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

First of all, apologies for not responding to any of your lovely comments during the past few days.  Had a little bout of flu, and simply couldn't summon up the energy.

More important - - before anyone can point it out, I know full well that Congress has only just now passed legislation to make gay-bashing a hate crime, but, for the purposes of this story, that legislation already existed - just as it should.

Timeless

Chapter 14

The concierge of the Copthorne Oriental Bay Hotel was normally a serene, virtually unflappable individual, polished and self-assured and confidant of his abilities to meet and exceed the expectations of the guests who called on him for extensive personal services - even when those guests turned out to be the most outrageous, demanding, unreasonable prima donnas imaginable. In almost twenty years of providing these services at the premium hotel, The Brisbane native had never once had cause to doubt his ability to function and fulfill his purpose with admirable aplomb. Until, that is, he was forced to go head-to-head with one fuming, nearly demented, barely-in-control Justin Taylor, who might look like a kid who belonged in a remake of The Brady Bunch, but behaved more like a Panzer-division storm trooper.

The blonde youth was standing in Adam Cargill's office, having rejected the offer of a seat with nothing more than a disdainful sneer; he was almost vibrating with impatience.
"Mr. Taylor, please," said the concierge, not - quite - wringing his hands. "If I could help you, I would, but I . . ."

"Fine," snapped Justin, bending over to pick up a nondescript duffle bag and a canvas carry-all. "You can deal with explaining to Mr. Fletcher why I'm not here, when he returns to the land of the living." He paused long enough to flash the older man a snide smile. "And you should assume that he's not going to be pleased."

"But . . ."

"Don't bother! I have no time to discuss . . ."

"But Mr. Taylor, the airline was very specific. They can't accommodate your . . ."

"You let me worry about the airline," Justin retorted. "You just worry about explaining yourself to Steven."

"But if you'll just give me ten minutes, I'm sure . . ."

"I don't have ten minutes," Justin replied, with what he considered admirable restraint. Just what part of "I have to go now" did this pussy-whipped sycophant not understand?

In truth, Cargill was neither pussy-whipped nor sycophantic; he was just an employee trying to do his job, caught between corporate policy and the determination of a young man who had not the slightest interest in company rules.

The concierge, recognizing true desperation gleaming in blue-on-blue eyes, really wanted to help the kid. Only he dared not disobey the hotel's most stringent regulation: one did not, under penalty of dismissal, interrupt a closed-door, security-guarded, private meeting between VIP clients, for anything less than a terrorist attack or a raging fire. When such clients paid for absolute discretion and a guarantee of non-interruption, they weren't kidding.

Finally, Justin simply nodded and turned for the door.

"Wait!" Cargill drew a deep breath and wondered if he would forever be doomed to be putty in the hands of adorable little blondes with huge blue eyes and perfect bubble butts.

With an impatient grunt, he depressed a button on his telephone and waited for a response. "Send Jonathon in here," he snapped when the call was answered.

"What am I waiting for?" demanded Justin, in no mood for game playing.

Cargill grabbed a pad from his desk and tossed it on the counter. "Write a note," he said quickly, "and I'll see he gets it. And, for God's sake, don't tell anybody. I could lose my job for this, you know."

Justin didn't stop to consider; he simply wrote the first thing that came to mind.
"I have to go. If you already know what happened, no explanation is needed. If you don't, none would be enough. I'm sorry."

He hesitated then for a fraction of a second, before scrawling Love, Justin at the bottom.

"The limo is waiting, Mr. Taylor," said Cargill, "but . . ."

Justin didn't wait to hear the rest. He was gone before the concierge could voice his certainty that there really was no need to rush because the airline had been very specific. Cargill sighed; he had no idea what might have happened to send the young blonde on a mad dash to the airport, where he was almost certainly destined to spend many frustrating hours fidgeting and worrying and pacing, on stand-by while waiting for a seat to become available on a flight - any flight - headed east. The kid would have a very long day.

Cargill made sure that Jonathon - the waiter currently attending to the needs of the very special guests in the very private dining room - knew which of them to approach with the note; then he returned to his regular tasks, relieved to be able to do so, believing the crisis averted. But in assuming that the worst was over, he was destined to be proven wrong. When Steven Fletcher stormed into his office less than five minutes later, he knew immediately that he had been ridiculously optimistic.

"Get me a car - right now!"

"Of course, Mr. Fletcher," Cargill replied smoothly, in the mistaken belief that a serene response might serve to pour oil on troubled waters. "However, let me assure you that there's no cause for alarm - or need to hurry, for that matter. The young man is unlikely to be able to get a flight out any time soon. He's . . ."

Steven glanced at the man's ID tag with cold eyes. "It's obvious to me, Mr. Cargill," he almost snarled, "that you don't know the first thing about Justin Taylor. He may look like a sweet, unassuming little cherub, but - when the need arises - he can move mountains. Or airlines, as the case may be. So, if you have no desire to find yourself standing in the unemployment line - get-me-a-car . . . NOW!"

