molded plastic chair. Yes, she definitely had to be on her guard. She could not afford to let Novotny get too close - to be able to look into her eyes and see more there than she was willing to reveal. It was not her job to get involved, to offer support or sympathy or comfort to the victims. Her only purpose was to solve the crime, to identify those responsible.

That was what she had to keep telling herself. Next time, she would be more careful.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


"He wants to see you," said Cynthia as they walked toward Brian's room. "But . . ." She paused and Michael noticed that she seemed to be deliberately avoiding meeting his eyes. "But don't expect too much. He's tired, Michael. Very tired."

"I won't," he replied, but there was no disguising the glints of joy in his eyes. "But I'm just glad he . . . " He fell silent, obviously looking for words to express what he was feeling. "I've missed him so much, and I was afraid - I thought he might still be angry with me."

She nodded, but could not quite suppress a sigh. "Just don't . . . expect too much."

Michael felt a sudden nuance of unease, sensing somehow that she wanted to say more - much more - but was deliberately resisting the impulse.

As he entered the room, he saw that a nurse was positioned nearby, adjusting settings on a monitoring instrument. He also noted Chris McClaren standing in the shadows near a corner window, but he was staring out into the growing darkness rather than facing Brian. Cynthia moved to join him as Michael went toward the bed, and the two of them began to speak quietly, providing some small illusion of privacy for the two old friends.

Michael took a moment to compose himself as he approached the bed. He knew it would still be tremendously difficult to look into Brian's eyes and not flinch away from the evidence of his injuries, even though snowy bandages still concealed the extent of the damages. And he would never quite be able to forget what he'd seen in his old friend's eyes the first time they had come face to face after their initial confrontation when Brian had turned Justin away. He had waited for days for the chance to see his best friend again, to try to express his regrets for not speaking up when he should have, and, alternatively, for speaking when he should have remained silent. But - when the opportunity had come - he had been filled with misgivings he could neither explain nor suppress. Still, he told himself that there had been no pity in his expression as he'd met Brian's gaze, that he'd been successful in hiding an impulse to look away, to refuse to see, but the dimming of the light in those beautiful hazel eyes had said differently. He had wanted to speak up then, to explain himself and to deny the sentiment that Brian would reject and despise above all things, but he hadn't known how to phrase it, how to make Brian believe it. So he had remained silent.

He was determined not to do so again. He would make Brian understand, make him see the truth.

Lightening was forking across the sky as he arrived at Brian's bedside, and he flinched slightly as thunder rumbled nearby. Then he looked down and found Brian's eyes studying him, very still and filled with shadow.

"Hey," he said softly, wanting to reach for his old friend's hand, wanting to lean forward and drop a kiss on any available bare skin, but uncertain how such a gesture might be received.

"Hey, Mikey." The voice was without inflection, but the use of the nickname was encouraging, he thought.

"How are you . . ."

"I'm fabulous." Not so good, that, since the voice was laced now with irony. "How about you?"

Michael took a deep breath, and resolved to forge ahead, to say what needed saying. "Better now, since I can see you. I've . . ."

"Well," Brian drawled, "you're not exactly seeing 'me', are you? I mean, the real me is buried somewhere inside the mummy suit - right?"

"For now," Michael answered with a grin. "But you'll be back, good as new."

Brian blinked, and the murmur of voices in the corner ceased abruptly, as Cynthia noticed the faintest hitch in his breathing. She barely managed to suppress a sigh, sensing that this was not good.

"I will?" Brian said.

"Of course, you will."

"Of course, I will," echoed Brian, the sardonic note back in his voice. "So, did you and your wifey win the lottery? Or maybe Ben's novel - rejected at last count by thirty-odd publishers - suddenly became a bestseller?"

"No such luck," Michael admitted, not quite sure where Brian was going with this. "Still living day to day."

"Then why are you spending all your time sitting around here? Don't you have vintage comics to sell, or new issues of Rage to write? You should go home, Michael. I don't need you here."

