"We give hostages to fortune when we love." *

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Chapter 34

"How the fuck did you get here?"

Chris McClaren had to concentrate - hard - to suppress an urge to flinch away from the white hot fury contained in those few words - a heat so extreme that the idea of spontaneous human combustion was suddenly not so far-fetched as it might have seemed only moments ago.

He found that he really wanted to look away, to not see that hard, scintillant brilliance sparking deep in eyes gone a sharp, bitter green - but he couldn't.

Then those eyes shifted toward him, and he realized that his first instinct had been correct. He should have looked away. Then he would not have seen that first, fleeting flash of bottomless love - which he had not wanted to see anyway - but, more importantly, he would not have been forced to watch that steaming, volcanic anger morph into bitter, frozen resentment, fueled by an infinite sense of betrayal.

The voice was softer now, and almost entirely without inflection. "Never mind. I'm not usually so slow to grasp the obvious. My congratulations on a perfect . . . ambush."

"Brian," said the FBI agent, stepping forward and raising a hand.

But whatever he meant to say was left unsaid as Brian simply turned and walked off into the night, never looking toward any of them, but managing, in the process, to maintain as much distance as possible between himself and the new arrival.

McClaren glanced at young Taylor, and could not help but sigh as the mega-watt smile faltered. It was almost painful - probably would have been painful - if he'd not had more important things to worry about.

"Brian!" Justin's call was barely audible under a sudden gust of wind, giving Brian the opportunity to pretend not to hear, but McClaren was almost certain that the departing figure hesitated - for a fraction of a second - before resuming his determined plunge toward freedom.

Huge blue eyes - exquisitely expressive and filled with pain - turned to stare at the individuals still gathered on the deck. "You didn't tell him?" It was amazing, thought more than one of the observers of this drama, that a face so young and pretty could project such scathing contempt. "Dear God, you didn't tell him I was coming? Do you have any idea . . . what you've done? Hasn't he had enough shit to deal with, without you betraying his trust?"

Chris McClaren's mouth fell open. Literally. Could it really be that this . . . this - what had Brian called the kid, on more than one occasion - this twat was actually sneering at them and looking as if he was both strong enough and angry enough to swat each of them like some kind of bug.

"You just . . . stay here," the FBI agent snapped finally, biting back the rest of the scathing retort he wanted to shout.

"The hell with that!" Taylor was walking out toward the beach, completely disregarding the voices raised at his back.

Both Alexandra Corey and Trina Thomas started after him, but neither of them could actually be considered to be in prime physical condition, so it was McClaren who was the only one of the three who was able to overtake the young blonde and spin him around with a semi-violent tug on his arm.

But Justin Taylor - though he might still resemble a twink of the first order - had learned many lessons in the years since he'd been victimized the first time around, many of them - even most of them - under the tutelage of the man who'd just walked away from all of them, and he stood his ground, body tense and hands up in a defensive posture as McClaren got right in his face and prepared to cut the kid down to size. Only there, as it happened, was the rub. Justin Taylor was not about to allow anyone to send him back to victim-hood or reduce him to something less than he deserved to be.

The kid (and yes, he did know he shouldn't call him that, but . . . what the hell!) eyed McClaren with undisguised impatience, blended with a trace of . . . satisfaction? Could that actually be what the agent was sensing in that sapphire gaze? "You're not his boyfriend." There was no doubt in the timber of the voice - only undiluted conviction. "You're FBI."

McClaren knew that there was no time to lose, that Brian was getting farther away with every passing moment. Nevertheless, he couldn't quite resist an urge to puncture that bubble of smugness. "Yeah? Well, maybe you need to rethink your assumptions, little twat. Where's it written that I can't be both?"

Surprisingly strong hands gripped the FBI agent's forearms, as the young man's voice dropped to an icy whisper. "You don't get to call me that. Only one person . . . ever . . . gets to call me that."

McClaren huffed a sigh of patience almost exhausted. "Look, little shit, I don't give a damn what you call yourself. You can be the fucking Terminator if you like, but I need to go get him - to stop him . . ."

"Why you?" Justin demanded. "Why should it be . . ."

"Because he trusts me." The words were sharp and clipped, almost snarled, but the FBI agent, despite the fact that he was speaking absolute truth as he knew it, felt a pang of regret as he saw shadows of uncertainty rise in those incredibly expressive eyes. He paused then, feeling a compelling urge to offer a scrap of comfort but knowing he couldn't afford the sentiment. "Because he knows he can trust me. Can you say the same?"

That was a low blow, the FBI agent thought as the young man flinched. But true nonetheless. "Justin," he said, reining in his impatience and trying to offer a voice of reason, "he just . . . needs, right now. And he doesn't always know what it is that he needs. So, I need to go after him."

But Justin was not going to accept defeat easily. "I followed him across the country, after coming half-way around the world for him. And you let me come here, knowing that he would feel betrayed by your silence, so don't bother telling me that he trusts you. You'll be lucky if he doesn't tear you a new asshole. But . . . I know he needs some time to process everything - and to think. So you've got ten minutes, because I'm not going to let him push me away again. So go - but hurry."

McClaren lifted one quizzical eyebrow, and then realized that there was no way he was going to succeed in changing the younger man's mind. So . . . he went - and hurried, as Trina Thomas came forward to introduce herself and to overcome Justin's assertions that he couldn't possibly eat a bite.

Thus McClaren would have fifteen minutes, instead of the ten he expected.

As it turned out, he would not have good reason to appreciate the extra time.

He was pretty sure he knew where he would find Brian, and he was right . . . almost.

North of the cottage, past a pristine stretch of sculpted sand and beyond a low march of dunes that built toward a rough headland, lay the skeletal framework of an old pier, almost obscured by thick clumps of sea grass. The structure itself was long since gone, eroded away by time and tide, but dark, weathered remnants of the foundation remained, and Brian had discovered early on that it was a good place to rest and catch his breath when he'd started taking regular walks as part of his daily regimen to help him regain his strength.

And that's where McClaren figured he would find his wayward and extremely pissed-off charge. He was not, however, exactly correct. Ordinarily, when resting or breath-catching or working his way through a problem or brooding or thinking deep thoughts or simply daydreaming, Brian would hoist himself up on one of the heavy old support beams wedged deep into the ground just above the delineation in the sand that marked high tide.

But not tonight. He was there all right, but he was not sitting. And he was not actually on the beach. Instead, he was standing out in the middle of the breaking surf, with water roiling around his thighs, and he was soaked through. The pockets of his cut-off jeans were bulging with stones he had apparently gathered as he'd walked down the beach, and he was hurling them, one by one, out toward the open ocean, as his eyes sought the farthest line of the horizon.

"Jesus!" whispered McClaren, spying shirt, shoes, ankle brace, and cigarette pack dropped on the beach, and remembering, with rising alarm, that there were still some unhealed wounds at various sites on Brian's body - wounds that should never have been exposed to raw salt water. Further, it was obvious from the way that buff, once perfect body was twisting and jerking around its center that the man was probably already in considerable pain which would only get worse as he continued venting his frustration by abusing his body.

"Jesus!" the agent repeated, wondering how he was going to convince the man to come in from the surf.

And the answer, of course, was that he wasn't. Not from here anyway. Not until he was willing to stride out through that rolling tumult and confront the individual who almost certainly - at this very moment - would have gladly stood by and watched him disemboweled, without offering a single world of protest.

He knew he should move quickly to minimize the damage and the risk to Brian, but he also knew that the evening was upon them, carrying the chill of a gusting wind out of the East, and that Brian would need warmth as well as refuge from the cold wet grasp of the sea once he could be convinced to come out of the water. So McClaren hurried to the area behind the old pier where driftwood tended to accumulate, and, taking advantage of the shelter provided by a low dune, managed to put together a small campfire which he stoked and banked carefully to make sure it would continue to burn until it was needed.

Then he allowed himself one moment more, to take a deep breath . . . and gird his loins, so to speak.