At that moment, it would have astonished Adam Cargill, as he struggled to control an almost irresistible urge to tell this obstreperous, overbearing, pompous ass what he could do with his threats and his demands, to discover that Fletcher was ordinarily the most laid-back, mild-mannered, and courteous of men, completely opposed to any notion of using the power of his name, his money, or his position to demand special favors. But this was different; this was Justin, for God's sake.

And it struck him in mid-stride as he headed for the door at a near run that there was still something he could do - something Justin would not expect. Something that . . . might very well put the young man he loved beyond all reason directly in harm's way. But something that would - at the same time - give his young lover the thing he wanted most in the world.

Steven paused - more torn than he had ever been in his life.

Then he sighed and walked back toward the private dining room where he had just left one of his company's most important clients to watch, open-mouthed and outraged, as his broker deserted him without explanation.

This was going to be a tricky moment, and he knew he was going to have a hell of a lot to answer for. His father, in fact, might never forgive him. But he would do as he must. For Justin - even though he was almost certain that what he was doing would be the last thing he ever had an opportunity to do for the young artist.

He should resist; he should pretend ignorance. He paused in the doorway to touch fingertips to his temple, hoping to ease the headache that was rising there. He should look after his own best interests, which did not, not, not, include providing a means for Justin to realize the desire that was driving him now. Steven knew that he should take his seat at the table, offer up some excuse about a momentary lapse, and resume his meeting. He knew he should . . .

But . . .

Andrew Ellis was sitting exactly where Steven had left him, champagne glass still in hand, eyebrows still raised, mouth still open - undoubtedly wondering what the hell had just happened to send the representative of his brokerage house racing from the room as if pursued by an army of screaming demons. He didn't appear outraged - not yet - but he was obviously working on it. Steven took a deep breath, mentally girded his loins . . . and jumped in with both feet.

"Andrew," he said abruptly, allowing himself no more opportunity to dither, "you deserve an explanation and an apology, and I will gladly offer both, ad nauseum. On my knees, if necessary. But first, I must ask you, beg you, to trust me. Because I need a really, really big favor . . . and the explanation will have to wait until later."

Ellis lifted his head, arching one eyebrow even higher, and stared up into the face of the handsome young man who was so like his venerable father in so many ways and so unlike him in others. Steven Fletcher was the younger generation, the new wave who would one day soon remake the shape of Wall Street and global markets - always providing he learned to keep his eye fixed firmly on target, and avoid unnecessary distractions.

Still . . . Andrew was quiet for a moment, swept back suddenly into memories he had not examined for a very long time. Memories of a young life, a different life, lived before he had taken up residence in the heartland of respectability, leaving behind a youth that was a far cry from the world he occupied now. He was quiet for a moment, taking time to light a cigarette and enjoy a sip of champagne before looking up and regarding young Fletcher with a faint smile.

"What kind of favor?"

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

Funny - he couldn't remember anything about where he'd been before or how he'd gotten here, although there was not the slightest doubt about where he was. Babylon was like no place else in the world; it had its own smell, its own ambiance, its own rhythm, its own pattern of sound and silence. Still, he should know where he'd been before - shouldn't he? Unless he was drunker than he thought. Or maybe that pig, Anita, had finally done it, had finally cooked up a batch of shit in her bathtub to pass off as "E" when it was really some kind of toxic soup that would send him on a horrible trip to rival the very worst LSD experience any child of the 60's had ever endured.

Still, even then, he should recall something . . . shouldn't he?

But nothing came to mind, beyond a few faded images - a glimpse of dancing in a ballroom, a few random drawings of a comic book hero, an infant looking up at him with beautiful solemn hazel eyes - and a few words that seemed to have dribbled into his consciousness - words that didn't make much sense.

Was there a voice - male, he thought - that denied any desire to get a look at the cock of the Stud of Liberty Avenue?

Was the fucker crazy?

And had someone mentioned that he
would be Brian Kinney again? Well, of course, he would. Who the fuck else would he be? He was . . .

He lifted his eyes, somehow already knowing what he would see, although he knew that didn't make any sense. How could he know?

He managed not to flinch, not to frown. He managed not to allow anything to show on his face; it wasn't such an impressive trick, since he'd been doing the same thing his whole life - although not quite like this. It was not quite as simple this time, while he was intensely conscious of a blade of frozen steel slicing through his heart.
He wanted to be angry, wanted to feel betrayal as he watched Justin break the rule that he himself had imposed. Words swirled in his memory, underscored by the thumpa-thumpa rhythm around and through them. "You don't kiss anybody on the mouth . . . but me."

The rule, apparently, no longer applied.

He tried to be angry - tried to hate the two young men who turned to look at him as they made their exit. But he couldn't find it within him. He couldn't hate Justin, couldn't resent him for needing what Brian could not give him, could never give him.
He had known it was coming; known that Justin would walk away, pursuing a dream of romance and a fairy-tale ending; a dream that Brian could never allow himself to provide.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to hurl himself forward and let rage take him as he refused to relinquish the only thing that mattered, the thing his heart insisted he must fight for, must win back.