Michael hesitated before replying. "Well, maybe I need to be here. Ever consider that?"

Brian's eyes were suddenly cold. "You managed quite well without me, for a long time, you know. While you and the Zen-Master and the littlest hustler were busy constructing your perfect, conventional, little Stepford-fag existence, so I fail to see . . ."

"That was wrong," Michael whispered. "I was wrong. I don't know why things went so bad for us. Or why I let myself forget what you meant to me. But . . ."

"Because it was time to move on," Brian interrupted. "Maybe that's why. It happens to all of us, sooner or later."

Michael sighed. "But we were lucky. We found our way back to each other."

"Lucky," whispered Brian. "You think we were lucky?"

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, almost overwhelmed with the upsurge of a pain too raw to process, and Brian, safely concealed within his gauze cocoon, saw it and recognized it, recalling similar ordeals he'd endured after Justin's bashing. But he was careful to suppress those memories and any indication of his understanding.

"We were fucking lucky," Michael insisted. "I could have died. You could have died. But we didn't. We're still here. Brian and Mikey. Together. Invincible."

Brian took a moment, struggling to swallow around the lump in his throat, before responding. "You think we're invincible?"

"Of course, we are. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

"Yeah. Life is beautiful, right? Everything's gonna be right as rain?"

"Right, Dude. You're Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake! You'll always be young. You'll always be beautiful."

If he'd been listening then, he'd have heard Cynthia's hoarse inhalation and, perhaps, understood what it meant. But he wasn't listening. He was deep into his fondest fantasy - the notion that his were the magic words that would always renew Brian's courage and fuel his ability to reclaim his life.

He was smiling as he gazed down into Brian's eyes, until he noticed that it was not joy or confidence or contentment he was reading in those hazel depths. It was rage. And when Brian decided to speak, after several moments of painful silence, there was not an ounce of warmth or affection in his voice.

"Have you looked at me, Michael? Have you bothered to look and see what's really here, instead of what you want to see?"

The smile forgotten, Michael could only shake his head and whisper, "I can't see anything, Brian. I can't . . ."

"Then maybe it's time you did."

"Brian, please . . .

"Please what?" No gentleness now. No irony. No compassion. Just hard, bitter anger, and blatant impatience. "Please say what you want to hear. Please smile and be grateful for your little cheerleader routine? Tell you what, Mikey. Let me show you something, and then we'll see if you still feel like cheering."

He gestured then toward Nurse Beck who was waiting nearby, and she stepped close and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Are you sure?" she asked, obviously uncomfortable in the role he'd assigned her to play.

"Gotta be done," he answered, without a trace of uncertainty.

She only hesitated for a moment; then she methodically and efficiently cut away the bandages that covered his face. And Michael found himself rooted to the spot - wanting to turn and run, wanting to refuse to see, but unable to move a muscle.

Then it was done. The bandages were gone, and Brian's face was bare, and Michael wanted to look away. Wanted to refuse to see the ruin of the face that he had loved for more than half his life. Wanted to be anywhere - but here.

To everyone's astonishment, Brian managed to dredge up a small chuckle. "Do you have any idea how pathetic you are? Do you realize that it's not me who needs reassurance? That it's you who needs someone to prop you up? To let you believe in your silly daydreams"

"Brian, I . . ."

"Say it!" Hard and sharp and unforgiving, and demanding obedience.

"I . . ."

"Say it, Michael! Recite your little litany. Shout it out to the world, like always."

"You'll always be . . ."

"Oh, no, no, no." Taunting now, and cruel, as he had never been cruel before. "You have to say it all. Every word."

Michael could barely draw breath, and when he did manage to speak, his voice was only a whisper. "You're . . . Brian Kinney . . . for fuck's sake. You'll always be . . . young. You'll always . . . be . . ."

