"Epilogue"

And still I dream he'll come to me,
That we will live the years together,
But there are dreams that cannot be,
And there are storms we cannot weather.

I Dreamed a Dream -- Les Miserables -- Herbert Kretzmer


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

It had been a long, hot, dry summer - significantly hotter and drier than in years past - and the countryside had suffered for it. But autumn was finally ascendant, and the landscape had softened in its wake, bursting into the unique hues and gem-tones of Indian summer. Areas that had been semi-parched, in a draught resulting from a growing climactic crisis that was such a political hot potato that almost no one dared to address it, were now awash with color - garnet and coral and topaz and amethyst that contrasted magnificently against resurgent greens. Even the towering old trees along the river looked to have regained some measure of vitality, regenerating in shades rivaling the exuberance of spring just for a little while, just long enough to flare into brilliance in an act of rebellion against the onslaught of winter's first cool breath.

A respite, perhaps, from the catastrophic effects of the perpetually ignored elephant in the room that was rapidly becoming the legacy - and the bain - of the human race, the American persuasion, in particular.

It was late in the day when the motorcycle topped the hill and slid to a stop, throwing up gravel in a thick arch over a restraining rail and disturbing the silence in a narrow lay-by that overlooked a bend in the river and the valley spread out around it. The amber quality of the afternoon light - tinted by strata of storm clouds gathering in the northwest - tended to emphasize the fire-touched ambience of the landscape, softening lines and blurring silhouettes and blending scarlet into auburn into beaten gold, and turning the waters of the river into a blue so intense it almost seemed artificial, as if drabbled onto a canvas from a painter's brush, its mirror surface not quite perfect in effect, as the water's current distorted its reflections into a Matisse-style collage of expressionistic form and function.

It had been beautiful in the spring; breathtaking in fact. He had been unprepared for it to be even more beautiful in the fall, but then again, he had not been entirely certain that he would retain the ability to examine the vista and judge it for himself. And was it, he wondered, that it was as beautiful as he found it, or was it simply that he could not quite suppress the exultation of being able to see it at all? It had only been a couple of months since such an experience would have been beyond his reach.

He shuddered a bit, feeling the cold even through the exquisite warmth of his custom-crafted Langlitz leathers, which did not quite fit him perfectly - yet. He was glad that the new set had been ordered prior to his forceful reintroduction to the concept of his own mortality, for it went without saying that he could never bring himself to wear the old jacket again - even if it hadn't been mutilated beyond repair. He had been relieved to find the new outfit waiting for him when he'd been ready to step back into his former life, and doubly relieved to note that the exquisite garments had been tailored to fit his PT - pre-trauma - body.

He was not quite back to that perfect form yet, but it was getting closer each day. He was working hard to regain it, despite the fact that his doctors - all of them - had tried everything short of tying him down and dosing him with morphine to dissuade him. They'd all claimed he wasn't ready, that he was still too weak.

He alone had known better; he . . . and one other.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and allowed himself a scrap of memory - a scrap he seldom examined at all.

It was a striking face, still alive in his mind - classic and beautiful and incredibly seductive. And now - it always would be. He did not consciously acknowledge that he would never see it again, but he knew it just the same.

Incredible eyes that could shift from glints of laughter to storm-cloud shadows of anger at the turn of a phrase - or the lift of an eyebrow, aglitter with impatience or afire with passion. He had never quite been able to determine which he found more alluring.

He had never intended to end it all with what McClaren had termed a "fare-thee-well fuck" - but it had happened that way no matter what he'd intended. One moment they'd been standing on the terrace of his private room in Dr. Griffin's clinic, feeling something drawing near in the darkness - sensing the end at hand - gazing out toward a storm looming in the West that bathed the mountains in garish flickers of liquid metal, and the next they'd been reeling back into the room, smashing into furniture, tearing off clothes and fighting through obstacles, scaring the hell out of the young nurse's aide who'd come in bearing a supper tray only to have it sent flying through the air by a stray elbow and the two firm bodies that were so intent on getting skin-to-skin with each other that they'd never even noticed the girl's presence.

It had been fast and bruising hard and desperate in an attempt to etch the moment and the sensations indelibly on minds that could no longer pretend to be unaware that this would be the last time, that all the times during recent months when they'd resisted the urge to take each other would surely come back to haunt them now when the opportunities were fading into memory, when 'could have' was morphing into 'should have - but didn't'. Few words had been spoken, but fewer still had been needed - especially at one particular moment when the entire world had frozen into a brilliant silver vignette within a bold streak of lightening, as hazel eyes had looked down to meet faceted blue and read the truth there, a truth that was reflected from one to the other and then back again, but would forever go unspoken.

Afterward, when darkness had fallen and the room was only a chiaroscuro pool of shadows, patterned in the flicker of street lights refracted by sluices of rain assaulting the windows, McClaren had risen from the floor (they had never actually managed to find the bed), gathered his clothes, and hesitated just long enough to look down and read the expression on that sculpted face and identify the soft pain reflected in eyes now miraculously restored and regaining strength and focus with every passing hour. The FBI agent had knelt then - barely long enough to drop one last kiss on lips swollen from the passionate force of their encounter - before standing up and walking away.

Brian had risen and moved toward the window, naked and cold, to stare out into the downpour that continued outside even though the storm front had already moved on. Neither had turned to look back.