But he couldn't, because he understood, on some sub-primal level, that Justin would be happier without him, happier with someone who could give him the things that Brian couldn't and wouldn't, and that was all that really mattered.

So he did none of the things his heart told him to do. He just stood there and watched, carefully preserving the Brian Kinney image he'd spent his life building.

Untouched and untouchable.

Only . . . deep down, in a private place that no one would ever see, some small part of him curled in upon itself, turning away from a pain too deep to endure, and died. Leaving behind a small, intense core of icy cold that would never thaw, never be warm again.

Then, it was on to the next trick, the next drink, the next hit . . . and he had an incredible urge to laugh as a bizarre thought erupted in his mind - a tag line from an old movie: "In space, no one can hear you scream."

The space around him expanded abruptly, reaching out toward infinity, and just like that, Babylon was gone; Justin and the fiddler were gone; the only thing that remained . . . was the cold. Somehow he knew it would never leave him.

He drifted then, his mind in free fall, only occasionally touching down to brush against reality: footsteps coming and going, gentle hands that touched him with a cool but not uncaring professional detachment, strange electronic sounds, not unlike a world constructed inside a video game, soft voices uttering words unconnected with the images in his mind. Once in a while, a voice he thought he should know . . .

"You scared us to death, you little shit . . ."

" . . . hang on, Brian. Gus needs you . . ."


" . . . Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake . . . "

But none of them grabbed him or inspired him to try to formulate an answer . . . or touched the coldness inside him.

Until . . .

Babylon again. Was he only alive there now? Was everything else just . . . gone?
His back braced against the wall and some anonymous trick with a beautiful face worshipping his cock with tongue and suckling as he listened to the beloved voice on the phone.

"You're not mad, are you?"

The automatic response fell from his lips without thought. "Why would I be mad?" Why indeed? Of course, he wasn't mad. How could he be mad when he knew that Justin was doing exactly what he should be doing? When his young lover was living a life every young person dreamed of - making a movie, for God's sake, and fucking movie stars - flying in his element, while the rest of the world remained dirt-bound.

He hastened to reassure Justin, to let him know that he should not concern himself with how Brian might feel about his decision to extend his visit to the fantastic world that was Hollywood. And he resisted the urge to reply in kind when his young lover ended their conversation with a tender confession. "I miss you."

Brian disconnected quickly and stroked his fingers through the hair of the young man kneeling before him, but he was careful not to look down, not to see the dark hair and the buffed-up body that was definitely
not Justin.

Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes - and saw a truth that he'd been doing his best to ignore. Justin had come back to him once, after the debacle of the fiddling twink; he had been lucky that time. He wouldn't be that lucky again. What, after all, could he offer to compete with the incredible adventure the young man was living now?

Justin was gone, and it was time to face it. He would not be coming back. It was time to let him go.

He felt a quick compression in his chest, as if his heart had somehow skipped a beat, and then he felt the first rush of orgasm take him and pull him out of his thoughts, out of his awareness - and he had never been more grateful for the distraction.

And yet, as molten heat exploded in his groin and through his body, he was suddenly aware of something that rejected the distraction and the heat: deep inside, in a place where he almost never allowed himself to go, a core of ice flexed . . . and grew colder.

More footsteps. More drifting. More voices.

" . . . to wake up. Please . . ." Slightly whiny, even needy.

"They all . . . for you, you know. We can't . . ."

"Temperature slightly elevated . . . swelling in . . ."

" . . . give 'em all the big 'fuck you'. I know you can . . ."

But none of that really concerned him or grabbed his attention.

He was too busy drifting, until . . .

Babylon. Again. But different this time. Darker somehow, twisted into a moment he knew he didn't want to endure. But it was futile to resist, even when he knew . . .
Ted and Emmett, both wearing an expression he was all too familiar with - the one that announced that they were smug in the certainty that they'd found a way to get through his defenses, to hurt the person who dwelt within the fortress, and he wondered how they could really believe that he'd never figured it out, that he didn't know how gleeful they were when they managed to inflict pain on a person who never allowed himself to show it.

But this time . . . this time he wasn't sure he could hold it together, for this time, it was not just a betrayal from one of the people closest to his heart. This time, it was a conspiracy - a joint effort to mock everything he was. Justin . . . and Michael, joined together in their disdain for his life and his choices. He believed in liberty, in never holding on to someone who wanted to be free, in giving his heart without demanding a certificate of title in return.

Justin had rejected all that. Rejected him and embraced the philosophy that Michael and Ben had adopted. And there was really nothing he could do but accept it. But perhaps, this time, he would not completely resist the urge to acknowledge the betrayal, to speak out.

So he would vent the anger, the sense of betrayal. But . . . only once. And then the mask would fall firmly back in place, and he would concentrate on constructing higher walls to guard his heart. It was a harsh lesson, but he would learn it.

What other choice did he have? His whole life had been spent learning to endure things that would have destroyed those without his strength and his determination. He would endure, and he would make sure no one would ever understand the degree of the hurt it cost him.