Then he fell silent, unable to continue, and Brian's face - a wretched reminder of what it had once been - twisted into a macabre smile. "Yeah. That's what I thought. Go home, Michael. Your silly fantasies are not going to fix this, and there's no need for you to hang around any more. I don't want you here. That part of my life is over. We are over."

Michael hesitated for a moment, his face as pale and still as frost, before turning to make his escape. But he stopped as he reached the door and spoke once more, pointedly avoiding looking back at his old friend's ruined face. "You always told me that . . . you loved me."

And Brian tried, with every ounce of his strength, to resist the urge to reply, but, in the end, could not quite manage it. "Always have," he whispered. "Always will."

But it was barely a breath, far too softly spoken for Michael to hear.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You know," drawled Chris McClaren, after Michael's departure, "I'm really fucking glad I'm not your best friend."

"Me, too," said Nurse Beck, who knew plenty about suffering and found it easy to recognize when she saw it, but not so easy to explain or rationalize.

"Thanks."

If the FBI agent had hoped to provoke Brian into explaining his reasons for his treatment of his old friend, he realized he was doomed to failure. So he elected to try a more direct approach. "Why'd you do that?"

For a while, Brian was silent, lying still as Nurse Beck replaced his bandages. Then, when he did choose to answer, he started with a question. "What does your dossier say about me - about the people who are closest to me?"

McClaren, Brian noted with approval, did not respond quickly, taking time to consider his answer. "It mentions that you have almost no contact with your blood relatives. It mentions young Taylor, of course, and Ms. Peterson. And your son, of course, although your ties to him are not exactly common knowledge."

"And?"

McClaren sighed. "And your lifelong friendship with Novotny and his family."

"So it's a pretty fair bet that anyone who really wanted to harm me might choose to go after them. Right?"

The FBI agent thought about it for a moment before answering. "Possible, but not likely. What are they going to do - go after anybody in Pittsburgh who ever smiled at you? Or sucked your dick?"

Brian managed a grin. "Better hope not, or you're going to run out of cops for guard duty."

"Still, that was pretty fucking cruel."

Brian huffed an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, well, Michael is like a fucking pit bull. Once he sinks his teeth in, the only way to get rid of him is with a fucking taser gun."

"Okay, but you didn't tell him that they're going to be able to repair the damage to your face. You could have at least . . ."

Brian turned then and fixed McClaren with a cold glare. "You really trust that Dr. Pygmalion can deliver on his promises? What if he can't? Am I supposed to tell my friends - the only people I really give a shit about - that everything's going to be OK, when I don't have any way of knowing if he can really do what he says?" He turned away then and closed his eyes. "I don't make promises unless I know I can keep them."

McClaren simply stared at him for a while before offering a wry response. "Of course, you don't."

Nurse Beck continued her task, keeping her opinions to herself, but communicating her feelings through the gentleness of her touch. "Ready for your candy, Sport?" she asked finally, affixing the last bit of adhesive to his bandages.

"A Dilaudid cocktail?" he asked hopefully. "Or maybe a joint - for medicinal purposes only, of course?"

Her smile would have surprised a lot of people who thought of her as drill-sergeant material. "Dream on, Stud. Now - or later?"

"Not quite yet," he replied, the look in his eyes saying what he could never bring himself to verbalize, mainly because he sensed that she would be uncomfortable should he speak it. She would not like having anyone know that she had a soft spot for this particular patient - or any patient, for that matter.

"Brian," said Cynthia, a faint but unmistakable note of urgency in her tone, "this was hard on you. You need to . . ."

"I will," he answered. "But I need to see Emmett first." He looked toward McClaren. "Want to see if you can find him for me?"

The FBI agent moved toward the door. "Sure. I've spent my whole life training to be your errand boy."

"Smart ass," Brian muttered, as the door closed behind the agent.