It had been a betrayal, he supposed; not his first, probably not his last. Just as there had been other betrayals, wrongs done to him more than ones done by him; he knew all about those. He had received information from a variety of sources, from almost everyone he knew - almost - and all of them had seemed eager to insert knife and twist, accordingly.

Old habits, it seemed, died very hard.

Yet, he had surprised them all with his calm acceptance of their words and his lack of passionate response, because he understood what they did not - that the details they were so eager to relate were simply trivial examples of idle moments - that they hadn't actually meant anything. Not yet.

Perhaps they would become more important later; perhaps his own indiscretions would be redefined in time as well. But not, he was fairly certain, his final parting from Chris McClaren.

That had been different; that had been something separate and apart and forever private; he was pretty sure it would probably be discerned sooner or later, although he doubted it would ever be mentioned or discussed.

Now, in the waning light of day, he sat astride his bike - a brand new Road King Classic, vintage bronze and black, with an engine that rumbled with a primal, guttural roar - and looked out across the valley. He had been right when he'd looked upon it for the first time and sensed that it would form the perfect framework for the perfect house, the construct that would be a perfect expression of the art and creativity of its co-designer. He had even anticipated that; it had gone without saying that Justin would be unable to resist an urge to adjust and adapt and transform any proffered blueprints into images that reflected his own eye for beauty.

Brian did not know its name; did not know if it even had one; but he knew the title it would always bear in his mind: Chateau Justin.

Ridiculously romantic, of course, but no one would ever have to know about it, unless . . .

His smile was classically sardonic Brian Kinney, as he reflected that it was not quite time yet to examine that thought and follow it through to its natural conclusion.

The house was exactly as he had foreseen it - not feature by feature, of course. Brian knew no more about architecture than about coal-mining or bridge-building or oil-drilling, and felt no compulsive need to learn about the subject. But there was one thing he did know; he knew style; he knew perfection of form, and it stood before him now, in its final stages of completion.

He turned off the bike's motor and pocketed the keys, sitting for a moment to enjoy the silence before pushing the big Harley further into the lay-by, positioning it so that it was partially concealed among a small cluster of white birch saplings. It wasn't really an effort to hide it. This was, to all intents and purposes, a private road, and traffic was almost non-existent.

Still, there was a certain amount of risk in leaving it unattended, but there was no help for it.

He would not announce his arrival in the roar of an engine and a cloud of dust.

He would walk into his future - good or bad. It was ridiculously symbolic, but it was the right thing to do.

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

He had never expected to develop a fondness for wine. He associated products of the vintner's art with his mother's generation, or with . . . other people. Still, he was forced to admit that he become rather fond of the chocolate undertones of the Foley Petit Sirah he had discovered in the pantry/cum wine cellar tucked away behind the kitchen area of the Kinnetik office building. It had been Cedric Lasseigne who'd introduced him to it, and now it had become a part of his sunset ritual - a reward he gave himself at the end of every productive day.

Lately, all his days had been productive, although not in the way casual acquaintances might have expected.

Except for one thing - one thing which involved the art that everyone expected him to pursue. But this pursuit was of a different variety.

He was sprawled on a thickly cushioned chaise beside the swimming pool that occupied the heart of the courtyard that lay within the wings of the U-shaped house, with a rattan and glass table at his side holding the chilled wine bottle, ready to refill his Baccarat goblet at his convenience. If this day proved to be like most others recently, the bottle would be empty by the time he decided to call it a night. To his left was the covered lanai that fronted on the more public areas of the house - living and dining areas, study, and media room, all overlooked by a balcony area that was the sensual heart of the house - the ultimate in luxury and comfort - and could just glimpse the flicker of the flames that danced within the fireplace fronting on a sunken seating area. He had started building a fire every afternoon of late. The temperature outside wasn't really cold yet, but the fire produced a sense of comfort that he welcomed after a long day.

The area behind him housed the main entrance, central hall and stairway, along with the kitchen, serving, and utility areas. It was practical and useful, but no less beautiful than the rest of the structure.

To his right was the wing devoted to bedrooms (one upstairs, two down) baths (one each per bedroom) and a cozy private lounging area which led to the large space that was reserved for private use: a spa, a private office, and his studio.

It had been little used of late. In fact, it only contained two easels, displaying two paintings. One was still in its early developmental stage; just bits of sketching and shadings - a line here, a shadow there, a dash of color connecting two blank areas. Its subject was, nevertheless, recognizable to anyone who might get close enough to take a good look. So far, no one had been allowed to do so.

The other easel displayed a finished product - familiar, encompassing a mélange of memories, and yet . . . At one time, he'd believed he knew exactly what message it conveyed. Who could possibly know better, after all, as he had created it himself? And yet it now seemed to reach out through the space between them and challenge him to reevaluate that message, to see it and interpret it as someone else had done.

He looked up to the north, where a jetliner was leaving a contrail across pale scraps of cirrus clouds, and lifted his glass to his lips, noting in the process that his hand was still streaked with drips of the bright enamel he had used in the filigree details of the ceramic squares he was customizing for completion of the work on the rim of the hot tub that occupied an elevated space beside the spiral stairway leading down from the master suite - copper and bronze and a subtle, acidic green. The perfect colors for . . .