He walked out into the surf, lighting a cigarette as he went, and didn't stop until he was close enough to reach out and touch the man who was the center of his focus. Close enough, but he made no attempt to complete the physical connection. That, he knew, was not his place; not now.

Brian continued throwing rocks, and a quick hitch in his breathing as he completed the next throw announced that the motion was causing extreme discomfort. Then McClaren looked closer and saw a smear of bright red low down on the left side of that sculpted chest.

Shit.

"If you get gangrene - or some kind of fucking fungus from schmucking around in this toxic shit - I'm gonna have to deal with both Turnage and Keller, not to mention your entire cock-eyed extended family, so why don't you . . ."

"No." More bark than answer. "Why don't you?"

"What . . ."

The voice was nothing like the rich, honeyed tones of Brian Kinney in seduction mode. It was flat and cold and hard. "Why don't you explain to me - give me one single reason - why I should ever believe a thing you say to me, from this day forward." He turned then, and stepped into McClaren's space. "When you had to know that . . . seeing him, dealing with him, is something I don't want to do. Why would you . . ."

"It wasn't just me."

Brian nodded. "I figured as much."

"Yeah? You figured out why she did it - as long as you're figuring?"

Brian shook his head and huffed a small, impatient sigh. "She thinks she owes me."

McClaren's favored him with a complacent smile. "I think she thinks she loves you."

Brian went very still then before deliberately turning away, but just a fraction of a second too late to prevent McClaren from seeing - and recognizing - a growing sense of betrayal. "In that case, she thinks too much. So you guys just put your pointed little heads together and decided that poor, deluded, dysfunctional Brian couldn't be trusted to figure out what he really needed. Why would . . ."

"Because it's not always easy to know what's best - even for yourself." The FBI agent knew it sounded lame, even as he said it, but he also knew it was true.

"I've been taking care of myself since I was eight years old - without interference or assistance from anybody. But, somehow, you guys think that you have a right to interfere, to tell me what I need? You've known me a few weeks, and you already think . . ."

McClaren reached out quickly and grabbed Brian's biceps, closing his fingers to a tight grip and giving a little shake for good measure. "You really want to know what I think? I think that people are so fucking intimidated by you - and so bowled over by that icy stare and that arrogant sneer that declare that you don't need anybody - that they're afraid to tell you the truth. That they say what they think you want them to say. Or else they just prattle along and don't say anything at all. And in the end, I think it took someone who loved you enough to step outside the box, to understand that a person who hasn't spent a lifetime being dominated and controlled by you would see more clearly, speak more honestly . . ." His voice dropped to a gentle whisper as he leaned in and nuzzled against the velvety skin beneath Brian's ear. . . "Someone who would care enough to risk incurring your anger in order to tell you the truth."

Brian pulled back, and there was no mistaking the sarcastic gleam in topaz eyes.
"And what truth . . . would that be?"

"The one that's the complete opposite of what you tell yourself. You're not pushing Justin away because he doesn't know you." McClaren took a deep breath and braced himself. "You're pushing him away . . . because he does."

Later, he would admit that he should have known - should have seen it coming. After all the silent, unacknowledged anger, the bitter frustrations, the endless disappointments, the bottomless pain that he kept locked within him, the despair of dreams shattered and ground into dust, and the all-consuming fear of being helpless to protect the things that mattered most - it was inevitable that Brian Kinney would finally lose the iron grip he'd been exerting over his thoughts and reactions, and strike out, targeting the person who happened to be closest at hand at the critical moment. The only truly surprising thing was that it hadn't happened sooner.

Brian jerked himself free of the hands that sought to restrain him, pulled away just far enough to reposition his body and channel all his power, all his energy, and - most importantly - all his rage into the fist that he drove into McClaren's midriff, and the uppercut that followed it, immediately splitting the flesh above the agent's left eye.

It probably would have gone further and grown uglier except that the FBI agent simply fell back before the assault, never so much as raising a hand to defend himself - something that Brian noticed immediately - something that seemed to enrage him even more.

"Get up, Shithead!" he snarled, standing there in the surf with his hands clinched at his sides, head up, shoulders back, with moonlight just kissing that classic profile, as he shifted again, determined to stand firm - and looking absolutely fucking beautiful. So incredibly beautiful - and so lost. Shit!

"Get up, and show me what the big, bad FBI agent can do to a poor, helpless, little schmuck like me."

McClaren picked himself up but simply stood there, loose-limbed and easy. "You've never been a helpless little anything, Brian, and I'm not planning to stand here and play punching bag, so you can work out all your frustrations."

"Then fight back!" The voice was still hard, filled with ice.

"No."

Brian stepped closer, braced his hands against McClaren's chest, and shoved. "Fight back, Fucker!"

"No." The FBI agent managed to retain his footing, but only barely, and he was hard put to suppress the smile that acknowledged that Kinney was stronger and tougher than any of his friends or acquaintances might have guessed. He turned then and looked directly into those changeable eyes, and saw that they'd gone stormy gray in the gloom of the evening, flecked with ice crystals. He wondered then if he was the only person who had ever cared to look deep enough, to push hard enough to force his way through the camouflage and see what was really there beneath that steely surface; the colder the voice, the purer the rage . . . the greater the pain the man was trying to mask.

"Shit!"

McClaren knew it was a near thing. Brian wanted to hit him again - and again - and yet again; wanted to beat the shit out of somebody. Anybody. But couldn't quite bring himself to bludgeon a man who refused to fight back.

"Come on," said the FBI agent softly, extending his hands once more to grip shoulders that were, by this time, trembling under the combined chill of the ocean spray and the night air. "You're freezing out here, and . . ."

"I don't need a fucking nursemaid."

McClaren nodded, and lifted one hand to wipe away a trickle of blood that was dripping past the corner of his eye. "Good for you, Champ, but maybe I do."

"Shit! You're bleeding." The voice had grown small now, and the anger and bitterness in hazel eyes were obliterated beneath thick rising shadows of shame.

Another first, thought McClaren, who was pretty sure that Brian Kinney didn't ordinarily do shame, or - more accurately - would never show it even if he did feel it.

"I'll live."

"Unless I decide to kill you in your sleep."

McClaren went very still, feeling something unexpected stir in his chest - something he had not anticipated. It should not have mattered, he knew. It wasn't as if he hadn't known the truth all along. And yet . . . He sighed, and dismissed the faint ache rising in his chest, as he realized that he was not going to get a better opportunity than this one to speak his mind. "Somehow," he said quietly, "I was pretty sure that I wouldn't be around you any more. When I'm sleeping, I mean."

The shame was immediately obliterated by another spike of rage. "What? You got this all planned out? The romantic reunion between the stud and the twink? Rose petals on silk sheets and champagne in crystal snifters and long walks on the beach with Barry Manilow playing on the iPod?"

"Why not?" The FBI agent was very careful to allow no trace of a smile to touch his lips, no matter what he was feeling inside.

Brian allowed himself to be pulled out of the shallow water, and seated near the campfire which was, by now, burning merrily and sending showers of bright firefly sparks up into the darkness. "If you have to ask," he said finally, "then you're just proving my point. That . . . those fairy-tale/prince-charming gestures . . . they're bullshit. They're not me."

"But they could be," McClaren pointed out, as he retrieved Brian's shirt from the sand and dropped to his knees to drape it around acres of bare, golden skin. He elected to say nothing further as he quickly inspected the bloody spot on Brian's torso, and gave a little sigh of relief to note that it appeared to be nothing more than a random scratch. .

When Brian didn't answer immediately, the agent assumed that he was just being Brian Kinney, ignoring a comment he considered too ridiculous to deserve a response. Thus, when he did speak, his words were something of a surprise - possibly to them both. "If I could have given him what he wanted - what he dreamed of - don't you think I would have done it a long time ago?"

McClaren leaned forward so he could look up into night-dark eyes. "A few rose petals. A couple of walks on the beach? What the fuck is the big deal?"