"Reminds me of someone else I know," observed Nurse Beck, startling a short, painful burst of laughter from her patient. Then she paused to smile down at him. "I'll make sure they're waiting for your call. Just buzz when you're ready."

"You're too good to me," he replied, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Only because I'm so charmed by that hot little ass," she retorted, eliciting another laugh.

"Shame on you, Beck. Your grandchildren would be so disappointed."

"My grandchildren," she answered with a smirk, "are all teen-aged girls, and they'd
think that their granny has excellent taste."

When she was gone, Cynthia moved close and regarded him with a sardonic smile. "Another convert to the Kinney fan club. For someone who professes to despise all straight people, you're developing quite a following among the members of the opposing team."

Instead of offering his customary snarky response, he took a moment to think about what she'd said, his tone pensive and contemplative. "Do you suppose the world is really changing?" he asked, as if the thought was strange, almost incomprehensible, to him.

"One homophobe at a time?" she replied, her smile twisting into a slight smirk.

He shrugged slightly, before remembering that shrugging was among those movements best left unpracticed in his current state. "Shit!" he muttered.

"Do you really care?" she asked then, surprised to realize that she was actually curious.

He only paused for a micro-moment before looking up at her with a sparkle in his eyes. "Not in the least."

Her face relaxed into a broad grin, as she realized that the resilient, irrepressible Brian Kinney she knew and loved - or hated, depending on the moment - was actually enjoying a comeback. It felt a little like coming home after a long, unpleasant journey.

She hesitated then, knowing what she wanted to say, but uncertain of how he would react. Still, she had never developed a habit of curbing her tongue in their conversations, and she was not planning to start now.

"You know, of course, that Michael may never be able to recover from this."

He nodded. "I know."

"Then why . . ."

"Because he already has what he needs. Because there's nothing more that I can do for him, except . . ."

"Except?"

He took a deep breath. "Except make sure that he doesn't lose it . . . because of me."

"And when you've managed to push them all away? What then?"

"Then they'll be safe."

And then, for perhaps the first time in her life, Cynthia did curb her tongue, did refuse to speak the next thing that popped into her head. Because she was virtually certain it would elicit no response except for a deep, almost empty silence.

But oh, she wanted to say it. Wanted to toss it out there, to try to spur a reaction. But she didn't, and it went unspoken. But then, as she looked into his eyes, she was almost certain that he heard it anyway, and responded exactly as she'd known he would.

And you'll be alone. In her mind, it was almost a scream.

And the only answer was a whisper in the darkness, a pale shadow moving deep in his eyes.

I know.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ben stayed up long past his regular bedtime, ostensibly working on his lesson plan, but mostly just sitting and listening to the rain.

Michael had gone to bed early, after managing - in fits and starts - to give an account of his confrontation with Brian, initially inspiring Ben to want nothing more than to go tearing down to Allegheny General and administer a thorough tongue-lashing to the young man who had once claimed to be Michael's best friend.

Only he knew it wouldn't do any good. Brian would simply sit there in his bed, and take it, and probably say nothing in his own defense, accepting the fact that he had it coming. Which, of course, raised a pertinent question. If he knew he was being cruel and vindictive and malicious when he'd delivered his verbal diatribe, then why had he done it?

And the answer - like the question - was unavoidable.

Fuck!

Ben had heard the story - from several different sources - of the catastrophic birthday party Brian had thrown for Michael when he'd turned thirty. When Ted and Melanie and Emmett had recited their versions of the events of that night, Ben's response had been to wonder how Michael had ever managed to forgive such treachery. But then, he'd heard the rest of the story from Debbie, and later, from Justin, and realized what Brian had really done.

Despite his own misgivings - which, in time, had proved to be entirely correct - he had given Michael what everyone else believed to be the opportunity of a lifetime; the chance to build a life with the sophisticated and well-heeled physician. It was only later, when the entire group had begun to see the changes wrought in Michael by his relationship with the good doctor, that most of them had begun to question their original perceptions.