No. Not ready yet to examine his motivations for choosing those colors, which echoed the creams and rusts and mocha richness of the suite itself.

He had been careful to avoid certain themes and colors: no grays, no blacks, no frigid blue light, no silver. As different as he could make it from the place which had previously been designated as home.

He had even, at one time, considered decorating the entire house in brilliant pastels and floral prints - chintzes and satin moirés and brocades - a complete defiance of everything he had once shared with the man who had always called the shots, always been the maven of taste and arbiter of beauty.

Only, in the end, he couldn't do it.

He still did not know whether or not he would ever share this house with the man who had claimed his heart so long ago, but he had been unable to convince himself to give up on the possibility and turn it into a place from which Brian would retreat in horror, probably without ever actually addressing its hideous nature.

Thus, he had created it and decorated it and told himself that it was all an exercise in style and fashion and artistic endeavor, never acknowledging the little voice in his head that laughed at him and crowed over the fact that every fabric, every texture - from raw silk to hand-polished wood to gleaming granite - and every hue, every shade of sable or moss or amber, was something that would co-ordinate with every splinter of color within the wonder of Brian's eyes or the dark gleam of his hair.

He would fit in perfectly - provided he ever saw it.

Oh, he would come. Of that, Justin had no doubt, but he would not intrude; would not force his way in. Would come and stand in silence, waiting for the verdict. Justin's verdict.

For - in the end - that was the sum of what he had learned as he'd gone about building this house and trying to find a way to forgive Brian for what he had done.

Only . . . he looked up again and found the painting looking back at him.

Never Again.

That had been his name for it; that had been the truth of it, but he had come to believe that it was only a version of truth, a façade that he had never understood until forced to look at it through new eyes.

He stared at that face - that perfect, beloved face - and closed his eyes to remember.

By the time the knock sounded at the door of the loft, he was close to panic. He had tried everything he could think of, called everyone he knew, and ranted, raved, cajoled, threatened, even tried a bit of bluster and coercion - all to no avail. It had been four days - four days since he had come sailing through that door, so eager to claim his place in his lover's arms that he had barely registered that the loft was dark and silent.

It had taken several minutes - and an exhaustive search of the premises - for him to accept that his eyes were not deceiving him; Brian was nowhere to be found.

In a matter of hours, he had come face to face with an unbearable truth. Brian was gone, and he could not figure out where he should look next.

It was not, of course, that no one else knew where Brian was; it was that no one would tell him. He had spoken to Cynthia, to Lance Mathis, to Michael and Emmett and Liam Quinn, and - in desperation - to Debbie Novotny. All to no avail. Some of them obviously knew more than they were willing to say, but none of them offered him so much as a clue for finding the truth. They did, of course, offer sympathy and commiseration and a willingness to assign blame and express indignation. They were obviously hoping to make him feel better, but it hadn't worked. None of the vitriolic denunciations of Brian as a 'selfish asshole' or a 'cruel little prick' made him feel any better, while the other responses - the strange silences and the furtive, sympathetic glances - only served to alarm him more, because the final, unavoidable truth was that Brian himself was beyond reach; no cell phone response, no voice mail, no email or Facebook or Skyping, no nothing.

He was just . . . missing.

When the knock finally came, he had been so convinced that it had to be Brian - completely disregarding the obvious truth that Brian would have no need to knock at his own door - that he had raced through the loft, torn open the door, and thrown himself into the arms of the man standing in the corridor.

He'd been very lucky that Chris McClaren had been strong enough - and braced enough - to catch him and save him from a tumble down the stairs.

He interrupted his musing just long enough to pour himself another glass of wine. He had no idea how many times he'd gone over that memory in his mind - many more times than he'd have liked at any rate - but he'd never been able to put it behind him. He sometimes wondered which of them had been more bothered by what had come next.

"I had no idea you'd miss me so much," McClaren drawled, while making sure that the young blond was sturdy enough to stand on his own feet.

"Oh, fuck you!" Justin almost snarled. "What are you doing here?"

McClaren walked into the loft and took a seat at the bar, taking one quick look around to note the chaotic condition of the ordinarily spotless apartment. "I'm here to deliver a message - if you want to hear it."

Justin went perfectly still then, the door behind him gaping open, and the lyrics spreading out from the sound system suddenly more ominous than he would have dreamed possible.

"Another shot of whiskey, can't stop looking at the door,
Wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before.
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind . . ."*

Why on earth, he'd wondered, had he selected Lady Antebellum to keep him company while he drank and worried?

He moved quickly to shut it off, leaving a deep, pregnant silence in its wake.

Finally, Justin took a deep breath and moved to stand behind the bar where a bottle of JB sat, awaiting his attention. He poured out two generous portions, and nudged one toward the FBI agent before looking up to study the expression of the man to whom he owed so much in some ways - and so little in others.

"He sent you then?" he said finally. "Guess that in itself should tell me what I need to know."

"Actually," replied McClaren, "he didn't. He didn't exactly 'send' anybody. In point of fact, I volunteered. Sort of."

"Why would you . . ."

"Do you want to hear this, or not?" There was no way to avoid noticing the spark of bright, bitter anger flaring in icy blue eyes. "Because frankly, it's not exactly my idea of of a fun experience. I didn't want to do this; he knew that, so he never pressured me. Never asked me to do it. I could have just walked away - exactly the way you did, every single time you got the chance."

