Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

Edging toward tomorrow!

Chapter 13

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"Dear God!" Debbie's voice was little more than a whisper - for possibly the first time in recorded history. "Do you think he's right? That she really . . ."

They all stared for a moment at the double doors through which Dr. Keller had disappeared after delivering his ultimatum.

"I think he's exactly right," said Lindsey finally, her eyes huge and filled with shadow.

"Then why didn't he ever tell us? Why would he keep quiet? To protect her?"

Michael turned to stare at his mother, startled by the note of resentment in her tone. "Why does that surprise you? That's what she expected him to do, trained him to do, wasn't it? Are you really all that shocked? How could you forget . . ." His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, suddenly swept into lurid memory.

"Michael?" Ben was there - of course - to take his hand and offer comfort. Only there was no real comfort to be had.

"I remember all of it," said Michael, barely audible. "Sometimes I wish I didn't remember so well. I can't even begin to count how many times he showed up at our house. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Bleeding and bruised and battered. With cracked ribs and black eyes and busted lips and God knows what else. Jesus, you'd think I'd have gotten used to it after a while - but I never did. But . . . he never would explain what happened. Other than to say that Jack was in one of his moods. Which meant that the old bastard had been drinking again. That was all he'd ever say, but I knew what it meant. There never was a meaner drunk than Jack Kinney."

Ben felt a heaviness settle into his chest, and wondered if these people, this group that depended for its very existence on the young man lying comatose now in an ICU bed, had any idea how lucky they were that Brian had not grown up to use his natural charm and beauty and cunning to seek revenge on a callous, uncaring world. "Didn't anyone ever . . . try to stop it?" he asked finally, deliberately not looking toward his lover's mother.

Michael sighed. "Uncle Vic did - once. Tried to convince Brian to go to the cops. Even offered to go with him. But Brian . . . he refused. He wouldn't say why, but I always figured it was because he knew it wouldn't do any good. Hell, half the guys on his dad's bowling team were cops. I think he'd already figured out that they wouldn't make much of an effort to protect him. Because his old man was one of the 'good old boys'. And because he already knew that he was different, even way back then."

His smile was wistful - almost painful. "Brian . . . blossomed early."

Debbie settled into the chair beside him and clasped her hands in her lap. "You have to realize," she said slowly, to no one in particular. "It was a different world back then. You just didn't go around . . . interfering in family matters."

"Jesus!" said Ben softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "And it surprises you that he has problems with trusting people? It's a fucking miracle he's not a raging psychopath."

Lindsey stepped close and favored Michael with a gentle smile. "I don't think it was his mother - that he was protecting."

And it was suddenly just too much for Michael to bear - the uncertainty that surrounded him, the fear that filled him, the loneliness that no one could assuage . . . the beautiful, beloved face that might never again be as he remembered it, as he loved it - so he jumped up and tore off down the corridor, not knowing where he was going or why - only knowing that he could no longer stand to be there, in that place, in that moment.

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There was always an aura of solemnity in the ICU; it seemed somehow more silent, more separated from reality and cushioned against the intrusion of ordinary sounds than other areas of the hospital, even though the constant hum of the medical machinery and the beeps and blips of vital signs monitors made true silence impossible. Still, the large chamber felt different from its counterparts, more filled with solitude and an awareness of the frailty of life, which, was, of course, blatantly ridiculous since it was exactly the same as every other unit in the hospital, except that it was more controlled and more carefully monitored.

There were sixteen cubicles in all, arranged in a broken oval around a central command post - the bailiwick of the specialized nurses and nurse practitioners who ruled the roost from their seat of power and watched lesser beings tiptoe through their domain. Monty Peabody had never been particularly fond of RNs in general, and these arrogant, overbearing, ICU-trained RNs in particular, believing that they gave themselves airs they had not earned. The lab tech had long ago come to the conclusion that only the doctors - the demigods of surgical suites and trauma centers - were fully deserving of the homage of the masses - and even then, only some of them.

Present company definitely excluded, he thought to himself, as he went about his business of drawing blood from the port embedded in the patient's left shoulder, while Matthew Keller sat on an exam stool, studying the displays on various computer screens and jotting entries into a bulging medical chart.

Since the physician appeared to be paying no attention to anything but the data he was perusing, Monty took advantage of the opportunity to study Kinney's injuries, although there wasn't much that he could actually see. Bandages covered face, throat, and chest, arms and both hands, leaving only the left shoulder bare and mostly intact, except for a line of stitching across the bicep. Dark hair, freshly washed, spiked above snowy bandages on one side of the patient's head, but bare skin was visible on the other, just peeking out from beneath white gauze. Nothing at all could be seen of the face, and he could not tell anything about the lower body as it was covered with several layers of blankets, provided by caring nurses who knew full well that their patients were almost always hyper-sensitive to the chill of the unit. Of course, thought Monty, if the attending physician would simply finish up and take himself elsewhere, it might be possible to get a quick look - just to learn if any . . . vital organs might have suffered some terrible retribution for the dissolute life Kinney had . . .

"Any reason you're loitering here?" said Matt Keller suddenly, rising and moving forward to stand beside the bed. "Unless you're planning to check his catheter - or administer a blow job to try to revive him - you should . . ."

"That's . . . ridiculous," Monty replied, stumbling over the syllables. "I was just . . ."

"Hoping to get a look at his cock?" Keller's gaze was hard as flint and flecked with ice. "Well, you certainly wouldn't be the first, would you?"

"Why should I care about his . . . cock?" Monty drew himself to his full (such as it was) height and tried to stare the doctor down - but Keller remained unruffled, barely able to stifle a smile as he realized that the lab tech had almost choked rather than utter such a nasty profanity, but had realized that substituting an anatomical term would sound ridiculously prissy.

"You're queer, aren't you?" asked the doctor dismissively, as if that explained everything.

"So what?" the lab tech snapped.

Keller offered a little eye-roll. "So is there a fag in Pittsburgh that wouldn't sell his left nut for a chance to check out the legendary Kinney package?"