Ben couldn't actually imagine a pretentious, affected, self-important Michael, but he had no choice but to believe that he had existed, as he'd heard it from Michael himself. And from others who were quick to agree, although never - not even via innuendo - from Brian.

But nothing that happened later changed the fact that Brian had sacrificed the relationship which had been a vitally important part of his life since he'd been a kid, along with the (tenuous) good will of the entire extended family, for one single purpose - to give Michael a chance to reach for what he wanted; to be happy.

Ben had learned a lot in recent years - a lot about himself and a lot about Michael and even, in some small, remote way, a lot about Brian Kinney. Some of it he'd been grateful to learn; some - he reluctantly recalled the debacle when Hollywood had come calling in an aborted desire to make a movie out of Michael and Justin's comic book, when he had been almost consumed by a jealousy which had come close to destroying his partnership - he'd have preferred not to know. But one thing had become increasingly clear to him over the years.

He had learned to recognize love when he saw it.

Brian loved Michael, and Ben knew that. Had, in point of fact, always known it, even when he'd have preferred not to know. But the problem was that now, apparently Michael had lost the capacity to know it himself, and maybe that was for the best. Maybe being able to walk away from Brian - forever - was the thing Michael needed most, to keep him safe and protect his future. He was, after all, so hurt right now, so overwhelmed with the pain of loss and betrayal, he might never regain his equilibrium, never be able to look beneath the surface of Brian's actions to expose the meaning of it all. In addition, it seemed that Brian's enemies might be legion, as well as very well connected, so there was no way to predict how long the current precarious situation might endure.

And it was a certainty that, if Ben did nothing to help Michael find his way through this darkness, Brian would simply maintain his silence. He would just . . . let go, and, as a result, Michael would be safe and protected.

Ben felt as if he'd stumbled into a maze and was floundering for a way out. How was he to keep this truth - this enormous, life-changing truth - to himself? And if he did, if he succeeded in burying his certainty and allowed Michael to complete the process of turning his back on the man who had been a major focus of his life, was Ben really doing him a favor? Or was he condemning his beloved young partner to a life of unspoken mourning from which he would never be free, trapped for all time in a spectral grief he would never be able to express or put aside?

Fuck!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emmett had still not been able to decide how he felt about Brian's new main squeeze - except, of course, for realizing that the man was molten-lava hot. He had watched and listened as McClaren had taken their entire group to task in Brian's defense on the occasion of their first meeting, and he had felt an unexpected stirring of admiration. Not because he didn't understand the anger and resentment expressed by his friends when Brian had hurt Justin so terribly; he had felt Justin's pain like a knife in his own gut. But he'd also realized the bitter truth of McClaren's words.

No matter how much Justin had been hurt by Brian's accusations, the simple truth was that Brian had fabricated nothing, had not varied one micron from the realm of fact, although one might have argued with his interpretation of those self-same facts.

Emmett had been as uneasy and disconcerted at the conclusion of that entire ugly confrontation as any of the rest of the group. However, it was only later - in retrospect - that he had come to a startling realization. Except for Michael's customary half-hearted attempts, no one had ever made a genuine effort to defend Brian from the slings and arrows hurled by friends, enemies, or acquaintances on any number of occasions.

Brian either stood alone to defend himself or - much more commonly - simply accepted the consequences of being targeted, ignoring whatever ugliness might be thrown at him. And Emmett was amazed to recognize how frequently that had happened in the past.

It was food for extensive thought and gave him a new perspective from which to form an opinion about Chris McClaren.

Still, there was no denying that, in spite of his willingness to step forward to shield Brian from attacks - reasonable or otherwise - the man was extremely arrogant and brutally frank, impatient and relentless and sarcastic and possessed of a wicked, blade-sharp sense of humor; he was, in fact, a study in contrasts that left Emmett uncertain of whether to resent him or admire him. Or simply avoid him.