"What? What the . . ."

"Just shut up and listen - and, if we're both blessed with a little luck and a little patience, maybe you'll see the whole picture once I'm done. Or maybe you won't, but - in either case - it'll be your choice, and that's the part that meant the most to him - and the reason, by the way, that he never asked anyone to speak on his behalf. So . . ." He paused to take a deep draught of the pricy bourbon, before launching into the narrative that he'd rehearsed over and over again during his flight back to Pittsburgh.

He took a glance at his watch before resuming. "Right about now, Brian is being wheeled into a recovery room where he'll be monitored until he regains consciousness. He's just undergone the first of several surgeries that might - if he's lucky - save his vision. Or . . . might not."

"What? What do you mean? What's wrong with his . . ."

"He's been losing his sight, Justin. Ever since the first attack. The beating damaged something in his optic nerve center, and it's been deteriorating ever since. The doctor who's treating him has come up with an experimental procedure that might, might be successful. But there are no guarantees. Prior to this, there was no treatment for it. Nine out of ten of those afflicted with it went blind. A few were lucky enough to retain some percentage of their sight, but not many and not much."

Justin blinked and felt as if the world had just twisted beneath him; he managed - barely - to stagger across the room and collapse into Brian's favorite Barcelona chair, just before his strength deserted him completely. For a while neither of them spoke, as Justin struggled to take it in, to understand what he had learned and to . . . but no. That explanation was beyond him.

"Why . . . why didn't he tell me? I mean, he sent you here to make this announcement . . ."

"No. He didn't. He wouldn't even tell me what to say or how to explain it. He wouldn't 'write the script'. That's how he phrased it."

"But . . . I don't understand. Why . . ."

McClaren shrugged, and opened a leather binder that he'd been carrying under his arm since he'd walked through the door. Within was a slim manila folder. "That you'll have to figure out for yourself. As for his condition, I've brought you a file that explains how the damage happened, and what he can expect, while giving some idea of what the treatment entails and what his chances are. The program is still experimental, so nothing is certain, but it'll fill in the blanks for you - including providing some kind of timeline, so you get some idea of how long the treatment will take, and when he might know if it's going to work."

Justin sat forward and clasped his hands between his knees, hard enough to render his knuckles white and bloodless. "Brian . . . blind! It . . . I can't even imagine it. He must be terrified." He looked up then, his own eyes haunted and full of fear. 'Is he? Is he terrified?"

McClaren smiled. "What do you think?"

Justin sighed. "I think he wouldn't admit it if he was panic-stricken."

The FBI agent nodded. "Shows that you know him well - almost as well as he knows you."

Justin stood then, and walked to the window, noting absently that a soft rain was falling, reducing sharp lines and angles to blurs of color as afternoon crept toward twilight. "What the fuck does that mean, Man? You keep hinting about how well he knows me, which seems to suggest that there are things about myself that I need to learn - or to change. Why did he . . ."

"I have a confession to make," the FBI agent interrupted."The day before you left, I . . . I showed him your painting - the one you called 'The Fire'. The one you hid in Cynthia's office."

Justin's eyes were huge by that time, and thick with shadows that served to emphasize a hard glint of resentment. "Did it never occur to you that I'd have shown him myself - if I'd wanted him to see it."

"Of course, it did. So . . . why didn't you? What was it that you didn't want him to see?"

"I don't think that's any of your . . ."

"Would you like to know what he said when he saw it?"

Justin tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, tried to speak but found himself incapable of forming an answer.

McClaren did not wait for one. "He said that it was half of the story of who you were, and of the part he plays in your life. Only half."

"I don't understand."

McClaren rose then, and walked to the semi-shadowed entryway into the private gallery that Brian had built for Justin's artwork. He did not hesitate when the coded lock was before him, entering the correct sequence of numbers without a second thought. The door opened silently, and he stepped into the small, elegant room, pausing only long enough to allow Justin to follow him inside.

The young artist approached in silence, and his steps seemed reluctant, but he came nevertheless, obviously unable to resist the compulsion to learn what else the FBI agent might have to say.

When they stood side by side before the portrait of Brian named "Never Again", McClaren hesitated briefly, obviously struggling to find the right words, but knowing he had come too far to stop now.

"This is the other half of the story, according to Brian. When he realized that I was going to come to you, to tell you where he was and what was happening, he refused to tell me what to say. He wouldn't tell me why, but I think it was because he knows you too well. Rightly or wrongly, he believes that any explanation he might offer would coerce you, would manipulate you into doing what he wants you to do. You call this painting 'Never Again'. But that's not what he calls it."

"What . . . what do you mean?"

"He calls it'Unforgiven'. Can you guess why?"

Justin closed his eyes as a dull, throbbing pain formed inside him. "Because he thinks I've never forgiven him, or maybe because he's never forgiven himself. But how can I . . ."

"No." McClaren's voice was curiously gentle. "No, you've got it wrong."

"Then what . . ."

"Sorry, Boytoy, but that part of the equation, you've got to figure out for yourself. Think about it; think about Brian and what he really believes."

"Did he ever love me?"

Roughly, McClaren reached out and grasped Justin's face with bruising fingers. "You're not that stupid. Or - if you are - than you don't deserve to have a chance to put it all right. What is he giving you, Boy? What is he offering?"