He was Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake! They all needed to believe that there was nothing he could not withstand, nothing that could pierce the fortress built around his heart.

He would make sure they could go on believing that.

And if the dark core within him - the one filled with relentless ice - grew darker and colder, it was not necessary for anyone else to know it. The cold, by this time, was
an old, familiar companion. Unlike other companions, it would never leave him.

He would endure. He would always . . .

Drifting again, everything dissolving into a strange, surrealistic landscape of pain and blackness, whispers and detached voices, and . . .

Quick images of dancers and writhing bodies, of familiar faces in unfamiliar settings, of fire and blood and death, and then . . .

Flickering light - pale, warm . . . beautiful . . . touching golden hair with sparks of bright embers and reflecting in huge, blue eyes smiling up at him. Justin - radiant, glowing, happy. Justin in his arms, returned to him. Snatched back from the grim maw of destruction, from the devastation of blood and carnage. Justin - safe and, finally, claimed. Justin - his.

He stretched like a cat, reveling in the feel of creamy bare skin beneath him, in the intimacy of two bodies irrevocably joined, connected physically, but more than that.
Connected heart-to-heat, soul-to-soul.

Justin, finally and totally, a part of him. Their kisses were slow and tender and spoke of having all the time in the world to explore each other, to rediscover each other, to . . .

Shrill, electronic beeping, loud and insistent . . .

" . . . temperature spiking . . . "

" . . . blood pressure dropping. Heartbeat erratic . . ."

"Justin," he whispered, gazing down into eyes that were now growing wide, reflecting something more than firelight, reflecting the rising voltage of pure panic. "Justin . . . I'm . . . sorry I . . ."

"Sorry's bullshit . . . Brian, don't you lea . . ."

It was the cold, of course. The cold, just as he had always known it would be. In spite of the blessed warmth of the fire against his skin, and the precious warmth of the body pressed close against him, it was the cold that would finally triumph and take away all that he'd managed to claim. It was the cold . . .

". . . call a code, STAT. And get Keller . . ."


It was early morning now, and only Michael and Ben were present in the waiting room, having dropped in before work, in the hope of getting a chance to have just a moment with the patient, even though, forty-eight hours after the fact, he had still not wakened from his coma, although Dr. Keller assured them that it would not be much longer. Still, it was comforting, somehow, to stand beside his bed and watch the rise and fall of his breath and note the occasional tremor that they chose to interpret as Brian's efforts to return to the land of the living.

Thus they were the only ones there to hear the clipped, cold announcement on the PA system: "Code blue, ICU. Code blue, ICU. Dr. Keller, 6117 STAT."

Ben was quick with easy reassurance. "It could be anybody, Michael. There are lots of other patients in ICU, and Dr. Keller is probably the primary physician on call. Don't jump to conclusions."

But Michael remained unconsoled. Ben meant well, meant to offer comfort and ease his husband's mind. Only . . . he didn't know Brian - the world's foremost drama queen.

Michael just nodded and continued to gnaw on the cuticle that he'd already reduced to bloody shreds - knowing, and wishing he didn't.

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

Airports were a lot like hospitals, he thought. Pretty much the same the world over, even if one qualified for admission to the VIP lounge. Which he did - courtesy of Steven, of course, and the first class ticket he was trying to exchange for an earlier flight.

Today. That was his only stipulation. It had to be today.

The real problem was that the stupid airline had no flights headed for the US mainland until the regular daily departure at 9:45 PM. Six and a half hours away. Six and a half useless hours, separating him from where he needed to be.

Justin sat in a booth in the discreet darkness of the bar, nursing his Beam and muttering under his breath. Of course, there was also the slight difficulty posed by the fact that the flight was fully booked, with no available seats - first class or otherwise - but he would deal with that problem when the time came. There would be someone willing to negotiate; there had to be. In the immortal words of someone who was currently much too far away, "Money talks". He would just have to make sure that it said the right thing to allow him to prevail. Meanwhile, here he sat, nursing his drink, firmly ensconced on the stand-by list, and staring at his watch, knowing that he needed to eat, that he would probably be sick if he didn't, but unable to bear the thought of food.

The bartender was giving him another come-hither look, and he reflected that it was really too bad that he was gay, as she was quite pretty and obviously interested. But he confined his response to a pale smile, before going wide-eyed as he noticed the commercial that was playing on the TV behind the bar. Endovir - The AIDS drug - the ads which had been the first to be produced by Kinnetic Corp, the product of the advertising genius of Brian Kinney.

It was truly a small world, he thought, allowing himself a tiny sigh. Only not quite small enough - today.

Justin closed his eyes and knew that it was time. He could put it off no longer. He wasn't even sure why he had done so up until now, for the knowing or not knowing would change nothing.

But it was time to know.

He retrieved his laptop from his carry-all, and attached it to the Internet outlet beside the table, then waited while it booted up. Allowing himself no chance to procrastinate, he clicked on Google and typed in Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, waited for a moment, and managed - barely - not to flinch as the front page of the largest of Pittsburgh's dailies appeared on the screen.