But that wasn't really a viable choice at the moment, since Brian had dispatched McClaren to summon Emmett to an audience in the master's presence.

OK, that wasn't really fair - even if Brian did frequently behave as if he were a member of the peerage, forced to deal regularly with commoners.

Still, it never really occurred to Emmett to refuse to answer the call, and he accompanied McClaren to Brian's room without protest, noting, out of the corner of his eye, that the man cut such an elegant figure, he managed to make 501's and a Notre Dame sweatshirt look as haute monde as Armani casuals.

Not unlike a certain ad exec/club owner who was, of course, deep in discussion and too busy to be disturbed when the two arrived at their destination.

The foot of Brian's bed had been converted into a display space during McClaren's absence, and Cynthia was exhibiting a sample of a promotional board for Brian's evaluation as they entered.

"This is the one Andrew prefers," she was explaining, balancing a colorful poster against the bed frame. "And Ted agrees with him, but I . . ."

"Looks like a public service promotion for Breeders Central," Brian interrupted, studying the central image of the mock-up - a slightly impressionistic watercolor of a group of families tailgating outside some anonymous sports stadium, obviously caught up in pre-game excitement and expressing their delight in the subject of the ad - First Class, a new light beer being marketed by the Scofield Brewery. It had the advantage of being bright and eye-catching, and the artwork was quite good. Except that the object of the campaign was to sell beer, not win praise for the artist.

"Yeah," agreed Cynthia with a tiny smile. "Andrew feels that it's past time for us to 'expand our horizons'." The smile widened, and Brian could almost see the quotation marks around the words she was quoting. "To broaden our appeal and stress more traditional values, so that we're not locked inside confining parameters."

Brian blinked. "He really used those words. He actually said, 'Confining parameters'? Who the fuck talks like that?"

"Howard Bellweather?" Emmett suggested, and was gratified when even the bandages obscuring Brian's face were not sufficient to conceal the man's smile.

Cynthia's grin was also an approbation. "And, apparently, the second assistant to the art director at Kinnetik Corp. So what do you . . ."

"Show me what Heath came up with."

Cynthia pulled another board out of the canvas portfolio that she'd propped against the bed. "You should probably know that Andrew was not at all pleased that you requested Heath's input, especially on such an important project. He felt that you 'undermined his authority' by going around him to his subordinate."

Brian reached out and took the new board from her hands and braced it against his knees so he could get a good look at it. It only took a moment for him to make up his mind. Then he looked up at Cynthia and said, "Did you really have to ask?"

"Nope," she answered with a smug smile, "but if I hadn't shown it to you, they'd have argued that I have no right to make such a big decision."

He was quiet for a moment, apparently considering what she'd said. Then he turned the board around to display it to the new arrivals. "What do you think?" he asked, his tone suggesting that he expected only truth.

But they both took one look and understood that this image - this campaign - practically screamed its origin.

A tall, sophisticated, beautiful man, standing at a bar and lifting an icy bottle of the new beer, as if in a toast. And - across the bar - a beautiful, red-headed woman, exquisitely dressed and displaying splendid décolleté, responding in kind. Which, in and of itself, was a startling image, unlikely to be forgotten by the target audience. But that was not the end of it. Behind the woman, just emerging from the shadows in a corner, stood another man, equally beautiful and wearing an enigmatic smile - a man who was also lifting his bottle in an identical gesture.

It would be left to the audience to decide for themselves who was toasting whom, and the slogan scrawled in script across the bottom of the poster reflected that philosophy perfectly.

"It's all about choice. First Class - or coach."

Emmett grinned. "Edgy, sexy, and with the hand of the master all over it."

McClaren was more succinct. "It's Kinnetik."

Cynthia gathered up the samples and was preparing to pack them away, when Brian grabbed her hand and tugged to bring her close to his side. "I need you to do a couple of things for me," he explained, something in his voice telling her this was a serious moment. "I need to see Andrew - like right now - and I need you to get Ted in here, so I can explain a few things."