He turned to walk away, but Justin reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "Wait. How did you know about this place - this painting? Nobody knew . . ."

The smile was the one that McClaren usually reserved for Brian Kinney, and it made Justin's inner ache feel stronger and harsher. "Brian did," came the answer, "and he chose to tell me. Now, what does that tell you?"

Justin turned away. "It's not fair. I can't even call him. I can't even ask him . . ."

McClaren shrugged, and dug into his pocket to pull out a brand new cell phone. "Of course, you can. His new number is already programmed in. Only - if I were you - I'd think about it for a while. If you call now, he's only going to ignore the ring."

"Why? Why would he . . ."

"Because a knee-jerk response isn't enough, Justin. He wants you to think about it. He wants you to examine it all, and figure out what you need to know, and he wants you to do it without allowing anybody else to influence what you choose to do - including him. Maybe even especially him. This is all about you, and the steps you choose to take."

"So I can't even ask for help?"

"You can do anything you like, but if you let someone else choose for you - no matter who it might be - then all of this is for nothing. And nothing changes."

Again, he turned to go.

"Are you going back to him now?" Justin tried desperately not to sound like a jealous prat, but was pretty sure that he hadn't pulled it off.

"Soon. Until his treatment is over, he's still my responsibility."

"And then?"

McClaren smiled. "Stop worrying about what I might do next; it has nothing to do with your choices."

"But what if he's . . . what if the treatment doesn't work? What if he's blind? Will you leave him then? Will you . . ."

The FBI agent took a moment to study Justin's face, obviously looking for something in those crystal blue eyes, searching - but not really finding. "What if he is? Will that change who he is? Will Brian Kinney be someone less than Brian Kinney, just because he can no longer look in the mirror and see that perfect face?"

"That's not what I meant."

The new smile was slightly smug and a bit sardonic. "Wasn't it?"

By this time, Justin was more than a little confused and uncertain and lost, but he let the moment pass as McClaren made his exit.

He had too much to think about to worry over extraneous details, even if a small voice in his mind whispered that dismissing McClaren in such a contemptuous way would probably turn out to be a big mistake.

Still - he turned back to look into the dark eyes that dominated the beautiful face in his painting, to try to read the layers of pain and betrayal that lingered there below the surface.

To try to figure out what it was that Brian saw there that was so different from what Justin had intended.

He thought it would probably be a very long night.

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

He had been right; that one night had seemed to stretch into forever, and so had many others that followed. - night after night after night, that ultimately stretched into more than four months. Four silent, lonely months.

He had spent most of that time seeking answers, but one thing spoken to him by Chris McClaren he had taken to heart. His search had happened within the limits of his own mind, his own experience.

To occupy his time and give him some external focus, he had worked with architects, designers, builders, decorators, and landscape artists to build the house of his dreams - the house that was his to keep to himself or to share, according to the legal documents Brian had signed before his departure. The land belonged to Justin outright - no codicils, no red tape, no mortgages or liens. It was his, and he had built it as he chose, breaking ground as spring had turned to summer and working almost every day thereafter.

Now, it was done. Now it was time to determine what would come next.

Brian was coming soon. He knew that much. Brian - whole and healed, vision restored . . . and still silent.

They had not spoken during the entire term of his absence; the new cell phone had never been used, and Justin only knew that the experimental treatment had been successful because Brian had kept Cynthia appraised of his condition, and allowed her to pass on the news once it was all done.

Brian was coming soon, and Justin was more frightened than he'd ever been in his life.

He believed he had finally figured out the whole truth, but - if he was wrong - then nothing else would matter much, and this house - this beautiful expression of everything most precious in his heart - would become a mausoleum, a final resting place for the only hopes he had left. In that event, he had no idea where he would go; he only knew he would not be able to stay here.

He drained the last of the wine into his glass, and decided he would take a stroll around the house. It had become almost a ritual, and the approach of nightfall had become his favorite time of day, allowing him to evaluate the house and its setting as automatic landscape lighting flared to brilliance to emphasize perfect lines and angles.

The sky, by this time, had deepened to shade like liquid sapphire in the east, which seemed to deepen all the colors of the landscape around the house as bars of amber sunlight streamed from the west. Everything seemed to be gilded and beautiful, with accents of gem-toned glitter.

He walked to the front of the house, still sipping his wine and pausing to snip off a drooping branch of Japanese viburnum, thick with deep purple foliage, and to remove a faded sprig of snowberry, its bright crimson fruit soft and fading to black. He was pleased with virtually every aspect of the house, but he was particularly happy with the landscaping, designed to emphasize the way the structure fit into its natural setting.

The colors of the foliage were particularly pleasing now, but in spring, it would be . . . He took another sip of wine, suppressing a sigh. Best not to speculate on what spring would bring, as it was possible that he would not be here to see it.

Despite the fact that the house and land was legally his property - every square inch of it - he knew that it would never be truly his, unless it was also theirs.

So maybe he should just break open another bottle of wine; or maybe he should take a run into the city. Babylon - as always - awaited his coming. He had taken to dropping in on occasion, whenever the itch required scratching. He was always welcomed, always greeted with smiles, and always successful in his search for companionship. And always - always - alone when he returned home.