The article was just a small piece at the bottom of the front page, bearing the headline "Kinney Attack Under Investigation."

Justin took a deep breath, trying to ignore the hard thump of his heartbeat and the huge lump in his throat, and began to read.

"According to a statement issued by the Pittsburgh Police Department, the attack on local businessman, Brian Kinney, is being treated as a hate crime and that federal involvement in the investigation is pending. Mr. Kinney, owner and president of the advertising firm, Kinnetic Corp, and of the gay nightclub, Babylon, which was the target of a terrorist-style attack last year, remains hospitalized at press time, still listed in critical condition.

Detective Karl Horvath confirms that a number of leads are being pursued and that interviews with potential witnesses continue. The attack occurred last Friday evening, as Mr. Kinney was abducted by his attackers after leaving his nightclub prior to closing. No official statement concerning the severity of the attack has been issued, but unconfirmed reports suggest that he was badly beaten, and that his injuries were extensive; however, an unidentified source reports that the doctor overseeing his care indicates that he is 'cautiously optimistic' concerning his patient's chances for recovery.

The individual who was killed during the police rescue has been identified as George McCormick, a resident of Chicago and ex-convict allegedly affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang.

No further details have been released at this time. The police department is urging anyone who might have information concerning this attack to call the TIPS hotline as soon as possible."


Justin leaned his head against the back of the booth and closed his eyes. There was a picture, of course. He had known there would be. Who, after all, would resist the urge to publish a photograph of that face? Brian, not quite smiling, not quite smirking - but something in between. Just quintessentially Brian - and quintessentially beautiful.

There would be more - much more - he was certain, if he called up an earlier edition: the front page article from the day after the event. He just wasn't sure he was ready to know it all.

Still, there was no point in delay. He lifted his hand to initiate the search, but had not completed the gesture when he became conscious of a presence standing over him.

"Hello, Steven."

The young broker did not offer a response until he'd made himself comfortable on the opposite seat, bracing his hands against the table and signaling for the bartender to bring him a drink along with a refill for his companion.

"Justin." Just that. Just his name and no more.

And Justin took a moment to draw a deep breath. "You knew," he said, without a trace of uncertainty, his voice admirably steady despite the anger erupting like a flame in his chest.

Steven sighed. "Yes."

"Why . . ." Another deep breath, obviously struggling to remain calm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Steven reached forward and touched his finger to the photograph still centered on the computer screen. "Because he didn't want you to know. If I understand it correctly, he fought like a son of a bitch to remain conscious long enough to make sure the powers that be knew to keep you away."

"Because?"

Steven wanted to look away, wanted not to see the fury rising in those incredibly blue eyes - but couldn't. "No one knows for sure, but it's only logical to assume that they . . . threatened you. That they told him they'd be going after you next."

Justin's eyes were drawn once more to the photograph on the screen. "And that was enough - for you and for him - to decide to keep me in the dark?"

Steven sighed. "It should be pretty obvious that both of us only had one thing in mind. To keep you safe."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"Justin, think about it. Please. If he manages to come through this, how do you think he'd feel to discover that he survived - and you didn't?"

Justin's eyes narrowed, becoming cold, dark slits. "Now you think about it, Steven. Suppose I survive it - and he doesn't. Do you really think my life would mean anything to me? That I could just . . . go on, without him?"

"You've been without him," Steven retorted, "for the past year."

Justin's smile was tentative, sweet, wistful. "I've never been without him, although I admit that, for a while, I thought so too. But the truth is . . . he's always with me."

Steven felt the pain bolt through him. "Then . . ."

"I'm sorry, Steven," Justin interrupted quickly. "I owe you a huge apology. I used you to try to cover up the hurt I felt when I thought I'd lost him, and that was completely unfair to you. Because I've only just now realized something. I can't lose him; he's a part of me, whether he admits it or not. Whether we're together or not. He'll always be a part of me - and me of him. That's not going to change."

"But he sent you away." It was a desperate protest, a last ditch effort to point out the obvious.

"Yeah, he did," answered Justin. "And I, like a stupid twat, let him do it, because I let myself buy into the bullshit." Then he looked deep into Steven's eyes, obviously sorry for the pain he knew he was causing, but unable to maintain his silence. "Even though I knew better. I even said it once, when Lindsey was spouting all her bullshit about why I needed to go to New York, why I could only grow into the artist I was supposed to be if I answered the call. I told her then that New York wasn't my opportunity of a lifetime - that Brian was. And then - like an idiot - I let myself forget it. Because he was determined not to stand in my way. To let me go find myself. But . . ."

"But?" Steven suddenly sounded much older than his 36 years.

"But I will never be the man I want to be without Brian. I don't know how we'll do it, how we'll pull it off, but, whatever we do, whatever we're meant to be, it will only work . . . together."

Steven could not find a single word with which to form an answer,

"I'm truly sorry."