Brian shrugged, and his companion noticed the quick grimace of pain that touched that perfect face. Tomorrow would probably not be a good day, in more ways than one.

"It's not who I am," he said slowly. "In order to give him the life he wanted, I had to become someone I'm not." Then he smiled, and McClaren thought he had never seen anything quite so sad as that fleeting admission of hope lost. "I even tried it - for a while - but it didn't work. It was one of those 'damned if you do and damned if you don't' situations. We both tried to change - and found that neither one of us liked what we were becoming. Besides, I know myself too well. No matter how much I might try to give him what he needs, in the end . . . I'd still be me. And that's . . . not good enough." He looked up then, once more gazing out across the tumble of breakers rolling toward the shore. "Not for Justin."

"Shouldn't that be my choice to make?" It was softly spoken, barely audible above the roar of the surf, but very firm nonetheless. Very sure.

Brian didn't turn around to watch the young man walk into the circle of firelight. He simply continued to gaze out to sea, and spoke very evenly, almost without inflection. "It should - and it was, as I recall. Unless someone was holding a gun to your head to force you to go to New York - to 'find yourself'. That was you, right? Your decision."

"It was, but I didn't know . . ." Justin settled to his knees on the other side of the campfire and just stared at the man who had become his world, his life, his . . . everything.

Brian sighed and clasped his arms tight against his chest as another tremor surged through his body, and McClaren, carefully avoiding looking at Taylor at all, moved up behind him, nudging him closer to the fire, "What didn't you know, Sunshine?" Brian sounded exhausted and didn't look up. He was determined not to notice how the reflection of the flames gilded perfect white skin and painted beautiful plays of light and shadow on that exquisite face. "That there's always a price to pay for having dreams come true? What did you really think was going to happen? That you were going to become the new Cezanne and I was going to languish away in my lonely loft, pining for what could never be and wasting away like some faggot version of Camille? Is that really what you expected?"

"You said you loved me," retorted the blonde. "I expected you to show it."

The sad, twisted little smile put in another appearance, but only for a moment. "I thought I did."

"How? By turning your back? By walking away? How does that show anything - except that you're unwilling to give of yourself - to anybody?"

Brian was silent for a moment; then he managed to push away from McClaren and struggle to his feet. "You're right," he said firmly. "That's exactly what it shows." He turned away then and started walking back toward the house, one arm braced against his side in a manner that told McClaren that he was in a lot more pain than he was prepared to acknowledge.

Justin, however, had not been around this new, physically damaged version of Brian Kinney long enough to pick up on the clues.

"Why?" Justin shouted, leaping up and following. "Why does it always have to be your way, or no way at all? Why does Brian Kinney always have to call the shots? What about our . . ."

Brian stopped so abruptly that Justin only barely avoided crashing into his back. "I swear," he said coldly, "if you use the word 'commitment', I'm going to deck you."

Justin took a deep breath, and planted his feet. "Commitment," he said, almost shouting. "Commitment, commitment, commitment. What's so fucking awful about that one little word?"

Chris McClaren watched the play of emotions that flared in Brian's eyes and debated whether or not he should interfere. It would be very bad for an FBI agent to simply stand by and watch as one queer strangled another - but he conceded that this confrontation was long overdue, and that it was something that both men needed.

"It's a word that doesn't apply to me." Brian's response was very logical and very cold.

Justin's, on the other hand, was white-hot with rage. "Oh, that's right. The great and mighty Kinney doesn't do commitment. Or love or loyalty or romance. He's too fucking busy running away."

Brian simply turned around and looked into blue eyes ablaze with passion, and the contrast between the one face, filled with anger and need and desperation, and the other, almost completely empty of expression, was almost painful.

"That's what you do, you know. It's what you've always done. Your family treated you like a piece of shit, and you just . . . took it. They used you, and they blamed you, and you never once stood up for yourself. And when your friends try to become a real part of your life, you pull back and you hide. You pull your strings and work your magic behind closed doors, so you never have to admit that you care about anything. When your own son needs his daddy, who does he look to? Not you, for sure. You've turned your back on him too. Big, bad, brave Brian Kinney doesn't exist. He's just . . . an ad campaign who spends his life promoting something he doesn't even believe in. You've never really been there . . . for anybody."

McClaren would have given the young man credit for flair and innovation, but he was too busy studying Brian's face - looking for some kind of emotional response. He was amazed when he didn't find it.

Brian just nodded. "Right - as usual."

Justin flushed. It was all bullshit, of course, and he knew it. But he needed something - anything - to pierce that protective armor that Brian was so determined to wear.

"Do you still love me?" he asked finally, allowing the first real glimmer of what he was feeling to flare in his eyes. "Or should I phrase it differently? Should I ask if you ever really did?"

Brian turned away, to gaze once more out into the ocean, which seemed to offer him some measure of comfort. "I . . . did."

"Then why didn't you fight for me, motherfucker?" Justin was not - quite - allowing himself to indulge in tears of rage - but it was close.

Brian hesitated for a split second, something very old and weary moving in his eyes, before he managed to dredge up a patent-worthy Kinney smirk, and Justin felt a cold stab of fear in his gut, as the specter of doubt stirred in his mind. "Why didn't you?"

Abruptly, without allowing himself time to consider the wisdom of his actions, Justin stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Brian's still shivering torso. "Do you know," he whispered, "what it did to me? To find out what they did to you? To understand that you could have died there in that hellhole, that I could have lost you forever?"

Brian stood up very straight, refusing to react to the touch of those arms around his body, those hands stroking his back as he tried to block out the ugly, dark images that flared in his memories. "As a matter of fact," he answered flatly, "I do."

The two remained unmoving for a moment, frozen in time.

Then Justin stepped back, and drew a deep breath, and Brian . . . Brian seemed to stand taller, to square himself for what would come next. Justin would pull out the big guns now; the twat would never give up without using all the weapons in his arsenal.

"Is that what you want . . . for me?"

"What I want for you has nothing to do with what you do with your life," Brian replied firmly. "It's your life. Your choice."

"Like it was yours?"

"Yes." No hesitation. No margin for doubt.

"Bullshit! You think I don't know what drives you? What's always driven you. You might have managed to hide it from everybody else - but you can't hide from me, Brian. I know you entirely too well."

"What?" Brian asked quickly, smirk firmly in place. "If you're going to channel Debbie, you need to get it right. The line is 'I've known you too long, and - regrettably - too well'. And it means as much from you as it meant from her. You two should get together, and discuss all your incredible insights into what makes Brian run."

Justin couldn't quite swallow the smile that trembled on his lips. "You know what? Debbie doesn't know shit. She only sees what you decided to let her see, and she spins it according to what she wants to believe. Because the truth would hurt too much. You really think she could deal with knowing how often she misjudged you, just because it was easier than facing the truth?"

"That's very profound, Professor." Smirk still there - deeper now. "You should get another degree - in psychology this time. Oh, but wait - you never got the first one, did you? Another example of giving up. Letting other people dictate your life. You're . . . pathetic."

"And you're doing what you always do. Deflecting the question. Next thing you'll be quoting James Joyce - or Lewis Carroll."

The smirk twitched, and became a grin. "And cannot friends be firm and fast and yet bear parting?"**

"Fuck you, Brian. I'm not your friend."

"At last. Something we can agree on."

Justin stepped in again, lifted up and claimed the mouth that dominated his dreams, waking and sleeping, and McClaren wondered if either of them knew what a perfect, erotic vision they created together. Then he smiled and came to his senses. Of course, they knew.

Then Justin stepped back. "That wasn't a kiss . . . between friends."

"Whatever. Just . . ."

Justin lifted one hand and laid his fingers across Brian's mouth. "You're not going to make it easy, are you?"

The only answer was lifted eyebrows and the sardonic gleam in dark eyes aswarm with shadows, as Justin settled to his knees in the sand and pulled Brian down beside him.