Monty sniffed. "There certainly is."

The doctor actually grinned. "Well, that's good then, because you'd be wasting your time standing around here, waiting for an opportunity that's never going to come. However, just for the sake of preventing mass panic, you and all of gay PA will be relieved to know that the Stud of Liberty Avenue remains as studly as ever."

Matt Keller was glad that he was staring straight at the snoopy lab tech at that moment. Otherwise he might have missed the fleeting glimmer of disappointment that flared in the man's eyes as he considered his response. "Well, I'm sure all the thousands of tricks he's slept with will be delighted."

Keller nodded. "And all the ones who haven't had the privilege will go on wondering what they've missed."

The doctor smiled then, gratified to note a quickly-suppressed glint of resentment in the lab tech's eyes.

For his part, Monty gathered his supplies and headed for the door, fuming but knowing that it would not be wise to say what he was thinking. Best to just make his escape while he could, allowing the doctor to concentrate once more on his notations in the medical chart.

But it was immediately obvious that Keller was not quite done with the subject. "By the way," he called, not bothering to look up, "when I said that gay PA would be relieved to hear the news, that did not constitute permission for you . . . to spread it."

Monty tried to look offended, but failed miserably, realizing that the doctor had sensed his intentions with alarming accuracy.

"Of course not. I would never . . ."

"Oh, I know you wouldn't." The interruption was immediate, and very cold. "Not if you value your job."

When the lab tech made his exit, moving, Keller noted with some satisfaction, with all the grace of a scalded cat, the doctor put aside the medical chart and hoisted himself to sit on the side of the bed in a spot where he could look down into his patient's face. Though he could not see any more than the cunty lab tech had seen, memory kicked in and supplied what was missing. The physician in him saw the wounds, but the man in him saw only the beauty.

When he spoke, his voice was very soft and achingly tender. "Flat on your back and out like a light, and you're still stirring the shit, Sonny Boy. Must be why I always loved you so much.

"You know, I have no idea if you can hear me or not. Even though I'm the great, incredibly gifted, all-knowing Dr. Keller, I don't know that - and neither does anybody else. So maybe I'm just sitting here talking to myself. But, just in case I'm not, I want you to listen to me. Are you listening? Actually, it's kind of nice to be able to say whatever I want without having to put up with your mouthing off and arguing with me. But there's no arguing with this. You just have to shut up and understand me. I will make you well again. And not only that."

He leaned forward then and touched his lips to the tiny little spot of bare skin just above Brian's left eat, just an inch below the site of the skull fracture which had almost proved fatal, while he reached up and stroked his fingers through a lock of dark hair. "I won't only make you well, Sonny Boy. I'll make you perfect again - one way or another. I promise you that. Those motherfuckers who did this to you are not going to win this war. You will be Brian Kinney again. I swear it."

He sat back then and spent a few seconds just listening to the rhythmic sound of his patient's breathing. Then he looked up, recalling, for just a moment, the catechism he had spent many years of his youth learning.

"And You," he said firmly, showing not the slightest nuance of reverence or humility, "better not make a liar out of me."

God, according to the stern old Daughter of St. Vincent de Paul who had presided over his schooling, always listened, even if the person doing the praying was an arrogant prick.


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"Son of a bitch!" Police Chief Phillip Mitchum had very little in common with his predecessor. He was not handsome, did not have a buff body, exhibited very little personal charm, and was intensely apolitical. He was, however, a very good cop - honest and dedicated and forthright, and not given to mincing words. "Do you have any idea how much I don't need this right now."

Karl Horvath took a deep breath, and offered up a little silent prayer before opening his mouth to respond. He was walking a very thin line here - and he knew it - but he also knew he had no other choice.

"Yes, Sir," he said slowly, "I think I do. But I also know that this is something you can't afford to ignore. Whether we like it or not, we're sitting on a powder keg here. And it's not going to just go away. It's been building up for a long time, and this thing with Kinney . . . well, it just might be the last straw."

Mitchum rubbed his hands through thinning, dirty blonde hair. "You know, none of this would have happened, if these people would just . . . stop making such an issue of everything - and learn to keep their heads down."

"These . . . people?" Lance Mathis steepled his fingers in front of his face. "By that, I suppose you mean . . . homosexuals. Gays and Lesbians and . . ."

"Well, of course that's what I mean," snapped the police chief. "Why can't they just . . ."

"Go away?" Horvath took a deep breath. "Sorry to tell you this, Chief, but I know from first hand experience; they're not going anywhere. And they're not going to back down." His tone was reasonable, even sympathetic, but very firm. "Those days - the days of 'don't ask, don't tell' - they're gone. It took decades for many of them to develop the courage to come out of the closet. And they're not going back in. Not for anybody."

Mitchum's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man who was on a short list to make chief detective in the homicide division. "You almost sound like you approve, Karl."

And there it was. The issue he'd spent the last couple of years avoiding - in public anyway - but there was no longer any way of evading the question; not if he wanted to be able to live with his conscience - not to mention the woman whose house he shared. "Actually, Chief - I do. It wasn't something that came easily to me. In fact, up until a few years ago, I was a lot like you, I suspect. I didn't hate homosexuals; I just didn't understand them. And in some ways, I still don't. But I've learned a lot recently - from the woman who is the most important person in my life. And from her son, who happens to be gay, and their friends. It's not necessary for me to understand why they are the way they are; it's only necessary for me to know that I don't have to right to judge them, or to deny them the same rights that the rest of us enjoy.

"You may not approve of Brian Kinney and his lifestyle. And you might wish that he'd just keep his face out of the papers and his name out of the news. But that's not going to happen. And your approval - or mine - isn't going to change the fact that his notoriety doesn't give anybody the right to do what they did to him. I know it might be hard for you to accept, but I can tell you, from firsthand experience, that it's true; he is, no doubt, what most heterosexual people would call a raging fag - but he's also as gutsy and honest as any man I've ever known. So maybe we all need to rethink how we define manhood.