And what was there, after all, to say to that? The young broker found no response sufficient. Still, there was something he needed to say, even though it would serve no useful purpose.

"I know," he said finally. "So am I."

"It wasn't meant . . ."

But Steven waved him off. "Please don't offer me platitudes, Justin. It won't help. And it's not like I hadn't already figured it out, you know. I think I always knew. But I . . . I just couldn't turn around and walk away. Even though I knew it was the best thing I could do. But . . . I really loved you, you know. I wanted to . . . give you the world."

Justin's pale skin made the flush that touched his face seem almost garish. "I'm . . ."

"I know," Steven said quickly. "You're sorry. And so am I." He smiled then, with a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the island around them. "This was meant to be the trip of a lifetime - a trip that would make you . . ."

"Forget everything?"

"Not everything. Just him."

Justin could only sigh, and offer his ultimate truth. "If I never saw him again, never heard his name, never touched him - and spent the rest of my life traveling to every beautiful place in the world - he would still be here." He touched his heart with his thumb. "Right here.

"I'm just sorry that it took something like this . . ." he nodded toward the article on the computer . . . "to make me realize it."

"I know."

Steven stood up then, and spent a moment staring down into the beautiful eyes that were looking back at him. Then he leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on Justin's forehead.

"Good-bye, Baby," he whispered. Then he turned and walked away, and Justin watched him go, feeling a sense of shame when he couldn't muster up a single ounce of regret for what might have been.

So he had not been lying when he'd said that it had always been Brian - even when he'd tried to believe that it wasn't.

He glanced once more at his watch. Six hours and twenty minutes.

He pulled his laptop toward him, looking for a way to pass the time. Looking for the whole story. Only . . .

"Mr. Taylor?"

He looked up to find a young man in a dark suit standing over him.

"Yes?"

"Your flight is ready, Sir."

Justin blinked. "My . . . flight?"

"Yes, sir."

Justin cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but I thought there were no flights out . . . until tonight."

"That's correct. There are no commercial flights out, until this evening."

"So . . . what are you talking about?"

The young man smiled. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"Mr. Ellis' Gulfstream is waiting on Runway 3, fueled and ready to go. We'll have you in Pittsburgh in no time."

"Mr. Ellis?" Justin echoed. "But I don't even know Mr. Ellis."

"No, but you do know Mr. Fletcher. He's the one who called in a . . . favor."

Justin felt a pang of guilt. He had not even offered his thanks for everything Steven had done for him - was still doing for him, and, knowing the corporate world as he did, he doubted that such a 'favor' would come without strings attached.

He really should take the time to express his gratitude - for both the favor and the generous spirit that was the driving force behind it. He really should, only . . .

The jet was waiting. Pittsburgh was waiting. Brian . . . was waiting.

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

Though it was very early, Lindsey had been up and about for several hours. She was finding it difficult to sleep these days. Sleeping in a hotel; sleeping in Pittsburgh again. Sleeping while Brian was locked away in a sleep from which he might not waken.
She missed her children; she missed her home; and she missed the man who had been such an integral part of her life, for such a long time. What she didn't miss, in the least, was the shitty attitude her partner had been displaying since they had arrived here. She had tried to be understanding, to accept how difficult it must be for Melanie to be here, in this place, under these circumstances - to know, as there was no denying, that her partner had always been at least a bit in love with Brian Kinney.

But that did not excuse the pissy attitude, while Brian lay suspended between life and death.

Lindsey had, after all, left him here when she and Melanie relocated to Toronto. Left him here, conveniently forgetting how distraught she'd been on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday, when he'd been the one threatening to move away, to build a new life in New York.

Why was it, she wondered suddenly, that all of Brian's friends took it upon themselves to determine what was or was not acceptable in his life, but felt free to pursue their own interests, no matter what their actions might do to him?

Especially when he did so much for them.

Like now.

She had not spent a lot of time at Kinnetics since Brian had opened it, and she felt a little like an interloper when she followed Cynthia into the inner sanctum - his office.
It was just as she remembered it, of course - elegant, streamlined, beautiful. Like its owner.

"Cynthia, I really appreciate your . . ."

"No need to thank me," said Brian's assistant. "I didn't do anything. It was all Brian. Did you really think he'd made no provisions for Gus?"

Lindsey sighed. "I know he's always sent a check every month. But that was before he . . ."

"It's a trust fund, Lindsey. He set it up years ago, and the income is still there. It won't change just because he's not . . . available to write the checks."

"I have to admit," said Gus' mother, "that it would have been really tough . . ." She laughed gently. "Okay, it would have been impossible without the money he sent."

Cynthia regarded her solemnly. "You know, Linz, I have to tell you that I was always a little surprised that Melanie was willing to accept his help - given how she feels about him."

"We-ell!" Lindsey drawled. "As to that . . ."

"She doesn't know." Cynthia's tone made it obvious that it was not a question.

"No. She doesn't."