"It's always been about you. Everything - every fucking thing - has always been your burden to bear. When you were a kid, your parents looked at you, and saw nothing but wasted chances, lost freedom. And parents aren't supposed to feel that way, are they? So - if they did feel that way - then there's only one logical conclusion." He paused and moved in closer, deliberately invading Brian's space. "There had to be something wrong with you. Right? Something deep inside you, since it was pretty obvious right from the start that what was on the surface was okay. Better than okay. You were bright and beautiful and talented, so - if they couldn't find it in themselves to love you - it had to be because they saw something in you that wasn't worthy of their love. Right? So when your father beat the shit out of you and broke your bones and told the world what a useless shit you were, and when your mother spent all her days getting drunk off her ass so she wouldn't have to think about her miserable life and her miserable family and her hard, cold, heart, it was because you deserved it, right? And when your sweet little cunt-sister took advantage of every chance they gave her to blame you for everything wrong in her miserable life - and that was just the beginning, wasn't it, because it didn't stop there. When you got older, it all expanded around you, so that every time some homophobic prick beat the bejesus out of one of your friends, it was never because Michael - or whoever - was too weak to defend himself. Oh, no. It was always because the pricks in question couldn't quite work up the nerve to go after the Mighty Kinney, but had no problems picking off the neighborhood wimp or the victim-of-the-day. And it just gets better as it goes on, doesn't it? It was always your fault. Just like it was when Chris Hobbs went after me."

Brian had been as still as carved stone during Justin's recitation, which had grown in intensity even as it sank in volume, but he stirred now, twisting as if to move away but not quite violently enough to dislodge the hands that held him. "You've spent all these years believing that I was bashed because you had the audacity to show up at my prom, and dance with me - and flaunt yourself in front of that bunch of bastards. Do you even remember how it really happened?"

Brian did flinch then, and the smile that touched his face was bittersweet at best. "Do you?"

Justin shrugged. "No. But I have Daphne's version to call on, to let me see it in my mind's eye, and I can assure you of this: I'd give anything to be able to remember it, because what came after is not the important part. Daphne said . . ." He faltered slightly then, and had to swallow around the lump in his throat in order to continue. "She said that it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen - that you looked at me that night as if I was the center of your world, the light of your life. And let's be honest here, Brian. That hasn't happened very often. So there was this magical, perfect moment in our lives - and then Hobbs stepped in, and took it away from us. From both of us. You think I don't know how much that affected you? You think I don't know that you spent weeks, months - years, maybe - wishing it had been you instead of me? You think I don't know why you came to that hospital every fucking night, to stand guard? To make sure to protect me when I couldn't protect myself? And then my mother had to stick her two cents in, compounding the guilt you were already feeling. Jesus, Brian!" Another pregnant pause, and his voice became a whisper. "It was killing you. It was like you were filled up with broken glass, and it was cutting you to pieces from the inside. And through it all, nobody even noticed what was happening to you. The same way nobody ever bothered to tell you the rest of it, did they? Neither my mom, nor Debbie, nor anybody else. About how I'd originally planned to skip prom, maybe spend the night at Babylon - with you - getting rightly and royally fucked - but they all kept insisting that it wouldn't be right for me to pass up that 'right of passage'. That I owed it to myself to go and take a stand for queers everywhere. They never bothered to share that little fact with you - did they?"

Brian simply blinked. "What difference would it have made?"

Justin nodded. "None at all, of course. Because it wouldn't have fit the pattern of your life, would it? Never mind what anybody else did or how anybody else might have contributed to what happened to me, because ultimately, it had to be your fault. Just like the bomb that brought Babylon down and killed all those people, and almost killed Michael. You think I don't know you well enough by now to put it all together. Okay, let's see - I'm thinking it goes something like this: Babylon was history - was gone - until Brian Kinney decided to stick his nose in where it had no business - to revive the heart of Gay Pittsburgh and reopen the club which would ultimately be the target for the kind of vicious hatred that kills and maims innocent people. So if Kinney had just minded his own business and let the fucking place shut down and die a natural death, then all those people would still be alive today."

He shifted closer and nuzzled for a moment against the soft skin under Brian's ear. "How'm I doing so far?"

"War and Peace was shorter," came the annoyed response, "and less complicated."

"Uh, huh. And now we come to the latest debacle - the attack on the Mighty Kinney himself, who must accept responsibility for his own bashing, because he doesn't have the common sense or the survival instincts or the simple discretion to keep his head down and avoid irritating those members of high society who have adopted the fundamentalist right-wing religious bullshit which decrees that queers need to be neither seen nor heard, but confine themselves to the dark at the back of the closet and allow 'decent, God-fearing Christians' to live their lives without ever being exposed to the depravity of same-sex relationships or - God help them - the 'Homosexual Agenda'."

Brian took a deep breath, his face curiously frozen. "Are you done?"

"Almost. As soon as I tell you that . . . it's all bullshit. All this crap, this compulsion to 'protect' everybody, is just an act. Just an excuse, so that you can run away, and never face the real issues. So the perfect Brian Kinney can stay perfect, and nobody can ever see the failure inside you. You won't face your own weaknesses, but you'll let me face them for you. Or Michael, maybe, or Lindsey. Maybe Gus. Maybe he can manage to undo all the harm you've done, if he can just figure out that it's not really his fault that Daddy doesn't love him. Maybe he can find a way to do what his asshole father never could. Maybe he'll figure out how to believe in himself - in spite of you."

It was at that moment that everything around them and between them went completely silent. As if even the nightwind knew better than to intrude; even the surf seemed to recede into dark silence, and Brian, with surprisingly fluid grace, rose to his feet, hauled Justin up with him, and shoved the blonde so violently that he went sprawling backwards into the sand.

"Fuck . . . you!" It was more of a snarl than an epithet, and Brian was already moving away quickly, when Justin sprang up and lunged forward, putting all of his weight - such as it was - behind the punch that caught Brian under his chin and sent him crashing to his knees, at which point he fell slowly forward to bury his face against his arms and curl himself around his center, as he drew a deep, gasping breath

"Shit!" McClaren knew immediately that he'd waited too long, but he'd deliberately avoided interfering in the exchange, once the two adversaries had managed to forget about his presence. He'd thought the confrontation would prove beneficial for them both, but he'd never dreamed it would come to this. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he shouted at Justin, as the younger man simply stood there, the anger that had blazed in his eyes immediately giving away before a flash of pure horror.

McClaren got to Brian first, and was appalled to find him curled around his own mid-section, shaking with emotion that he was obviously struggling to suppress.

"Brian?" The FBI agent wrapped his hands around trembling shoulders and tried to encourage Brian to shift onto his back, so that he could check face and body for damage. In truth, he doubted that Justin's blow had been powerful enough to inflict any real injury, under ordinary circumstances. But there was nothing ordinary about this moment, and he knew better than to assume anything. Still, he had expected Brian to simply yield and roll over under the pull of his hands, but it was not nearly as simple as he'd thought it would be, as Brian only curled tighter and shook harder and ignored his efforts. "Jesus, Brian . . ." McClaren then slid his fingers through strands of damp hair that clung to the nape of Brian's neck, to insert his hand into the soft skin beneath the jaw-line, checking for damage or, perhaps, trying to offer some kind of comfort, and feeling something . . . hot and wet and . . .

Oh, shit! Was he bleeding or . . . could it be that he was . . . No. That was just not possible. He wasn't crying . . . was he?

He couldn't be . . . Then Brian abruptly rolled over and stretched out on the sand, and McClaren had to squelch a sudden, almost irresistible urge to take a swing of his own, burying his fist into an unprotected abdomen, because the bastard wasn't crying. He was laughing - a bone-deep, from-the-gut, steadily growing roar of a laugh - and the only tears being shed were tears of laughter.

The two men who stood looking down at him were . . . hopelessly confused, and turned to stare at each other, neither having a clue of what to do or what to say or . . .

In the end, they could only wait until Brian recovered from his bout of hysteria, and chose to explain himself. And the look in Justin's eyes said that the explanation better be world-class.