"Ever since the whole ugly truth surfaced about your predecessor - and Kinney's involvement in that - there's been trouble brewing. You've got extremists that are ready to start a war to try to enforce their version of 'What America Ought To Be' - and you've got the minorities - of every persuasion - ready to stand up and fight to defend themselves. Plus, you have to remember that Kinney has a lot of friends - some of them very powerful - who don't seem to care one way or another where he sticks his dick. The bottom line here is, that if we don't do something PDQ, we could be looking at war in the streets."

Karl leaned forward, hands clasped tight in a desperate attempt to open his superior's eyes. "It's not the way it used to be, Chief. Things that you and I could never have imagined have opened doors that a lot of people would have preferred to leave closed. But there's no going back. People like Harvey Milk and Barbara Gittings, John Aravosis and Elaine Noble - they've changed the world. And people like Brian Kinney and his friends aren't going to just sit back and let the homophobes and bigots change it back. We have to deal with that."

Mitchum's eyes were cold, but, at least, thought Karl, he had listened. The detective found, to his annoyance, that he was barely breathing, waiting to learn what would come next, which would determine the direction they would all have to take for the future.

"So," said the chief slowly, reluctantly, "what do you propose?"

Karl barely managed not to sigh with relief. "We've been trying to sort this thing out since the bombing at Babylon. That's more than a year of busting our butts to follow up every clue, check out every lead. But we're still no closer to knowing who's responsible. We don't have the resources, the manpower, or the clout necessary to do a thorough investigation. And frankly, I think we have to consider that . . . there are certain elements within the department who aren't exactly enthusiastic about seeing this thing solved. Seems like every step we take forward, something seems to . . . slip through the cracks and send us back to the starting line. So . . . the logical thing to do is to get somebody who has the means to get the job done."

"Namely?"

Karl and Lance Mathis exchanged glances. "Chief Mitchum," said Mathis, "what happened at Babylon and what happened to Brian Kinney have one thing in common." He drew a deep breath. "They're both hate crimes."

Mitchum suddenly looked older than his 53 years. "That's what I thought you were going to say." He took a moment to light his pipe, blatantly ignoring the No Smoking sign on the wall just outside his glass door. Inhaling deeply and savoring the special blend of tobacco which was one of his very few personal perks, he stared at Mathis through a curtain of smoke. "I assume there's a specific reason for your presence here."

Mathis smiled. "I happen to be . . . well acquainted with a member of an elite FBI team - someone who's very interested in the developments in this case. Her name is Alexandra Corey - Special Agent Alexandra Corey - and she can be here tomorrow."

Mitchum's eyebrows climbed toward his receding hairline. "You've already spoken to her?"

"I have," Mathis confirmed. "But only unofficially. Nothing happens until you give the word."

Horvath elected to remain silent, knowing that he had done all he could.

The police chief rose and went to stand at his window, staring down into the heart of the city that looked to him to preserve civility and administer justice.

"All right," he said abruptly.

"All right what?" Horvath did not dare assume.

The police chief did not even try to appear pleased with his decision, but he didn't back away from it either. "The word," he said with a sigh, "is given."

Lance Mathis closed his eyes, allowing himself a sigh of relief and acknowledging a reluctant but heartfelt surge of admiration for the police chief, recognizing the difficulty of a man caught between two cultures and struggling to do the right thing. It was, he thought, long past time to get the big boys - even if the big boy in this case happened to be a big girl - involved and put an end to the horror that hovered over this city.

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Both Ben and Debbie were quick to leap to their feet to rush off in pursuit of Michael, but, as it happened, Lindsey was just a trifle faster as she stepped forward to intercept them both.

"Let me," she said firmly.

"Why you?" said mother and partner in unison, both slightly annoyed by her intervention.

"Because," she said firmly, "this isn't about you and Michael. This is about Brian and Michael, and neither one of you can really know what this is doing to him, much as you might want to."

"But you can," said Melanie, unable to control the strident note of bitter resentment in her voice.

"Yes," Lindsey replied, turning to regard her partner with steady eyes. "I can. I know that probably makes you angry; I guess I even understand why it would. But Michael and I have ties to Brian that we trace back to our childhood, ties that words can't begin to describe. And now is not the time to be playing petty little games of jealousy and one-upmanship. Now, I'm going to Michael - and I'd appreciate it if the rest of you would just . . . back off."

She turned then to walk away, but not before she caught a glimpse of the pleased smile on Emmett's face.

"And just how do you think you'll find him?" Debbie yelled after her.

Lindsey smiled. "I don't have to find him," she called without bothering to turn around. "I know exactly where he is."

As she pushed through the door into the stairwell she sent up a tiny, silent prayer of thanks for Brian's habit of regaling her with his more outrageous stunts and urges, like the one that had struck him on the night of Gus' birth - a temporary temptation to defy gravity and leap from the roof of the hospital. Another possible means, of course, of going out in a blaze of glory.

She smiled gently, knowing that he wouldn't really have gone through with it. If Brian Kinney ever did decide to devise his own exit from existence, it would not be in a way that left him crushed and mangled and grotesque; it would be arranged, rather, so that he would remain as beautiful in death as he had been in life, forever to linger in the memories of his friends as "Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake".

But not today, she thought grimly. And not ever, if she had anything to say about it.

Of course, she wasn't really fooling herself. She knew full well that she had never had any real control over what Brian might choose to do, although she had, on occasion, applied the screws to try to force him to bend to her will. She sighed as she took her first steps up toward the roof, realizing that she was a little bit ashamed of herself for sometimes using the guilt card to keep him from doing things he might really have wanted to do.

Struck by a sudden thought, she paused in mid-step and felt her breath catch in her throat. Did Brian ever have dreams - things that he had wanted with his whole heart but never reached for . . . because he was restrained by ties to those around him? Had she and Michael and Debbie and . . .

She resumed her climb more slowly, with a dull ache in her heart, trying to convince herself that she was being silly - that Brian Kinney did not deal in fantasies or dreams, that he was all about reality and living in the moment. She was still trying as she approached the final landing that would lead her to the roof exit, and she took a deep breath, offering up a whispered promise - just in case. "No more, Love. Never again."