Was it cheating? Sometimes he thought so; other times he knew better. One thing though was certain; the people who occupied space in his life were all supportive of whatever he might choose to do to indulge himself.

He deserved his pleasures; he deserved his choices; he deserved his . . .

He closed his eyes and visualized the faces of his friends who had gone to extreme lengths to make him feel good about himself, to feel that his actions were justified. According to all of them, he was entitled to his anger, and more than a bit of revenge.

Only - it wasn't revenge he'd gone seeking. It was enlightenment - something that Emmett and Drew and Michael and Ben and Lindsey and Cynthia and Debbie (especially Debbie) might have helped him find, if he'd only told them what it was that he really needed. He didn't need to avenge himself on Brian; he needed to understand why Brian had done what he'd done, and no amount of commiserating comments, of the "He's always been a selfish asshole, and he always will be" persuasion, was going to help him find his way to the truth.

His visits had become less frequent as the months went by, as he'd realized that he enjoyed their affection and reveled a bit in their unqualified support of his right to be outraged but, in the end, it hadn't helped him.

In the end, only two people had provided any insight at all, one deliberately - or so he believed - and one quite by accident.

He had not expected to see Ted Schmidt again after that last disastrous confrontation at the Novotny-Bruckner home; had certainly never expected him to turn up at the site of the new house, but that was exactly what had happened.

Summer had set in after a short, cool spring, and the land was already semi-parched by the time July rolled around. The building site was still in its earliest stage at that time, and Justin was deep in conversation with the primary builder when the Audi pulled up in the driveway.

By that time, it had been more than six weeks since Brian's departure, and Justin had not seen Ted at all during that time - had not, in fact, spared him a single thought. Thus, it was something of a shock when the man climbed out of his car and stood looking around, a strange, unreadable look in his eyes.

Justin finished his discussion quickly before turning to regard the visitor with some measure of uncertainty. Finally, putting aside his misgivings, he moved forward to greet the newcomer.

"Ted," he said, his voice without inflection, "what are you doing here?"

The accountant shrugged. "I figured this was going to turn into the eighth wonder of the world - for the gay community, anyway - so I thought I'd take a look at it before anyone thought to ban me from the site."

Blue eyes glinted with barely suppressed anger. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"What do you care?" The response was sharp. "He's turned his back on you now, just like he did on me, so I thought I'd just check in to see how it feels to be on the outside looking in."

"Is that what you think you see here?"

Ted laughed. "Oh, you're good, Junior. He's off - doing his martyred hero act - and you're here, playing the good little trophy wife, building his perfect house for him to come home to and enjoy - until he screws you over again. When are you going to learn?"

Justin had to bite down on his tongue to suppress an eruption of raw rage. "You don't know a thing about it, Ted. You never did."

That had given the accountant cause for a moment of reconsideration, but if Justin had expected the man to concede his own ignorance, he'd been in for a rude surprise.

Ted had laughed, but there was no joy in it. There was only snide derision. "I get it now, kid. I see exactly what you're doing. And I gotta say it - more power to you. He's going to get exactly what he deserves."

The young artist felt a stir of unease in his belly. "What . . . what the hell are you talking about?"

The laugh became an ugly smirk. "Only that it's good that you finally figured it out - and a shame that it took you so long. But now - now you've realized that he gave you the weapon you need, the power to bring him to his knees - and I hope you don't think twice before you use it. You can destroy him - and you should. He deserves whatever . . ."

"What the fuck are you going on about? I wouldn't . . ."

But Ted was still laughing, as his eyes took in all the details of the construction and the beauty of the setting. "He'll never know what hit him, will he? He'll see a palace, a haven from all the ugliness of the world. He won't realize until it's too late that you've built a gilded cage for him - using his guilt to make the bars unbreakable."

"Get out of here, Ted. You don't know . . ."

But Ted remained unconvinced. "Oh, I'm going, Boytoy. I'm on a flight tomorrow to Miami, and I'm never looking back at the Pitts again. Except to remember this - to remember how he handed you the ammunition to destroy him."

"I wouldn't . . ."

"Yeah, because we all know that sweet, innocent, vulnerable little Justin would never take advantage of the chance to make the King of Babylon eat humble pie and drown in his own guilt. He knows what kind of pain he's caused you; Brian always knows, you know. And you'd be a stupid twat not to use it against him. You can lock him up tight and throw away the key. And he'll let you do it." His face twisted then, becoming ugly and distorted and filled with bitterness. "All in the name of love, pretty boy. All in the name of love."

Then he laughed again. "So you just be sure to stick that knife in good and deep - and twist hard."

He walked away then, still chuckling, climbed into his car and drove out of sight.

Justin had barely slept for days, as he kept hearing that ugly, taunting voice in his mind. He knew that the man had been speaking out of the bitterness boiling in his own heart, knew that there was no validity in his judgments.

But he also knew that there was some glimmer of truth wrapped up in all the nasty speculation. - an ugly truth, a truth he ultimately chose to ignore.

He went on building his house, filling his days with physical and mental labor - and his nights with wine or bourbon or - occasionally - a little fruit of the weed. Still, even the most rigorous exertion did not completely silence his thoughts, and seeds, once sprouted, were damned difficult to root out.

It was more than two months later, when the tiny seedling that sprouted from an attack of pure vitriol saw light - and nourishment - for the first time.