Brian lay there on the sand, gazing up into the star patterns overhead, and felt something ease inside him - something that had been hard and painful and infinitely, intimately a part of him since the first moment of the attack. He had begun to believe it would never leave him; he had begun to accept it as the cost of not dying.

He laughed harder as he felt it simply . . . slip away. Then he fell silent, and spent yet another moment just breathing, just enjoying its absence.

"Do you have any idea," he said finally, "how long I've waited for that? For somebody to call me on the bullshit and treat me like a man again, instead of a fucking martyr or a helpless victim? Or some fragile little china doll."

Chris McClaren sank to the sand and spent a moment studying that no-longer-entirely-perfect face. "What?" he said finally. "I should have punched you out the first time you ever made me mad enough to spit?"

Brian shrugged. "It would have been a lot more honest - and convincing - than all that projected compassion and politically correct bullshit." Then he looked up at Justin, who was still standing motionless, his skin a whiter shade of pale than ever before. "Thanks for the brutal candor, Sunshine. You made my day. And now - now I'm all invigorated and motivated to get back on my feet, and show the fuckers that they can't keep a good faggot down." He did not even attempt to disguise the bitter sarcasm contained in those words. "So you can go toddling back to Fantasy Island - or wherever the fuck you were, and . . ."

But Justin, despite being emotionally staggered without having been the target of a single direct blow, was not ready to concede defeat yet. He dropped to his knees, and opened himself up to the gaze that examined him. And Brian wanted to look away, wanted to refuse to see what he was being shown. Wanted . . . not to know.

"Good," said the blonde. "I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to be able to break through - to get your attention."

Brian laughed again, but this one was not quite natural. Not quite convincing. "Yeah, right. It was all just a big act, to get me to . . ."

"Do you want me to become the newer, hipper version . . . of you?" The tone was hard and demanding - and very cold.

"Newer maybe," Brian drawled. "But hipper? In your dreams, Little Twat."

Justin simply ignored the non sequitur. "Brian, listen to me. Are you listening?"

An eye-roll and a nod was the only answer he was likely to get. "Okay, so I was baiting you. Trying to get a real response out of you, instead of the bullshit you've been spouting since the attack. But that doesn't mean that some of it - a lot of it - wasn't true. I know you, Brian. Like nobody else ever has, I think, because you've always managed to keep some distance between you and anyone else who might have tried to get inside the walls you build around you. I don't blame you for that. Shit, I love those fucking walls, because they're what let you become the person you are. The man I love."

He found himself fixated on the small scar at Brian's temple, which was fading now, but still noticeable, and he was reminded of something he'd once heard attributed to Elizabeth Taylor. When asked why she never had the mole on her face removed, she'd laughed and said that one tiny little flaw only served to emphasize the perfection of the rest of the face. OK, so that was probably more urban legend than truth. Nevertheless, he was pretty sure that this scar proved that observation to be completely valid. Thus, he liked the scar, but he was less fond of the skepticism and cynicism currently rising in those chameleon eyes. "I know you blame yourself, for every fucking bad thing that happens to anyone you love. To Michael, to Lindsey, to Gus. To me. Me, maybe most of all. But do you really want me to have to live with that kind of guilt and pain? Because I will, you know. If you insist on going on with this fucking act, with pushing me away because the great, all-powerful Brian Kinney knows what's best and has to sacrifice himself to protect Poor, Helpless, Little Justin . . . then I'm going to be the one who spends his life knowing that he destroyed the man he loves and the only home he ever knew, because that's what you are to me. And knowing that, no matter where I go or what kind of success I have in my life, it's never going to compare to what it should have been. Because I'm never going to have the only thing that matters - the only thing I want." He paused then, and reached out to thread his fingers through Brian's. "I don't care if you think I'm a complete pussy, or a wimp, or the wuss to end all wusses. I don't want to be the best homosexual I can be, if it means I can't have you." He leaned close then, and rested his forehead against Brian's shoulder. "I can't find myself without you. It's all just . . . going through the motions. I don't feel things any more. That's my life without you, Brian - no matter how much money or success or stardom in the art world I manage to accumulate. Without you - nothing makes me laugh."

Memory stirred then in Brian's mind - a cascade of images of Justin laughing - dancing, fucking, joking, sniping at his baby sister, ridiculing Michael and his whining, or Ted and his ridiculous conservative values, stuffing his face with Deb's ziti or his mother's jambalaya, or making fun of the latest trick who thought he could capture the heart of Brian Kinney; Justin at his beautiful best. Brian deliberately looked away then, no longer able to endure the pain he easily discerned in the unshielded eyes that were devouring him. He pulled his lips into his mouth, desperately looking for something to say, something to cling to, as older, more vivid images - unfaded by time - flashed before his eyes. Justin, bloody and broken and silent . . . and dying in his arms . . . "Justin, I . . ."

"I'm dead inside . . . without you." It was just a whisper, as those perfect, irresistible lips nuzzled up beneath his jaw. "Is that what you really want for me?"

"You're stronger than that." It was firmly spoken, but clipped off quickly, to avoid a break in the voice that spoke it.

Blue eyes filled with shifting shadow. "If I'm strong, it's because you made me strong. If I lose you . . . I don't want to be strong. I don't want to paint or endure or cope or . . . live. I want to be half of Brian and Justin - or I don't want to be anything at all. Do you understand me?"

Brian was suddenly very still, hunched over and staring down into nothingness. "If I lost you . . ." he whispered, and it was obvious that he had not planned to speak at all.

"You can't lose something that's a part of you. And that's what I am, you know. You can deny it all you like, but it's true just the same. We're only complete, when we're together, and if you're really determined that I should always have a choice, then you have to allow me to choose. And I . . . choose you."

"Justin . . ."

"Just . . . stop, Brian. Stop hurting yourself. Stop hurting me. Stop trying to destroy us. Because there's either us - together - or there's nothing at all."

Brian pulled away then, and Justin almost gasped when he spotted the twinkle rising in eyes previously filled only with clouds of dread and doubt, and he was immediately glad that he was already on his knees as he was certain that his legs would not have supported him before the sheer power of the joy that tore through him. "You do realize that's the most ridiculously romantic thing that anybody has ever said," Brian observed with a patent-worthy Kinney smirk.

Justin smiled and collapsed into arms that were suddenly there to catch him. That would, he hoped, always be there to catch him.

And Chris McClaren stood for a moment, transfixed by the beauty of the tableau before him, and stricken with something he had never expected to feel. For the space of a heartbeat, he found that he hated Justin Taylor, that he wanted nothing more than to obliterate the young blonde and assume his place . . . secure within the arms of Brian Kinney.

Then he noticed that Brian was looking at him, and he was pretty sure that his moment of bitter jealousy and hatred had been noted and understood. So he smiled, took another moment to memorize the quick tenderness he read in those dark eyes, and turned around to walk away, knowing that some things should remain forever private. That some things were now and always would be beyond his reach.

The beach seemed suddenly very empty.

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

"I don't . . . believe it." It was more gasped than spoken, and the voice was filled with despair.

"Yes, you do, Baby." Drew Boyd found that he was barely able to speak at all, and he wished, for the thousandth time, that someone else could have handled this task. Only, if someone else had, it would have been even harder on Emmett. So he drew a deep breath, swallowed his own regrets, and clasped his arms more tightly around the young man who had - against all rhyme or reason - become the center of his world. "And you have to know that I would have spared you this, if I could."

"But you have the right to know." That was Cynthia, speaking up for the first time, and trying - without a great deal of success - to spare Boyd any further discomfort. "Because you have a responsibility - to Brian. And most of all, because you've already guessed some of it." Her smile was gentle as she leaned forward into the cone of light falling from the lamp on the desk that was now Emmett's - pending the return of Brian Kinney, of course.