She pushed through the door and saw exactly what she'd expected to see and forced herself to proceed slowly, to refrain from giving voice to a flash of panic.

Michael was sitting on the ledge at the edge of the roof, his feet dangling in space as he shivered and stared down into the shadows below, hands tucked under his arms and his face awash with tears.

She spent a few seconds trying to find the right words, before realizing that there weren't any - and that she didn't need them anyway. Ultimately, she simply stepped up and sank down beside him, before wrapping her arms around him; then they cried together.

For a time neither of them spoke at all, but it was Michael who finally found himself unable to remain silent. "I can't lose him, Lindsey," he whispered. "I thought . . . after everything that went so wrong between us over the last couple of years, I thought I'd . . . outgrown him, you know? I thought I'd proved that I didn't need him any more. But . . . oh, God! . . . how could I have done the things I did - said the things I said to him? How could I have let myself forget what he meant to me - what he did for me? How could I? He was always there for me - always, and I just . . . I let myself get so caught up in all the bullshit." He drew a deep shaky breath. "He was right. I did betray him."

"No, you didn't," she soothed. "You got a little distracted, maybe." She paused then and drew back so she could look up into his eyes. "From time to time, I think we all did. I mean, think about it, Michael. During that whole stupidity over Jenny Rebecca's custody, we all went a little psycho, and I think Brian served as a distraction for us through it all. It was always easier to blame him and yell at him about every little thing than to figure out what was really going on, and I think that's been the story for a lot of our lives. Hell, I sometimes think he let us do it on purpose - because it was easier for us that way. But in the end, you found your way back to him."

"But why? Why did I let myself turn into this pretentious prick, so eager to impress people that I didn't really give a shit about, while I just . . . walked away from him, from everything that mattered to me? When all that crap was going on, I once told Ben that I didn't even know who Brian was any more. But the truth was that he was the same person he'd always been. It was me who'd changed, and all I wanted to do was strike out at him. Why did I have to hurt him like that?"

"You weren't trying to . . ."

But Michael was not going to allow himself to avoid speaking truths he knew he should have spoken long ago. "Yes," he said sternly. "I was. Do you know what I said to him? When he tried to apologize to me, I said that . . . just because we'd been friends all our lives didn't mean that we had to stay friends. I wanted to hurt him. And I did. I saw it in his eyes, and . . . I was glad, Lindsey. I was glad that I could hurt him, because . . ."

"Because?"

He could not bring himself to meet her eyes. "Because he always knew the truth, even though he almost never said it. Just . . . once in a while, it would slip out - when he'd let his guard down a little bit - or when he was high - or drunk."

His smile was rueful. "He called it 'my secret identity'."

Then he did meet her gaze and knew that it wasn't necessary for him to say it; she obviously already knew. "I think you know," she said gently, "that he would have . . . if he could."

He nodded. "Yeah. I know you're right. And I guess that's why I . . . did what I did. I'd managed to convince myself that . . ."

"That it wasn't you," she finished for him. "You convinced yourself that he could never love anybody - until . . ."

"Justin," he breathed. "God! I didn't want it to be true. So what kind of friend does that make me - that I was so jealous that I'd rather he'd spent his whole life alone, fucking everything in sight but never loving anybody, than to have him find it with someone else?"

Her smile was gentle. "I'd say it makes you human, and . . . " she forced herself not to look away, " . . . one of the crowd. You're not the only one, you know."

Michael pulled back quickly and stared at her in disbelief. "You?" he gasped. "But you're . . ."

She managed a tiny laugh. "Which just goes to prove that none of us is immune to the Kinney charm." Then she laughed again. "Except Melanie, of course."

He dredged up a smile. "Yeah. If she starts drooling over him, it's the Apocalypse, for sure."

"Now," she said gently, with an exaggerated shiver, "don't you think it's time we climb down from this glacier and go find ourselves a nice hot cup of coffee?"

He nodded, but still made no move to depart. "I don't know how to explain it to Ben," he murmured. "I mean, how can I expect him to accept . . ."

"Ben loves you, Michael," she interrupted, "and I think he might surprise you. You know, it's not exactly easy for people to understand the relationship between you and Brian. Neither one of you has ever been willing to explain it or to help people figure it out, and God knows it's not a typical friendship, by any means. Still, I'm pretty sure Ben understands it. He knows how much Brian means to you, so I don't think you need to worry." Her smile was suddenly a little brittle. "He's not Melanie, you know."

Michael suddenly leaned forward and touched his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't need to.

But still he turned for a minute to look out across the city. "We came up here the night Gus was born," he said. "He wanted . . . to fly. Like Superman." His voice broke a little before he continued. "I always wondered if . . ."

"If he meant it?" she asked.

He could only nod.

She tucked her hand through his arm and urged him up from the ledge, while considering her response. "In a way," she said finally, "I think he always means it."

They made their way then toward the stairwell, and Michael couldn't quite figure out why he found her words comforting. Then he stopped trying to understand it, and simply accepted the comfort for what it was - a gesture between friends.

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

It was full dark by the time Lindsey and Michael made their way downstairs to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the huge hospital in search of the public cafeteria. But the growing lateness of the hour seemed to have no effect on the number of individuals packed into waiting rooms or standing around in hallways or coming and going through the big front entrance.

A quick conversation with a med tech near the ER revealed that there'd been a major pile-up on the turnpike involving a school bus transporting a college basketball team and a group of supporters, and it didn't look there would be any respite from the pandemonium for quite a while.

Michael nervously glanced down one particular corridor, stark and cold and featureless, and was caught up once more in a rush of devastating memory: Brian's face, as white as porcelain and as rigid as granite, absolutely still and chiseled and awash with silent tears, his hands and clothing dark with bloodstains he couldn't bring himself to wash off. Michael couldn't be positive, of course, but he was pretty sure that nobody else had ever been allowed to see Brian Kinney in such a state. For three days, they had sat there together, while friends and acquaintances of Justin and his family had come and gone, moving around them as if they'd been rocks buried in a stream, and during that time, Brian had not spoken at all, except to answer direct questions from hospital staff members and police officers. He had not slept, had not eaten, had hardly moved from his place there against the wall, and had barely even spoken to Michael. And yet, even without words, Michael had known how important it was for him to be there, especially at those moments when Brian would look up to find Jennifer Taylor staring at him, obviously struggling to maintain her silence, biding her time until she felt freer to speak her mind.