Cynthia gave a tiny, tight little smile. "You guys have an . . . interesting
arrangement," she said. She was careful to guard against any nuance of disapproval that might color her tone - no matter what her private opinion might be. This was the mother of Brian's son, and if he had no problem with the way she lived her life, then his administrative assistant would certainly abide by his decision.

Nevertheless, Lindsey felt a chill anyway. She did not like feeling as if she had to lie to her partner, especially when she was sure that Cynthia was comparing her deceitful behavior to Brian's brutal, unrelenting honesty - and finding her wanting.

"Do you need it now?" Cynthia continued.

Lindsey nodded. "Especially with all the added expenses of the hotel, the trip to New York, and the car rental. It all adds up, you know. I even wondered if it might be possible for us to . . . use Brian's . . ."

"Not a good idea." There was no uncertainty in Cynthia's voice. "One thing that he would not want violated is his privacy. The loft is . . . off-limits. However, if you like, I'm sure he'd want me to arrange for Kinnetic to pick up the tab for the hotel. And I'll make a stop at the ATM on my way to the hospital. Will that do?"

"That'll be fine."

"A thousand," said Cynthia. "Right?"

Lindsey nodded and took a moment to study the décor of the office. Minimalist, with
lots of space, and clean, uncluttered lines - exactly the kind of spare elegance Brian had always preferred in his surroundings, the kind of ambiance that served as a perfect setting to emphasize the beauty of the individual at its center.

"One more thing," said Cynthia suddenly, and Lindsey spun to study her face, hearing something strange and slightly disconcerting in her tone of voice.

"I don't know if you do much Internet surfing," said Brian's executive assistant, "but for the time being, you should avoid it like the plague."

Lindsey opened her mouth to deny any interest in web browsing, but then it occurred to her that this was not a non sequitur; this was an issue with a very specific point.

"Why?" she asked abruptly. "What is it that I shouldn't see?"

Cynthia stood up and walked to the window to look out into watery morning light, and took her time choosing her words - something that was so out of character for her that Lindsey felt the first flush of true alarm. Though she could be discreet to a fault when acting on Brian's behalf, Cynthia was not exactly renowned for her tact. "There was apparently someone at the hospital the night they brought him in. Someone with . . . a camera. There are photos posted all over the Web, especially on certain homophobic sites."

Suddenly, Lindsey's knees buckled, and she dropped into a chair that was just close enough to catch her. "Oh, my God!" she whispered. "It's not enough that they almost . . . destroyed him. Now they have to flash pictures of what they did to him all over the fucking world. What did he ever do to make these people hate him so?"

Cynthia's face was like a mask, absolutely without expression, cold and distant but in striking contrast to the strange current of dark emotion threading through her voice. "He's queer, Lindsey. That's all it is, no matter how much they might claim that it's because he's too bold, or too flashy, or too defiant. It's really not any of those things. He fucks guys. That's the first reason, the primary reason. And . . . he's not afraid of them. Reason number two. Put them together, and he becomes their version of the Anti-Christ."

Lindsey nodded, slightly surprised by the veiled layer of passion she heard beneath the words. Cynthia was not much given to emotional extremes; in point of fact, Brian had often referred to her as his "voice of reason".

"You know," she said slowly, "you should feel very proud of what you've accomplished here. With Brian, I mean."

Cynthia turned away from her contemplation of the uninspiring vista beyond the window and regarded the other woman with cool detachment. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that Brian isn't much given to trusting straight people. Yet, he trusts you implicitly. Doesn't he?"

Cynthia smiled. "Maybe that's because he and I don't see each other as examples of our sexual orientation. He's Brian. I'm Cynthia. And we're a damned good team, so why would it make any difference who we fuck?"

Lindsey dredged up an indulgent smile. "That sounds like an example of a very mature attitude - something I wouldn't ordinarily associate with Brian Kinney."

Cynthia abruptly moved to Brian's desk, ostensibly to check something on his calendar, but Lindsey thought it rather strange that the other woman was careful to avoid direct eye contact. "Maybe," she said slowly, "you don't know him quite as well as you think you do."

Lindsey opened her mouth to laugh off the suggestion, slightly outraged at the notion that anybody could possibly know Brian Kinney better than she did, but she was forestalled by the sudden buzz of the office phone.

It was still very early in the day - too early for business as usual.

Nevertheless, Cynthia picked up the receiver and answered with cool professionalism.

Then she said nothing, merely listening, her face very still and pale. When she sank into Brian's executive chair, Lindsey knew that something must be very wrong, knew - somehow - that Brian's desk was a place that was almost a shrine to his place in this company. Nobody would just sit in Brian's chair - not unless there was suddenly no alternative.

"When?" Cynthia's voice did not break, but it was very soft.

"Of course," she said a few seconds later. "I'm on my way. And Lindsey Peterson is here with me."

She hung up then, and hesitated for a moment, the only indication of her concern being the way she clamped her teeth on her bottom lip.

"What is it?" asked Lindsey, a surge of cold fear flooding through her body.

"We have to go. Now."

"Why?"