Beyond the soundproof walls of the office, the thumpa-thumpa proceeded unabated. Although there were some who claimed that it was not quite as enthusiastic or as energetic as it would have been in the presence of the man who was, somehow, its driving force.

"No, I didn't know . . ." Emmett's protest was quick, but died on his lips as second thoughts surged into his mind.

"Not the specifics, maybe," said Lance Mathis, "but you picked up plenty of clues that didn't quite fit into your preconceived notions of how things should go among members of the Kinney Fan Club. And now . . . now you're going to have to look at all the facts and decide where your loyalties lie. I'm sorry, Emmett. I really am. If we could have, we'd have left you out of this entirely. But you're in a position to be targeted, to be used in an attempt to get to Brian, and that's a risk we can't afford to take. It's already been done, using others, so . . ."

But Emmett was still shaking his head. "But you're talking about Teddie. Teddie, who has every motive in the world to be grateful to Brian for everything good in his life. It was Brian who rescued him, who dragged him out of the gutter and back into respectability, who gave him a whole new life . . ."

"All true," admitted Mathis. "But it was also Brian who failed to take Ted's ultra-fragile ego into account when he made arrangements for handling his affairs during his absence. In the end, it all came down . . ."

"To jealousy." Emmett provided the answer himself, knowing that he was right - hating that he was right.

Cynthia confirmed with a nod. "And we have the FBI . . ." She spared a wink for Kinnetik's security chief . . ." and Brian's instincts for hiring the right man at exactly the right time to thank for the fact that protective measures were already in place before major, irreparable damage could be done."

Emmett clasped his hands in front of him so tightly that his knuckles were white and bloodless and closed his eyes for a moment as he felt strong, firm, massive hands close on his shoulders and try to knead away the tension there. "What - exactly - did he do?"

"Putting the best possible spin on it," answered Mathis, "he tried to make Brian a very rich man."

"Brian's already a rich man, by almost anybody's standards."

Cynthia nodded. "True, but not by the standards of the people that Ted has spent his whole life looking up to."

Emmett's smile was lopsided. "And by 'looking up to', I assume you mean envying. Being jealous of. And . . . . being snubbed by."

Mathis nodded, very careful to avoid studying Emmett's face, knowing how hard this was for the man who had once played the role of Theodore Schmidt's one and only love.
"You do know him well," he observed.

Emmett sighed. "Sometimes I wish I didn't. I still remember - in vivid detail - that whole debacle with Garth Racine and how fascinated Teddie was with his lifestyle and his friends . . . and his money - and how outraged he was when Brian wasn't the least bit impressed with his Garth-connection. And how devastated he was when the man showed his true colors. But I thought - I hoped he'd finally managed to put all that behind him."

Cynthia leaned back in her chair and drew a deep breath. "Maybe he had. Maybe this is all because I . . . I should have just stepped aside and let him micro-manage everything. I never dreamed he would resent my efforts, or interpret the whole situation as an insult to him. Especially since I'm not really qualified to oversee the financial aspects of Brian's business. Brian needed Ted - still needs Ted - to safeguard everything he's worked for, so why would he jeopardize everything? I just don't get it."

Emmett rose then and walked to the elaborate bar in the corner of the room where he poured out generous portions of Johnnie Walker Red for them all. "Why don't you tell me exactly what he's done," he said as he served the drinks. "And maybe we can figure out the why of it together. Although I am absolutely certain about one thing." He paused to meet Cynthia's gaze as he handed over her glass, and recalled the look on Ted's face as he'd delivered his little speech to the extended family members gathered around the Novotny family table. "You," he said softly, with deliberate emphasis, "have nothing to apologize for."

And he was gratified to notice that Lance Mathis leaned forward to lay his hand on Cynthia's shoulder, offering tacit agreement of his own.

Or, perhaps, not so tacit, as it was Mathis who proceeded to offer up a thorough, perfectly organized listing of the evidence documenting Ted's actions and shortcomings since the uproar necessitating the transfer of power in the Kinney empire. OK - so it wasn't technically an empire; not yet. It was still in its infancy, in empirical terms. But from the unique perspectives of the individuals who were the satellites circling the prime gravitational power that was Brian Kinney, it was the dawning of a new era and a major force in their lives. Embryonic maybe, or primal. But real enough, and beginning to grow and multiply, and poised now at a critical stage when making the right decision about which way to step next was crucial.

And Brian had chosen to entrust it all to Cynthia, while Ted had been relegated to the status of a Big Q register clerk. Of so he had chosen to interpret his employer's decision.

Emmett had listened carefully to every fact that Mathis had presented to him. He had examined the documents that Cynthia presented to support the security chief's claims - had flinched away from the columns of numbers and the records of financial transfers, had sighed over the disclosure of privileged information and the nasty comments overheard by unbiased observant interested parties.

"How much damage . . . has he done?" he asked finally.

Cynthia heaved a deep sigh. "Not as much as he might have. Preventive measures - by law enforcement and by our own security people - averted the worst of it. But there's no way of knowing how far these monsters are prepared to go - to destroy Brian, or, at the least, to silence him. And Ted - Ted is still a weak link for us. And, possibly, for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Meaning that there are still threats - to Brian and to his company. We have reason to believe that certain . . . interested parties are still targeting Kinnetik, and that they're trying to use Ted to accomplish their goals. There have been indications that he's been approached to handle campaigns for some new clients. Clients who have never shown any interest in associating with Kinnetik before, but for whom Ted would have a special affinity."

"Such as?"

"The Schickel Foundation." It was Drew Boyd who answered, speaking very gently, as if he knew that the words would be painful for Emmett.

"Schickel?" Emmett repeated, very slowly. "As in . . . George Schickel. As in the Schickel Foundation currently controlled by Virginia Hammond-Schickel, her bitch-daughter, Frankie, and her sycophantic board of directors?"

"One and the same," said Lance Mathis.

Emmett sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment, to gather his thoughts. When he opened them again and started to speak, Drew Boyd almost recoiled, knowing with absolute certainty that the love of his life had never before spoken so coldly. "I can't claim to know many things in life, but I do know this much: Virginia Hammond-Schickel, who only lowered herself to take on the surname of her late, faggot husband once he was too dead to embarrass her with his homosexual depravity, would cut off her tits and douche with sulfuric acid before she would associate herself - or her precious foundation - with anything remotely connected to Brian Kinney - or his kind."

"That's pretty much my take on it too," replied the security chief. "Ms. Hammond was a major supporter . . . of Prop 14."

"Mind if I ask how you figured all this out?"

Mathis and Cynthia exchanged quick glances. "No big secret, Em," answered the acting CEO of Pittsburgh's most successful ad agency. "No warrants necessary for a wire tap when the company's owner gives his consent."

"So you're monitoring his calls?"

Mathis nodded. "Only on his office lines. Brian wasn't comfortable with anything beyond that, although I can't really speak for the FBI. Who knows what they're listening to or looking for?"

"And you guys don't talk to each other?"

Mathis grinned. "They only share what they feel like sharing."

Emmett nodded. "So what makes you think I need to be aware of what's going on?"

Mathis took another sip from his bourbon. "Originally, Ted had one of the new interns prepare a series of promotional posters for some kind of theatrical campaign. All on the QT. But the intern talked a little more than he should have, so we figured that something was going on, but no one had any idea what he was really up to, until we intercepted a call from one of the Shickel Foundation board members, informing him that, to their great embarrassment, a preliminary contract had already been proposed by the Vanguard agency for the fall/winter opera series. Bottom line was that Mr. . . . Wylie - wasn't it, Cyn?"

The blonde nodded, and Mathis continued. "Mr. Wylie told Ted that several of the foundation members had been impressed with the artwork he'd submitted, but that their previous working relationship with Vanguard made it difficult to make a switch. Unless, of course, he could provide some additional incentive."

"Such as?"

"We aren't sure yet. There was some talk about a face-to-face meeting to discuss possibilities, but nothing specific was said, except a quick reference to some kind of charity drive - a pet project of one of Wylie's associates that involved some kind of relief program in third world countries. That's all we know so far, but it seems likely that he might try to get friends and acquaintances involved. It might, of course, be entirely legitimate . . . but it might not."