Michael had never talked about it to anyone, but he knew nonetheless; he had saved Brian's life that night - had anchored him to the bedrock of reality and refused to let him slip away, consumed by guilt and remorse. Later, after his misadventure in Portland had ended and he'd come back to Pittsburgh, he'd heard the scoffers saying that Brian had simply walked away from the trauma of that night, uncaring, and hurried to replace his broken boytoy with a newer, shinier model - but Michael knew better - knew what that event had cost his best friend. He had tried, once or twice, to make people understand the horror of what Brian had endured then, but he knew that his efforts had been futile. People generally saw only what they wanted to see, he knew, and most of the people who lived in the periphery of Brian's life did not want to acknowledge that someone like him was not quite as invincible as he seemed. It was simply easier to classify him as a heartless shit.

Sometimes, Michael was amazed at how little people actually knew about the phenomenon who was Brian Kinney.

A few months later, it had been Brian's turn to step up and repay Michael's kindness. New memories swept in to dislodge the old, and now he dwelt on the dark days when it was he who had been lost in fear and despair, frightened of being alone, terrified of losing Ben - and it had been Brian who had been there for him, offering reassurance and strength and comfort, and asking nothing in return.

All the more reason, he thought, why he should be ashamed of what came later.

"Hush now," said Lindsey with a sad little smile, the softness in her eyes saying that she'd watched the play of emotions on his face and knew where his thoughts had led him. "There've been good times here too. This is where Gus and J.R. came into our lives. And where Ted and Justin and Ben - and you . . . recovered and came back to us. And it's where Brian will come back to us too. Just you wait and see."

The cafeteria was crowded at this hour, mostly with evening shift members or day staffers just ending their rotation.

"You hungry?" asked Michael, looking askance toward a crowded buffet table, adjacent to a salad bar offering slightly wilted produce.

She shook her head. "There are only a few universal truths, Michael," she said with a lopsided smile, "but the fact that hospital food sucks - and not in a positive, life-affirming way - is one of them."

"Still at the head of the class, I see." Matt Keller appeared at her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, greeting her with a brilliant smile.

She laughed softly. "After you," she replied. "And Brian, of course."

"Of course," he agreed. "If you want my advice, stick to the coffee. And the cinnamon rolls won't kill you. They bring them in from a local bakery, so they're actually edible."

Lindsey looked up then and spotted a strange look on the physician's face as he stole surreptitious glances toward Michael while they placed their orders at the coffee bar. Her breath caught in her throat then, as she realized why.

"Oh, God!" she said suddenly. "What was I thinking? You two have never actually met, have you? Matt, this is . . ."

"It's okay, Linz," said Keller. "I know who he is"

Michael frowned. "How? How do you know me?"

The physician's voice was suddenly very soft. "The famous Michael Novotny? Even if I'd never seen a photo of you - which I have, ad nauseum - I'd have known you anywhere."

He then turned and led the way to a table by a narrow corner window and sank into a chair, every line of his body announcing a bone-deep weariness.

Michael followed more slowly, wondering if he was imagining the tiny note of resentment he'd heard in Keller's voice.

"Long day?" asked Lindsey as she studied the physician's face.

He dredged up a smile - barely. "You have no idea."

Michael took a sip of coffee, still lost in thought, while Lindsey considered how best to approach her old college acquaintance, to convince him to answer questions she had not dared pose when they'd spoken before.

"Matt, I . . ."

"He's going to be all right, Linz," he interrupted, staring down into his own cup. "You can stop . . . obsessing."

"I do not obsess," she said, with just a nuance of irritation.

"Of course, you don't." He didn't bother to try to hide his indulgent smile.

"What did you mean?" said Michael suddenly, having decided that the best approach, as usual, was to simply spit out the question without preamble.

"About?" Keller propped his elbows on the table and braced his chin against clasped fingers.

"The 'famous Michael Novotny'?" Michael raised his hands to make quotation marks with his fingers.

Keller's smile was a barely-there effort. "Brian used to talk about you all the time."

"He did?" Michael sounded as if he thought he might be the butt of some kind of joke.

"He did."

When Michael glanced at Lindsey, he was somewhat surprised to see her nodding her agreement.

The three fell silent for a time, content to sit and drink their coffee, which was surprisingly tasty and satisfying.

But Michael, as all his friends knew, was not one to leave well enough alone while questions went unanswered. His voice was very soft and his eyes somewhat unfocused when he spoke again. "All that stuff you said earlier . . . to his mother . . . how did you . . . know all that?'

Keller did not look up. "How do you think? From Brian, of course. How else would I know it?"

"He told you." Michael tried not to sound as if he did not believe the physician, but he wasn't particularly successful in the attempt. "Why would he . . ."

The doctor's gaze softened as he lifted his eyes to study Michael's face. "Why would he tell me . . . when he didn't tell you? Is that what you're wondering?"

Michael nodded. "I always thought . . . he told me everything."

Keller took a moment to consider his choice of words before offering an answer. "Michael, you were - probably still are - the kid brother he never had."

"Only one thing wrong with that picture," replied Michael sharply. "I'm older than he is."

"In some ways, maybe," answered Keller softly. "But that doesn't mean he didn't want to protect you, when he could."

Michael was suddenly intent on gazing into his coffee cup. "So you were at Penn together," he said softly. "Roommates?"

"Christ, no!" laughed Keller. "We'd have probably beat each other to a bloody pulp if we'd tried to live together. In fact, that's how we met."

"What?"

"I made a pass at him . . . and he decked me."