She took a deep breath. "Brian, I am perfectly capable of doing what has to be done."

"I know that," he replied easily. "Otherwise, I'd have made other arrangements, wouldn't I?"

"I suppose, but . . ."

"It's about avoiding unnecessary friction," he explained. "If you fire him, then you're going to have to deal with the flak and the backlash. If I do it, they can't very well question me or blame you, now can they?"

"You do realize," she said slowly, "that logic has very little to do with how they're going to react." She smiled then, and her voice grew very gentle. "They're scared, Brian. Whether they'd ever admit it or not, they all know that you are the heart and soul of Kinnetik; that without you, it's just another ad agency."

He nodded. If he were prone to false modesty, he'd probably argue with her conclusions, but he wasn't, so he didn't. "In that case, we just have to make sure they understand that your voice is my voice. That you speak on my behalf, and that they'd best listen, if they know what's good for them."

Cynthia glanced uneasily toward the two men still standing in the doorway. "This is going to be especially hard . . . on certain people."

Brian turned to note the shadows forming in Emmett's eyes and knew she was right. Obviously, Emmett knew it too, but it couldn't be helped. He would do what he could to try to cushion the blow for those who would disagree - vehemently - with his choices, but, in the end, nothing would change. In the end, there were no other choices.

And what he was about to do was only going to serve to compound the problem. But - again - he had always trusted his own instincts, and now was definitely not the time to start second-guessing himself.

"You just let me worry about that," he said finally, squeezing Cynthia's hand. "And give Heath a raise. That campaign is going to make me a very rich man."

"You're already a very rich man," she retorted.

"In the immortal words of . . . whoever the fuck said it, 'You can never be too rich, or too thin'."

"The Duchess of Windsor," said Emmett.

"Gloria Vanderbilt," said Cynthia.

"Babe Paley," said McClaren.

"See?" said Brian. "Experts all."

"So I'll see you tomorrow," said Cynthia as she finished packing up her portfolio. "And I'll send Andrew in first thing in the morning. When do you want Ted here?"

"Tonight," answered Brian absently, "but hold on a second. I need you to hear what I have to say to Emmett. This will impact you as well."

She paused then, a speculative gleam rising in her eye, and Brian almost smiled as he realized how well he knew her and how easily he could read her mind. She did not - quite - say, "What now?" But she might as well have done.

"Brian?" said Emmett slowly, as he came toward the bed. "You're making me nervous. What's going on? Why would . . ."

Brian lifted a hand to silence the big Nelly bottom, and took a moment to choose his words. But, after a few seconds of silence, he simply took a deep breath and said what needed saying, apparently realizing there was no way to cushion the blow.

"I'm not going to be here, Emmett," he announced. "And I need you to fill in for me."

Emmett gaped, and it was immediately obvious that he could not figure out which detail of Brian's statement to question first. So he went with the obvious.

"What do you mean, you're not going to be here?" Then his eyes widened, as a new, terrible thought occurred to him. "They haven't . . . found something else wrong, have they? You're not . . ."

"No," replied Brian quickly. "No, I'm not dying. But I am severely damaged. And I need time to adjust. And to heal. And to figure out where I go from here and how I deal with everything. So I'm going to be away for a while."

"Away? Away where? Why would you . . ."

"You don't need to know that, Emmett."

Emmett just stared at him for a while, obviously trying to get his mind around this new, unexpected development. When he spoke again, he sounded uncertain, almost frightened. "You're not going to be alone, are you? I mean, this is not some 'Phantom of the Opera' scenario, where you disappear into your own dark little abyss and spy on us from the rafters - or something. Is it?"

"He won't be alone," said Chris McClaren, moving up to stand on the other side of the bed, his eyes almost opaque, revealing nothing beyond a glint of impatience.