The house had gone up in record time, aided by the fact that the summer was remarkably dry. An occasional shower would come along in the afternoon, causing minor delays, but, all in all, everything developed ahead of schedule.

The exterior was done; the painting was done both inside and outside, and only minor decorative details and technological installations remained to be completed

Justin had expected to take some satisfaction from being able to begin the moving-in process, and had decided that his first step in that direction would be a symbolic one. The main drawing room of the house was huge, featuring a wall of glass, beautiful hardwood floors, and stunning architectural components, including a massive stone fireplace surrounded by a sunken seating area. The space above the mantel had been designed to capture natural light and equipped with customized lighting in order to focus attention on whatever might be placed there.

He had thought about it long and hard, knowing what he wanted to do, but reluctant to leave himself so open, so vulnerable to disappointment.

Still, in the end, he'd had no choice.

He was on a stepladder, struggling to balance himself and the massive canvas he was carrying, when there was a knock at the door.

Unable to turn and unwilling to lay his burden aside and start over, he simply called out to advise the new arrival to enter. Only afterward did he realize that it was probably a reckless thing to do. The house was very secluded, and the security system not yet installed so a universal cart blanche to an unknown visitor was almost certainly a bad idea.

Still, he was lucky. When he turned to identify the newcomer, he was relieved to see Cedric Lasseigne standing in the doorway, carrying a covered basket in one hand and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne in the other.

"Bonjour, Cher," said the old Cajun, with a winning smile. "I thought it was time to christen the new maison." Then he paused and quickly set aside his burdens. "But mon deaux, my young friend, did no one ever teach you that it is unwise to go mountain climbing without a rope? Here, let me help you."

Justin sighed. "Thanks, mon amis. I was just beginning to figure out that this is a two-man job, at least."

Cedric moved forward to help, pausing only for the space of a heartbeat when he got a first clear look at the painting Justin was trying to hang.

He chose not to comment, but Justin knew him well enough to assume that he would have much to say - later.

When it was done, they stood side by side looking up at it.

The setting, the lighting, the arrangement was perfect, and the painting - newly framed and with its title etched in a brass plate at the bottom - was most perfect of all.

The Fire.

Lasseigne spent several minutes studying it, renewing his appreciation for his young friend's huge talents.

"Has he seen it yet?" he asked finally.

"So I'm told," Justin replied. "I wasn't there. I don't know if I'll ever be there."

The old Cajun turned to study the face of his young friend - a face every bit as beautiful as the one captured in the portrait. "You could make sure of it, you know," he said softly. "You have the means - the opportunity."

Justin's smile was pensive. "What are you talking about?"

Lasseigne shrugged. "You climb to the top of the ladder - the fact that you're in the process of hanging his most pleasing portrait would add a nice measure of relevance - and you manage to take a tumble. Nothing fatal, of course. Only - you manage to damage your spine. Spinal injuries are tricky, you know. Many times, they can't even be properly diagnosed. But they can change your life - leaving you damaged. Forever. And needy, and all because he left you alone. Because he wasn't here when you needed him, and he needs to pay for it, to suffer for his negligence. Now . . . how do you think the infamous Mr. Kinney would react to that? How many speed limits would he break in order to get to you - and where would he spend the rest of his life?"

Justin . . . blinked. "You know I wouldn't . . ."

The old man's smile was lopsided - hard to read. "I do. I know you that well, but . . . how well do you know the man you love? What would he do if . . ."

It was at that moment that Justin went to his knees, gobsmacked, overwhelmed, and drowning in truth. "Oh, my God! It can't be that simple - can it?"

The smile was warmer now - sweeter. "He knows you so well, Justin. He knew you'd find your way to the truth. Just as he knew that it would never work if somebody else tried to guide you there. You had to find it yourself. So now just ask yourself: is this a palace - or a prison? And for whom? The choice is yours."

From that day to this, he had explored every facet of the scenario Lasseigne had laid out for him, and come to understand it all - even the difficult concept of why Brian had been unable to speak of the problem himself. If Brian had told him, had gone over the reasons for his reservations, Justin would simply have waived them all aside, swearing his undying love and allegiance because . . . because he would have been able to convince himself that he was doing it out of love, out of his devotion to the man who owned his heart, when the truth - the truth was much more complex. The love was real; he knew that. But the motivation was complicated; he didn't just want to be loved by Brian Kinney; he wanted to be needed by Brian Kinney - so needed and necessary that Brian would lock him into a prison cell and keep him confined - a confinement that he deserved because of the things he had done to Brian.

It hadn't been love alone that had motivated him; it had been guilt, a feeling of responsibility for all that Brian had endured.

But a prison was still a prison - even if one accepted that one deserved it - and he had slowly come to realize that, in time, he would have grown to hate the confinement, hate the chains that bound him to the man who would inevitably hold the key, and finally, ultimately, hate the man himself.

In the end, the truth had been so simple that he had at first been angry at himself.

He could not lock Brian into a cage if he himself were unwilling to be similarly confined.

The bottom line was even simpler.

He had no burden of guilt to carry - and neither did his beautiful lover - and a partnership based on guilt was no true partnership at all.

He still sometimes thought back to that horrible time in their lives when Brian had been fighting off the effects of testicular cancer; he thought back to what he had said to his lover when he'd forced himself back into Brian's life after the man had tried to force him out - to spare him the trauma and the ugliness of what might have happened next.