Emmett sighed. "So what would you like me to do?"

"Mostly, just keep your eyes open, and be cautious. Since you're overseeing Babylon in Brian's absence, it's possible you might be approached about some kind of benefit, and that could be very problematic"

But Emmett was shaking his head. "I don't see how. What harm would it do for Babylon - and Brian, by extension - to be associated with a charitable cause?"

"None," said Cynthia, who had been unusually silent during their discussion, "if it's legitimate. But what if it's not? Do you remember how close Vanguard came to being wiped out because of its association with the Stockwell campaign when the public discovered the truth about his complicity in the murder of Jason Kemp? Then just imagine if an advertising firm was found to be guilty of bilking the public out of money for a major charitable scam. That's a chance that we absolutely cannot take."

"But Teddie wouldn't be a part of something like that. He just wouldn't."

"Not knowingly," agreed Cynthia. "But . . . Emmett, you know Teddie. Better than almost anyone. What does your gut tell you about all this? What do you believe?"

Emmett was quiet for several minutes, spinning in his chair to examine the images on his security monitors, even allowing himself a span of seconds to enjoy the performance of a couple of go-go boys in the cage above the main bar, engaged in a very seductive, very convincing simulation of a sexual encounter. Then he took a deep breath. "I believe that he's spent his entire life trying to reconcile who he really is with who he wants to be. He tries to present himself as being above the promiscuity and materialism of people like Brian Kinney, and wraps himself in conservative values, like wearing an Armani suit, but, in his heart, he wants to be the people that he pretends to hold in contempt. He wants people like Brian, like Garth Racine, like the financial movers and shakers that he admires so much, to envy him, to want him . . . to want to be him, but he knows that's never going to happen. So he pretends that he doesn't care, that it doesn't matter. But, in the end, if he thought he'd found some way to make it happen, to force those same people to see him as he wants to be seen . . . I don't think there's much that he wouldn't do. Except deliberately betray the people who trust him. I could never believe that he'd do that, but . . . he'd be a pretty easy mark for anybody eager to exploit his weakness."

Then he turned to stare directly at Cynthia. "And I think he's always found it easier to blame other people for his trouble than to look within himself. He resents you, Cyn, and I'm pretty sure he plans to confront you about it sometime soon. And he won't be alone when he does."

But Cynthia was neither surprised nor particularly disconcerted. "If you're thinking I'm going to be shocked - or panicked - think again. I can handle Ted . . . and company. Although . . ." She went silent for a moment, eyes bright with speculation, "maybe I should return to the office for a little while tonight, considering that I have this impromptu meeting scheduled tomorrow afternoon - with Ted and . . . others he chose not to identify. Maybe I need to spend a little time preparing for . . . whatever might come up." She had not quite said "battle", but everyone in the room had heard it anyway.

Mathis leaned toward her with a smile. "I'll go with you."

And Emmett turned quickly to look up into the face of his lover, wondering if he was imagining things, or if he'd actually heard something interesting beneath the surface of that innocuous exchange. Boyd's smile seemed to underscore his suspicions, and Emmett felt a tiny stir of warmth touch his heart. Maybe this wouldn't turn out to be such a monstrously bad day after all.

He then turned then to study Lance Mathis' face. "I don't get it. If you think he's betrayed Brian, or you're worried that he will, why don't you just get rid of him?" And never mind that he could hardly bear to think of such a horrible end to Ted's relationship with the man who had almost single-handedly hauled him out of the gutter into which he'd almost disappeared..

Mathis offered up a lopsided smile. "Two reasons. First, we don't want to tip our hand while the investigation is ongoing. There's still plenty of undercover work in progress, so it's probably better to just preserve the status quo. And second . . . Brian Kinney. He's still my boss - and Cynthia's - and when he says, 'No', we have to listen. And right now, he's still saying, 'No'."

Emmett grinned. "Still a stubborn little shit, isn't he?"

Cynthia actually laughed. "You have no idea."

Emmett sat quietly for a while, eyes gone soft with a series of memories, before he turned to look up into Drew's face. "Yes," he whispered gently, "I do."


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



"You fucked him."

It was not a question, nor even an accusation. It was just a fact.

"Your point?" Brian settled against the sculpture of the soft dune at his back and enjoyed the view. There were, after all, few things in life more beautiful that the pale, alabaster skin of Justin Taylor as gilded by the flicker of firelight.

"Was he as good as he looks?"

"Better."

Justin shifted closer so he could study the look in dark eyes rendered opaque by the reflection of flames. "What did he mean to you?"

And there it was - the tell-tale flicker that revealed that Chris McClaren was not the casual fuck/faceless trick he might have seemed.

"What difference does it make?"

"It matters."

"Why?"

Justin took a deep breath. "Because I couldn't be here, and it doesn't matter that the reason was that you wouldn't allow it. The only thing that matters is that you needed someone you could trust, and I want to know if he gave you . . . what you needed."

"No more games, Justin." Even to himself, Brian sounded unutterably weary, like a man no longer . . . He couldn't quite bring himself to think it, but it was there in his eyes for anyone who might bother to look for it. "I'm tired of games."

"No games. I swear it."

Brian leaned up to stare into the eyes that were focused on him so intently. "Then why did you come back, Sunshine? To . . . lock the doors you left open?"

"No, I . . ."

"Because if that's why you're here, you better leave now. I don't . . ."

"Believe in locking doors. You think I haven't figured that out by now?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know what you've fig . . ."

"As usual," said Justin quickly, a smirk curling his lips, "you weren't listening. So I want you to listen now. Carefully, because this is all that matters. I think it's all that ever did, but you have to be willing to hear it, just like I have to be willing to say it."

Brian did not - quite - resort to his customary eye-roll.

"Are you listening?"

"Raptly. Intensely. Breathlessly." There was no way to ignore the sarcasm spilling over from those words, but beneath the irony, something else was lurking. Something silent - suspended - waiting.

"Fucker!"

This time, the eye-roll was unavoidable, as was the exaggerated sigh. "Okay. Yes, I'm listening."

"I choose you."

"What the . . ."

"Don't even pretend that you don't understand me. You know what I mean: open door, locked door. Monogamy, commitment, happily ever after . . . I don't have a clue. And it doesn't matter anyway. Because that's what you always tried to make me see, and what I was always too obtuse to realize. All I ever had to do . . . was choose, from the heart."

Brian . . . blinked, and Justin giggled. Brian blinked again; the little shit actually giggled.

"That's all you ever asked me to do, isn't it?"

Brian was very still, his eyes gone even darker as he contemplated the slender figure before him, as Justin crept closer, settling finally across his former lover's lap. Could it be, wondered the brunette, that the twink had really, finally, seen the light - understood the fundamental truth? Could it be? He was prepared to contemplate the possibility, but not to believe. Not yet.

"Isn't it?"

"The choice was always . . . yours to make."

Justin nodded. "But it had to be about what I wanted, what would make me happy. Not about duty, or about debts owed, or about obligations for the things you did for me. It always had to be because it was the only thing that would make my life complete."

"And?"

"Not because I believed that you couldn't live without me - but because I knew that I couldn't live without you."

"And if you change your mind tomorrow?"

Blue eyes were suddenly alight with hope. "Then I unchoose."

Brian folded his lips into his mouth - a sure sign that he was swallowing a smile. "And you think I'm going to be OK with that?"

Justin moved closer, deliberately swinging his leg over so that he was straddling Brian's hips, and that they were positioned crotch to crotch - almost. "Did he fuck you?"

Brian shifted then, pushing up slightly, to allow the hardness at his groin to rub against the answering hardness that strained against Justin's jeans. "No."

"Good."

"Why?"

Lips drew closer, sharing breath. "Because that . . . is what you choose. Yes?"

Breath caught and held, and then . . . "Yes."