Michael and Lindsey exchanged grins. "Brian?" Michael tried to picture it - and couldn't. Keller, after all, was the kind of guy that the gang had always classified as 'hot', so why would . . .

"His mother had just dropped him off after a week-end at home," Keller explained, "and he wasn't in the mood."

"Brian is always in the mood," Michael laughed.

But the laughter was forgotten when Keller regarded him with somber eyes and said, "Is he now?"

And Michael remembered then how his best friend always behaved after spending any length of time with either of his parents. "No," he admitted. "I guess he's not. But I still don't understand why he would . . . tell you things that he never talked about - to us."

Keller did not answer immediately, turning instead to gaze out into the darkness beyond the window, while Michael and Lindsey looked at each other and wondered if he would answer at all.

"Probably," he said finally, "because he knew that there was nothing he could tell me that I wouldn't understand."

He paused then, obviously debating whether or not to continue, and when he did, there was a cold detachment in his tone that was chilling to his listeners. "When I was eleven years old, my . . . father almost killed me because I stepped in to try to keep him from beating my mother. The only reason he didn't succeed was that I grabbed a steak knife off the table and stabbed the fucker in the gut."

The silence around the table was thick with horror as Michael and Lindsey stared at him, having no idea how to respond to such a confession.

Keller continued, his voice completely emotionless. "One of the neighbors called the cops, and when they came . . ." he paused to take a deep breath and, perhaps, to compose himself before going on . . ."my father told them that I'd attacked him, and that he'd only hit me to defend himself. They didn't believe him . . . at first."

Another pause, and a deeper sigh.

"Until my mother backed him up."

Michael's eyes were huge as he contemplated how it must feel to be betrayed by both parents. "What happened?" he asked, unwilling to hear it but unable to resist asking.

"I wound up in juvy hall, until they sorted it out. Then they shuffled me into foster care. I won't bore you with the details."

"Jesus!" breathed Lindsey. Then she looked at him with wounded eyes. "I never knew any of that. Why didn't you . . ."

"I never told anybody," he answered, " except . . ."

"Brian." It was not a question.

He nodded and paused for a moment to take a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee. "But that should explain why he felt he could tell me things that . . . he couldn't say to you."

Michael frowned. "But he's my best friend. I still don't understand why . . ."

"Michael," said the doctor sternly, "he didn't want you to have to know . . . what he endured."

Michael turned to study Lindsey's face. "That's what you meant, isn't it? When you said it wasn't his mother that he was protecting."

She nodded. "He always protected . . . us, Michael. Even when we didn't realize that we needed protecting."

Keller's smile was gentle. "And, as far as I know, he still does."

Lindsey turned then to peer into his eyes, hearing something in the tone of his voice that said there was still more that they didn't know, and she hesitated for a moment, not sure that she wanted to hear whatever else there might be.

"You haven't seen him in a long time," she mused.

"No," he agreed. Then he smiled, but the weariness was still heavy upon him. "Not in several years."

"Why is that?" asked Michael. "If you care about him like you said, why would you stay away?"

Keller sighed. "Because we're too much alike. We always wind up . . . hurting each other. Fighting like pit bulls. With words - or worse. But we do keep in touch, when we need to." He paused for a while, once more lost in thought. "I don't think you ever met Daniel, Lindsey. You and Brian had already graduated when he and I met."

She shook her head, and flashed him a gentle smile. "No. I never did, but Brian told me about him. He said - let me see if I can remember his exact words - that Daniel was 'the pretty boy you settled for when you couldn't have him'. Does that sound about right?"

The doctor's smirk was indulgent. "Yeah, that sounds like Brian." He sighed then, and crossed his arms on the table, bracing his chin against his forearms. "And maybe he was even right - to some degree. Daniel was a geneticist, researching birth defects when we met, doing important work. He was . . . brilliant and beautiful - well, you get the idea. I can't even begin to tell you what he was to me. Let's just say I thought he was God's way of making up for the shit I went through as a kid. Anyway, we went through a shitload of trouble before we finally managed to make a life together, and I thought - we both thought - it would be forever.

"Daniel had a twin sister - the only other person in his life who was important to him, who loved him as much as I did. Anyway, we'd been together about a year when she came to us with an incredible idea - a gift she wanted to give us. She had decided that she wanted to become a nun, but - before she did - she wanted to offer herself as a surrogate for us. To carry my child - a baby for us to raise."

He closed his eyes. "It was just . . . perfect. Our child would carry genes from both of us, would be as much our biological child as possible, for two men. Even Brian was . . . impressed. After he got through laughing his head off at the idea of me as a father, not to mention verbally exploring the idea of 'incest, once removed', as he called it. Anyway, about a year later, Matthew Daniel Griggs-Keller came into the world. We called him M.D. And when I held him in my arms the first time, I realized something. I realized that Brian was right, at least a little bit, in claiming that I loved Daniel because he reminded me of Brian. Because my son not only resembled Daniel; he looked a little like Brian too. God, he was beautiful."

"So where is he . . . now?" asked Lindsey, sure that she was not going to like his answer - and she was right.

Keller was slow to respond, apparently looking for an easy way to say it but realizing finally that there wasn't any. "He's dead. He was just two when he contracted meningitis. We caught it early, of course, and rushed him to the hospital, but . . . he was allergic to the antibiotics, and . . . there was nothing we could do. We put him to bed that night, happy and healthy and perfect. And fourteen hours later, he was . . . gone. If it hadn't been so tragic, it would have been ludicrous. With all our knowledge and medical skill combined, we couldn't even save our own son"

He paused then, obviously struggling for words to express the rest. "It felt as if the profession that I'd served for my whole life had betrayed me."

"Oh, God, Matt," whispered Lindsey, grasping his hand. "I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what you must have suffered."