"I thought we had a commitment."

That was what he'd said, and he'd taken Brian's failure to fight him off as a silent acquiescence - an acceptance of that motivation. In truth, it had been something much more elemental. Brian had simply been too sick and too weak and too tired to fight any more, for any reason.

Only now had he come to realize that a "commitment" was not a sufficient motivation for building a life together.

He would not say that now, providing he ever got a chance to say anything at all - but he knew what he would say.

"I love you, and my life without you will never be as precious as my life with you. If you feel the same, then let's find our way - together."

That's what he would say, if he ever got the chance.

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

The colors of the day faded into a soft, lavender gloom as the sun sank into the horizon, and the house seemed to settle into the landscape, so natural and perfect for its setting it almost appeared to have grown there, created by the loveliness around it.

Justin paused near the front entrance to look off down the hill, to note the gleaming perfection of the river as it absorbed the dying light of day. He thought again about going to Babylon, or maybe even to the diner, to grab a box of lemon bars, but in the end, he didn't think it was worth it. He had a huge selection of food in the freezer - all courtesy of Auntie Em's catering service - and a new blu-ray of the Star Trek revival movie to watch; he had seen it in theaters, of course, and imagined - every time - how Brian would react to the delectable new embodiment of Captain Kirk. Anyway, he thought he'd just . . .

He could not have said exactly what it was that made him turn around - a sound perhaps, or a peripheral perception of movement - but something did. Afterward, he would never remember going to his knees.

In the fading light, with the sun glimmering on the western horizon, the figure standing there before him was only a silhouette, a concentrated darkness against growing shadows. But that ultimately made no difference; he didn't know how he knew. He just knew.

Brian Kinney - all in black - tall and strong and still.

And beautiful - oh, God! So beautiful.

"You came." It was a stupid thing to say, but he couldn't think of anything else.

The lips folded in, swallowing a grin. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"You . . . you never called."

"Neither did you."

"I couldn't."

Brian nodded. "I know."

Slowly, fighting for balance and strength, Justin got to his feet. "Do you want to come in?"

A slight shrug. "It's your house, so it's up to you."

Justin simply nodded and turned to walk inside, knowing Brian would follow.

Still, he paused when he reached the doorway, and turned back to look up into dark eyes. "It's not my house," he said softly.

"Yes, it . . ."

"Can you see me?" It was not quite the non-sequitar it appeared to be.

Brian lifted one hand to touch the incredible velvet softness of Justin's cheek. "Yes. I can see you."

"And am I . . ."

"The most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Brian said swiftly, his breath catching in his throat. "I'd forgotten how . . ."

"You have pictures."

"Not the same."

Justin simply nodded and continued into the house, through the front hallway and into the living room with its sleek, beautiful furniture, its luxurious sunken seating area, its fully stocked bar - and its fireplace.

Brian moved forward slowly, his eyes sweeping around the room, taking it all in, absorbing the details, and coming to a stop when he saw the portrait that was somehow the focal point of the room.

Justin, meanwhile, moved to stand beneath it, but his attention was not on the painting. He was staring at Brian, staring as if to commit every feature to memory - just in case.

"Tell me what you see when you look at it."

Brian spent another moment studying the artwork; then he looked down and spent an equal amount of time studying the artist.

"I see a deep, unlimited love - a love that should last forever."

"Should?"

Brian shrugged. "That depends, doesn't it?"

"And what do you see when you look at me?"

"I see the man capable of that love."

Justin moved forward then, and came to stand toe-to-toe with his former lover. "Do you understand what you did to me?"

Brian nodded. "Do you understand why?"

Justin moved closer. "I will answer that - truthfully - if you will tell me one more thing. One more absolute truth."

The Kinney sardonic smile had not changed since the last time he'd seen - and loved it. "I'm not keen on absolutes, but I'll try."

"Do you love me?"

"That was never the question."

"Maybe, but it's the one I need answered."

"All right. Then yes, I do love you; I think I've always loved you."

"More than anything? More than anyone? More than your life?"

"Yes."

Justin closed his eyes. "And will you stay with me?"

"Is that what you want?"

Justin smiled, knowing the moment was right. It came easily, naturally, not sounding in the least like it had been rehearsed a thousand times. "I love you, and my life without you will never be as precious as my life with you. If you feel the same, then let's find our way - together."

Brian smiled and lifted his hands to cup Justin's face. "Then know this. I will love you and keep you and hold you and protect you every day for the rest of my life - for as long as it's what you want. Your life will be beautiful and filled with joy and as perfect as I can make it, but you will never, never be anything less than free to fly - with me or away from me. Your choice."

Desperate now, feeling need course through him like a flow of lava, Justin threw himself forward, knowing Brian would catch him. Knowing Brian would always catch him or - should the reverse be necessary - that he would always catch Brian.

They made love there on the floor as the afterglow faded from the day and the room was awash with shadows, until the only light was the flicker from the embers in the fireplace, and the pale, perfect illumination of the portrait looking down on them, its light something that would endure forever.

"The Fire."

The artist could not have guessed how prophetic that name would prove to be.

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

The End

*Need You Now - Dave Haywood, Charles Kelley, Hilary Scott, Josh Kear