Emmett nodded. "Well. That's good then." Then he smiled. "Guess I've been around Teddie too much. Too much La Traviata and not enough Seinfeld. But what did you mean? About me, filling in for you? How could I possibly . . ."

"Actually," said Cynthia slowly, realization dawning in her eyes, "it's a splendid idea. You'd be perfect."

"For what? Dancing on the bar at Babylon? I mean, not that I wouldn't love to, but . . ."

"To run Babylon for me." Brian's words were clipped and sharp, and filled with absolute certainty.

Emmett blinked, and he actually gulped for air before stammering a response. "Are you . . . you can't . . . you've lost your fucking mind."

Brian shifted and leaned forward enough to lay his hand on Emmett's shoulder. "Listen to me, Honeycutt. Are you listening?"

Emmett was still fighting for breath. "I'm listening," he finally managed to reply. "And don't call me Honeycutt."

"Think about it, Emmett. I've got Ted to handle the financial end of things, and I've got a club manager to take care of stocking and inventory and staffing. But what - when you get right down to bedrock - is Babylon? When you eliminate everything else, Babylon is just a big, expensive party. Only it happens every night. Not just once in a while. And who, after all, is the pre-eminent party planner in the Pitts?"

But Emmett was shaking his head. "But, Brian, I know zero - zilch - absolutely nothing about running a business. This is . . . crazy."

"Actually," Brian replied calmly, "you know plenty about it. You just call it by a different name. The expertise you have isn't something that a person learns. It's something you either know, or you don't know - something you're born with. It's about making people happy - giving them a chance to enjoy themselves. To have fun." His voice was suddenly filled with undeniable humor. "And to fuck, of course."

Emmett grinned. "Can't forget that, can we? But I'm . . . Brian, Babylon is your baby. What if I fuck it up? And how do I find the time anyway? I'm . . ."

Brian gave a half shrug. "This isn't a 9-to-5 thing, you know. There's plenty of staff to handle the day to day running of the business. What I need from you is . . . inspiration, for lack of a better term. Someone to come up with ideas for the special events, the promotions, the contests. The fun stuff. And I can't think of anyone better suited . . ."

"You know," said Emmett suddenly, his voice taking on a speculative tone, "I have always thought about things I'd do, if it were up to me, that is. Like a Barbra impersonation night. And a Scarlet O'Hara ball theme. And a Cabaret celebration. And . . ."

"And," said Brian, sounding very self-satisfied, "you'd be making a good living while you're at it. A very good living."

"How good?" Emmett asked quickly. As a product of a very poor Mississippi family, he had never lost his penchant for focusing on the money.

Cynthia considered for a moment, then scrawled a figure on the message pad beside the bed. She showed it to Brian first, who nodded; then she handed it to Emmett, who blinked. Twice.

"Well?" said Brian.

Emmett looked up then, and focused on Brian's eyes. "But . . . you're coming back - right? This is just temporary. Right?"

"Does that make a difference in whether or not you accept the offer?" Brian asked quickly.

"Nooooo," Emmett answered slowly. "But . . ."

"Then it's immaterial," Brian continued. "So - what do you say?"

"I say . . . yes," answered Emmett finally, unable to suppress a delighted smile. "Yes. Absolutely, yes."

He leaned forward then, and dropped a kiss on a bare spot of skin above Brian's ear.

"All right, all right. Don't get moist."

"Thank you, Brian. I'm . . . honored. To know that you trust me, I mean. And I won't do anything without your approval. I promise."

Brian looked up again to meet his eyes. "Yes, you will. You'll have to, because you won't be able to reach me. Not for a while anyway. If you need guidance, or help in making decisions, then Cynthia will be available. I . . . won't."

Emmett saw it then, saw the dark truth lurking within those beautiful hazel eyes.

Brian believed he was never coming back - that this goodbye was forever. Emmett wanted to deny it, to offer reassurance. But he couldn't, because he just didn't know.

Perhaps Brian was right.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~