He didn't bother to look at her, still lost in dark memory. "I called Brian, and he came, just like I knew he would. He didn't say very much, because he knew what most people never figure out. That there's nothing that one can say that'll make a fucking bit of difference. But he came and he stood there with me and he cried with me, and that meant more to me than all the words and all the flowers and the speeches. Just because he was there, to hold my hand. Daniel and I - we couldn't . . . nothing was ever the same again, and he . . . he didn't have a Brian to save him. A month later, Daniel was gone. I don't know where he went - or where he is now. I only know that Brian saved me. Not because he knew how to make it better - nobody could have done that - but because he just refused to let me go. He held on and forced me to put one foot in front of the other - one step at a time. Even when all I wanted was to die too. He just kept holding on, refusing to listen when I yelled at him to fuck off."

He fell silent for a time, obviously still lost in thought. Then he smiled. "I'd have died then, if he hadn't forced me to keep going, and sometimes I hated him for it. Then, a couple of years later, it was my turn to force him to do the same, when he called me, after . . . after Justin got bashed. I was in the middle of my second residency then, at Johns Hopkins, on a neurosurgical rotation that was so Goddamned exhausting that I couldn't get away. But I called him every night, talked him through it, so he knew what to expect and how to cope. Did you know that he came here every night while Justin was here? Just to watch over him, to make sure he was safe."

Michael looked devastated. "No. I didn't know. Something else . . . he never told me."

Keller sighed, his exhaustion growing deeper with every breath. "Because he didn't want you to feel compelled to help him cope with his guilt. He didn't want to cope with it at all." He raised his eyes then, looking first at Michael and then at Lindsey. "He didn't want to survive it. It nearly killed him, because he believed that it should have been him - not Justin. He still does. I think that's one reason he was ready to . . ."

He paused in mid-sentence, and Lindsey and Michael looked at each other, both sensing that he had something else to say, something that was important, that they needed to know. But they also sensed that it was something that Keller was reluctant to reveal.

"What, Matt?" asked Lindsey gently. "He was ready to what?"

"I think," he replied slowly, "that I've said enough."

"No," said Michael, his voice steady, filled with certainty. "You haven't. He called you . . . when he found out he had cancer. Didn't he?"

Keller hesitated before nodding.

Michael closed his eyes and cast his thoughts back to a bitterly cold day, a dark day in his family history - the day they had buried his beloved Uncle Vic. He remembered the vivid scarlet of the roses against the mahogany gloss of the coffin and the numbness of his fingers as he'd shoved them into his pockets vainly seeking warmth, and the crunch of the frozen ground under their shoes as they'd walked away from the service.

And Brian's face. He'd never been quite sure just why it was the look on Brian's face that had lingered in his memory - the look on his face and the words he'd spoken as they'd all left the cemetery, even though what he'd said had gone almost unnoticed at the time, had been no more than barely audible words against background noise.

"He planned to just . . . die, didn't he?"

Lindsey gasped as she turned to peer into Michael's eyes, not wanting to believe that he could possibly be right.

But Keller, after a moment of hesitation, confirmed it. "Yes. He did. Initially, he planned to reject the treatment the doctors proposed. As he phrased it, he wanted to take a fast trip to Ibiza, party til he dropped, and then discreetly disappear. He contended that it was the . . . tasteful thing to do."

Michael nodded. "I remember when he talked about that. We all thought he was just . . . being the Brian that we all know and . . . " He turned to study Keller's face. "You were the one who changed his mind."

Keller smiled. "Ordinarily, I'm glad to take the credit for miracle cures, but, in this case, all I did was yell at him to tell him that he was a stupid shit. I've never been entirely sure, but I think it was Gus that changed his mind." He then turned a speculative gaze toward Michael. "And maybe you - to some extent. At any rate, he experienced some kind of epiphany that made him decide to have the surgery. Until then, he'd pretty much decided that he was going to be the new James Dean - remaining forever young and beautiful."

He smiled again, and there was a glow of affection in his eyes. "I don't suppose it comes as a shock that he's obsessed with his own physical perfection."

It was Lindsey's turn to smile, but there was little joy in her expression. "Which brings us to a pertinent point," she said softly. "Namely, what happens now? Will he ever . . ."

Keller's eyes narrowed, and his face went rigid and harsh. "I've given my whole life to the practice of medicine," he said. "It's time now for it to give something back. I will not lose him." Then he remembered that these two people loved his old friend even more than he did. "And neither will you."

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

The other side of the world. Literally the other side.

Justin sipped at his Cosmo and wandered out through the French doors, to lean against the balcony railing and gaze out across the breathtaking panorama of Oriental Bay. The water, beautifully pure and crystalline, was a natural version of an abstract painting, comprised of hundreds of variations of colors, like the facets of carefully cut emeralds and sapphires and aquamarines stroked and polished by fingers of sunlight, framed by the broken crescent of the beach road that seemed to contain the city of Wellington in its narrow band of stylish structures reaching for the sky, gleaming white and coral against the verdant green of the hillsides beyond. On the bay itself, various types of sea-going vessels rode the combined forces of time and tide, sails billowing in graceful arcs before the wind.

The quality of the light was incredible, as pure and unfiltered as any he'd ever seen, painting everything in strokes of exquisite liquid brilliance - and he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to grab a canvas and his brushes and capture it all.

It would be easy enough. His art supplies were carefully packed into a canvas carry-all, stowed in the closet of the luxury suite behind him.

He could already see it developing under his hands, growing and stretching across the canvas, transcending the physical dimensions of the scene, incorporating fragments of images that were rising in his mind. He closed his eyes and could still see it, but with enhancements uniquely his own. In actuality, the view was sharp and flawless, each element as crisp and perfect as the symmetry of a snowflake, but in his mind, he saw it filtered by a veil of rain, storm-washed and windblown and battened down. Surviving, with beauty intact, just waiting to reclaim its place in the sun.

His fingers twitched as he visualized the process of bringing his vision to life, building it layer upon layer, capturing the beauty, the infinity, the microcosmic clarity of the image, and wrapping it all around a distinctive silhouette.

But he just stood there, not acting on the impulse. His mind was engaged; even his fingers were eager to begin. But his heart wasn't in it.

It was, quite literally, a different world, in more ways than one. He sighed. But it still incorporated the part of him that he could not quite manage to leave behind.