"Brian. They're rushing him back to surgery. Something's . . . wrong."

Cold fear morphed immediately into blind panic. "What? What's wrong?"

Cynthia took a deep breath. "They don't know. Keller's doing an exploratory procedure - to try to find the problem."

Lindsey confined her response to a nod, grabbing her purse and heading for the door, the terror inside her now making it hard to breathe, to think, to remember how to put one foot in front of the other.

The two women left the office together, sharing the same compulsion. They had to get to Brian, to be there, to be close by, just in case he should . . .

But the thought stopped there, just short of stepping off into a void that neither of them was willing to explore.

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

Justin sprawled on the plush sofa and allowed himself to savor the comforts usually afforded only to the very rich. This, he thought as his eyes swept the cabin of the Gulfstream 550, noting the soft lighting, the designer signature of the décor, the state-of-the-art communications system, the whole luxury package, was an entirely new definition of living the good life.

Then he frowned. Good life or not, there was no way to defy the laws of physics. He was still many hours away from Pittsburgh, and a series of calls placed to various individuals there had failed to yield the results he'd sought. The hospital had provided no answers to his questions, just as he'd expected. He was not, officially, a next of kin, or even family, and the Patient Relations staffer who had taken his call had been polite but firm. Mr. Kinney's condition was still listed as critical. For anything more, the caller would have to contact a family member.

Only there weren't any; at least, none that Brain would tolerate being anywhere near him during such a difficult time. And since the Brian Kinney manual on how to live life as he saw fit did not rely on random chance to insure that things turned out the way he wanted, Justin was certain that the necessary arrangements had been made to keep Joan and Claire Kinney at a safe distance.

There was Michael, of course, and Ben. And Debbie. All of whom Brian loved deeply. But . . . Justin tried to imagine either of the Novotnys - mother or son - having to handle the critical decisions concerning Brian's care in a life-or-death situation - and couldn't begin to visualize it. No. That would inflict a burden on them, a sense of responsibility. Brian would never allow that. Ben, of course, could probably handle the weight of choices that might have to be made, but as Michael's husband, he would not be acting alone.

Lindsey? She was, after all, the mother of Brian's only child, and they shared a long, complex history. But it was a well known though seldom verbalized fact among the extended family that Lindsey loved Brian. Sometimes excessively, or even compulsively. Added to that was the whole hate/more hate dynamic between Brian and Melanie, and it seemed unlikely that Brian would compound the problems that he inevitably caused between the two Lesbians by giving Lindsey the authority to decide his fate.

So, no. Not Michael, not Debbie, not Lindsey. But there had to be someone, someone who . . .

Justin smiled, and the flight attendant who was approaching with his dinner was momentarily dazzled. Too bad, she thought, that this one so far beyond the pale - gay as blazes and completely unapologetic about it.

Justin stood and moved to take a seat at the bar, and took a deep breath, enjoying the delicate fragrance of lobster newburg as the attendant filled his wine glass with a fine sauvignon blanc. He was not really hungry - had not had any interest in food or drink since he'd opened that horrible email. But he knew he would need his strength if he were to have any hope of out-maneuvering the ranks of Kinney's Army. For he did not fool himself. Brian was nothing if not resourceful, even if he was lying comatose in the ICU. He would have made his preparations carefully, a long time before such arrangements were needed.

But he knew now where to begin - the only logical place.

So he ate. Sparingly, but sufficient to the needs of the moment.

Then he settled back into his seat on the suede-covered sofa, savoring his second glass of wine and pulling a small, leather-bound book from his carry-all.

He wondered, as he stroked the soft cover, if he was the only person who'd ever gotten close enough to Brian Kinney to discover one of his closely guarded secrets - something that Brian would undoubtedly classify as a weakness. Yet, after a bit of fumbling and completely uncharacteristic embarrassment, the Stud of Liberty Avenue had admitted a surprising truth. He had a fondness for certain works of a few of the poets ordinarily classified as - Romantic.

Byron, in particular. Justin thought it entirely appropriate.

The book fell open at a bookmarked page, as Justin had known it would. He had no idea why this particular verse had always seemed to speak to him, as it had somehow spoken to Brian before him.

The book was old and worn. It had resided in a drawer in Brian's desk for many years before he had one day placed it in Justin's hand, saying nothing with his mouth, but saying everything with his eyes. Since that day, through good and bad, thick and thin, being with Brian or without Brian - loving him or hating him - it had never been beyond Justin's reach.

He looked down at the page, and the verse was waiting for him. He didn't really have to read it. It sang in his mind, as it always did.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.*


He felt the sting in his eyes, and could almost hear that sardonic voice whispering in his ear, that it really wasn't worth crying over. Only it was. He was. And it was time to recognize the truth, and to move heaven and earth to make sure that Brian, finally, recognized it too. There had been entirely too much silence, too many tears.

It was time to shout it from the rooftops.

Brian Kinney belonged to him; they belonged together - and fuck anybody who tried to stand between them.

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

TBC

* When We Two Parted -- Lord Byron

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