Would he forever see that one, unforgettable face every time he closed his eyes?

Steven had been wonderful all through the journey, had gone to extraordinary lengths to detach Justin from the melancholy that had gripped him since the night of his exhibition, which now seemed lost in some alternative timeline.

So . . . what the fuck was he thinking - to be here in this fantastic, incredibly beautiful place, preparing for the greatest adventure of his life, exploring a culture rich beyond his wildest imaginings in the company of a gorgeous, loving companion - and all he could think about was what was missing.

Well - almost all.

There was the guy standing on the adjacent balcony, smoking a Gauloise, wearing nothing but a towel that left little to the imagination. And Steven was meeting with an important client, a multi-billionaire who had risen to the peak of his profession at age 50, before retiring to his private paradise in the hills above the city, leaving his investments in the capable hands of Steven's father.

So . . . he did have several hours to kill and . . .

The beautiful brunette with the awesome six-pack and the glorious tan and eyes of a surprisingly vivid green turned toward him with a smile that could only be described as come-hither (and no, he shouldn't stop to consider that such a descriptive term was much more Brian Kinney than J.T. standard) and waited for his response.

And he opened his mouth to offer it, but . . . He realized, not quite too late, that it would be in really questionable taste to spend his leisure hours fucking some gorgeous stranger while the man who was picking up the tab for this whole trip was - figuratively, at least - slaving away to pay for it. And the fact that the 'slaving' was probably occurring in a 5-star restaurant over a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and a Kobe steak didn't mitigate the facts.

With an apologetic smile, Justin retreated from the balcony and looked around for something to fill his time until Steven's return. He could, of course, set off to explore the city, but he was still a bit jet-lagged, and he knew that Steven would be disappointed if he chose to go off by himself, so he decided to hold off.

His laptop was lying on inlaid surface of the Queen Anne desk that occupied its own little alcove in the sitting room of the suite, and it occurred to him that he'd had virtually no contact with the outside world since he'd boarded the plane in New York. Time, perhaps, to do some catching up.

It was no surprise when he booted up that a discreet chime announced that he had mail. Did anyone in the world who had an email account ever boot up without getting that message? It was one of the new constants of modern living.

But when he glanced at his Outlook Express screen, he was surprised to see that one of the 43 messages awaiting his attention was marked as "high priority" - an unusual enough circumstance to prompt him to click on the item without bothering to notice the identity of the sender.

There was a brief delay before the screen began to fill with a sharp, indelible image.

Justin stared for a moment, unwilling, unable to process what he was seeing. Then he went to his knees, suddenly unable to breathe, as his mind receded into blind panic.

There was no mistaking the subject of the photograph staring up at him, or the meaning of the six-word message scrawled in bright red all caps below it.

"Not so beautiful now, is he?"

Later, he would wonder how long he knelt there, staring at what he would have given his life to avoid seeing: Brian's face - there was no mistaking those features that he knew so intimately - but no longer Brian's face. Bloodied and torn, distorted and mangled. Mutilated.

After a long time - minutes, hours . . . months, how the fuck could he be sure . . . he blinked, and managed to search for the name of the sender.

Virtuoso-Uno.

Of course. Who else? He had heard from Ethan Gold a few times since their ill-fated affair had ended - a few long, rambling letters trying to justify the violinist's behavior or attempting to impress Justin with the degree of his professional success. Mostly, he'd deleted them without bothering to read the rambling exhibitions of massive ego.

He wished he'd noticed who'd sent this one, and deleted it unseen.

Only, if he had, he wouldn't know . . .

Fuck! He still didn't know. But he was about to find out.

He used the hotel phone to place his call, realizing that a signal from his cell would register his identity on the phone he was trying to contact. And he didn't want that, because he was pretty sure that the call would go unanswered if the recipient knew it was from him.

It took a while for him to get through as he imagined the signal bouncing from satellite to satellite to land lines to cell tower to . . . who knew what? He paced as he waited, barely able to contain an urge to scream. But finally, thankfully, the connection was made, and he heard what he'd hoped to hear.

"Hello."

Justin drew a deep breath, prepared to speak fast. "If you fucking hang up on me, Daphne, I'm never going to speak to you again. Now you tell me . . . is he all right, or . . ."

He heard her sigh, and even felt a twinge of pity, realizing that he was probably putting her in an awkward position. But that couldn't be helped. "Justin, I can't . . ."

"Don't you fucking tell me that," he yelled. "I know he's hurt. I have to know he's not . . ."

"No," she said quickly, recognizing the futility of trying to keep up the pretense. "He's not . . . dead. He's . . . they put him in an induced coma - to help him heal - but he's . . ."

"What? He's what?"

"Oh, God, Justin," she said, not quite able to swallow the sobs that were rising within her. "They almost killed him. How could anybody . . ."

He closed his eyes, wondering if he could endure the truths that she had to tell him, knowing that he had no choice. "Tell me . . . he's going to be all right," he begged.

It took a moment for her to compose herself. "The doctor says . . . he'll live."

Justin took a deep breath, knowing that there was more - so much more - but nothing that couldn't wait until he could find it out for himself.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Daphne tried not to flinch away from the fury she heard in his voice, realizing that she couldn't really blame him. If he had kept something this important from her, she wondered if she would ever have been able to forgive him.

"He didn't want you to know," she said finally, knowing it was not good enough, but not knowing what else she could say.

"Fuck!" She winced away from the volume of the expletive, and the degree of rage it contained. "What kind of fucking lame excuse is that?"

"Justin, I'm . . ."

"Don't say it," he snapped. "There's nothing you can say that will . . . Fuck! It doesn't matter. I'm on my way, and if he wakes up before I get there, you tell him he's a fucking son of a bitch for trying to . . ."

"Justin," she shouted, as the people around her turned toward her, their faces twisted with alarm as they realized what was going on, "he doesn't want you here. He . . ."

"I don't give a flying fuck," he said in a voice filled with deadly calm, "what he wants."

"Justin, no . . ." But she knew that her protest was futile. Justin was already gone.


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TBC

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