Neither was ever sure which of them actually moved so that lips met and clung and then melded together as time stretched and folded in upon itself before finally just standing still.

Justin pulled back slightly, just enough to speak. "Mine," he breathed, with absolute certainty. "Yes?"

The smile was breathtaking. "Yes."

And Justin felt the truth of it. It was not now and never would be about possession or endless fidelity or monogamy. It had always been about two hearts that could reach out and touch each other, against all odds. Not because of promises or pledges or commitments or intentions, but because of the purest, most elemental, most fundamental of reasons. Because of love without limits, without reservations, without boundaries. Without locks.

"You love me," whispered Justin.

"Yes."

"Enough to let me go."

"Yes."

"And enough to keep me close, if that's what it takes to make me happy."

"Yes."

"Brian?"

"Yes?"

"I want you inside me. I want to spend the rest of my life . . . feeling you inside me, even when I'm not with you. I always want to feel you inside me. Yes?"

Justin looked up then, directly into night-dark eyes and saw the flare of something bright and warm and brilliant, as that beautiful mouth curled into a genuine smile. Not a smirk; not a snicker. A real smile. "Yes."

Brian lifted his hands and spread his fingers to push them through the silken blonde strands of Justin's hair, but then he laced them together to brace Justin's neck and leaned back to stare into eyes gone wide and vulnerable. "You have to promise me," he said sternly, without a trace of desire or lust or anything but bald, unavoidable honesty. "You have to do whatever it takes to keep you safe, because . . . I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you. You have to give me your word."

They both understood, on a primitive, no-bullshit level, that there was only room for absolute truth here. No covering up, no pretensions, no defensive walls.

Justin closed his eyes briefly, but not quickly enough to prevent Brian from recognizing the pain and the tenderness flooding through them. "I promise - but you have to do the same. Promise me . . . you won't leave me again."

Brian waited until those blue eyes lifted to meet his gaze, until there was understanding and comprehension there. "I promise not to leave you . . . for as long as you want me."

Justin smiled, understanding exactly what was being pledged. "Or as long as you want me," he repeated.

It had taken him too many years - too many wasted years - to realize that this was all he'd ever wanted, all he would ever need - and all that anyone could honestly promise him.

Moving slowly, deliberately, Justin pushed aside the shirt that McClaren had draped over Brian's shoulders and began to work his way down that sculpted torso. "I want to see you," he whispered. "I want to see all of you."

"Justin," Brian replied, with a strange note of uncertainty threaded through his voice - a note so uncharacteristic that Justin paused to look up and try to discern what was written in the shadows of those incredibly beautiful eyes, "I'm . . . not the same man I was before."

Justin's smile was brilliant. "Yes," he answered without a trace of doubt, "you are."

"No, I . . ."

"You don't really think that I give a royal fuck if they left marks on your skin, do you? They couldn't touch what's inside. Nobody gets to touch that but me."

The lips were pulled once more into the mouth, a dead give-away that what he was about to say would not be easy to hear. "I just don't want you to be . . . disappointed in what you find."

The smile was gentler this time - and truer. "You could never disappoint me."

The fleeting shift of shadows in hazel eyes indicated that Brian thought otherwise. "You should know me better than that." Tongue once more firmly in cheek.

"I do." The twink was not buying it, not for a millisecond.

Nevertheless, he pushed back slightly, to allow his eyes to drift up and then back down the body laid out beneath him, before he shifted upwards to start at the top, to bury his nose first in drifts of dark hair, still uneven from having to be cut away from the site of inflicted wounds. So he kissed the stubbly area first, careful to avoid putting pressure on the skin beneath the spiky hair, which was still mottled and discolored. "Your haircut's sexy," he breathed, carefully duplicating the tone and inflection of the same remark once offered to him under completely different circumstances, before nuzzling into the longer locks surrounding the short patch.

Then he moved down to the tiny scar he'd noticed earlier. "I'm going to make a point of remembering this one. I'm even going to name it. This is Liz - the flaw that proves the perfection of the rest."

Brian drew back just enough to allow Justin to read the look in his eyes - the one that questioned the younger man's sanity, but it was accompanied by a tiny, irrepressible smile that said so much more.

But Justin was busy continuing his exploration, examining the small discoloration at the corner of the eye which would be gone in a few days, but was still worthy of a tender kiss and the caress of gentle fingers.

Next came the still swollen, still healing area over and just beneath the jaw-line - the mark of a major injury where Rick Turnage had done masterful work to restore the bone structure and graft new skin to replace what could not be repaired. Justin lingered there for a while, carefully using his tongue and his lips to trace the joining of throat and jaw, and inhaling deeply to fill his lungs with the scent that was indelibly Brian. "For the rest of my life," he murmured, "this spot, right here, is going to be the place where I come to remember how I almost lost you, what those bastards almost took from me . . . and how much I have to be grateful for. You are so beautiful; you will always be so beautiful."

"Justin, don't . . ."

Blue eyes sparked then, and glistened with love and laughter - and lust. "Shut - the - fuck - up. This is my journey of exploration."

"Awww, my very own little Marco Polo," Brian drawled.

Justin lifted up suddenly, just enough to be able to shuck out of his shirt and jeans, but taking time to retrieve lube and condoms from his pocket, with a wink that generated a quick chuckle from his companion. "Not so little," he smirked, taking a moment to adjust his cock - glistening hard and already leaking - so that it rested firmly against Brian's crotch. "And you're overdressed." He proceeded, with infinite gentleness, to unzip and remove the cut-off jeans that were keeping him from the most intimate object of his exploration.

Then he simply sat back and stared, allowing his eyes to take in everything that had been hidden from him until now, and Brian couldn't quite suppress a tiny, smug smile as he noticed that the blonde's nipples were already hard and budding, as his breathing grew hoarse and erratic and his dick twitched and seemed to grow even harder. But the smile was short-lived. The fact that Justin was easily aroused was not news; the kid had always been eager for the touch of Brian's hands and body; this might be nothing more than reflex - a conditioned response, since he had not yet had time to come to terms with the scope of the damage. Brian went very still, trying to brace himself for whatever might come next, and was dismayed to find it hard to draw a deep breath. It shouldn't matter so much - but it did.
.
"Oh, Brian," Justin sighed finally, and there was no way to conceal the tremor in his voice as he took in the full extent of the damage, the physical proof of the intensity of a malice so obscene, so bitter, that it could inflict such harm on a fellow human being, any human being. The only thing he was sure of at that instant was that those who could do such a thing should have no claim to humanity themselves.

The scars were still there, although they were fading now. Most of them, at least. But the stark realization that anyone could have deliberately set out to destroy such a thing of beauty, such sheer perfection, was almost enough to make him reel away, and close himself off, unable to endure the evidence of such vicious hatred.

Nevertheless, he knew a moment of deep, visceral relief as he reached out to stroke a tender finger down the length of Brian's manhood and around the heavy scrotum, knowing instinctively that this perfect example of masculine beauty would not have survived intact had the cretins who attacked Brian been given time and opportunity to complete their mission and attain their objective. The perfect, massive cock of the Stud of Liberty Avenue would have been a target for mutilation too tempting to resist. He realized abruptly that he owed Lance Mathis a huge debt of gratitude, so huge that he would never be able to repay it, and he decided that he would make a point of expressing it the next time he came face-to-face with the security chief.

He looked up then, and managed a shaky smile in an attempt to reassure the man who was watching him so intently - an attempt that was a waste of time and effort.

"Remind me," he whispered, "to change my will - and leave everything I own to Lance Mathis. As a token - a tiny, totally inadequate token - of my gratitude."

But light-hearted repartee was not going to be enough to soothe this particular pain - even if the blonde was at least partially serious.

"Justin," Brian whispered, swallowing hard against the revulsion he was sure he was reading in those artless eyes, "it's all right. I know what it's like to . . . you don't have to look any further. You can just . . . walk away. No one will ever blame you. I promise. Just stand up and . . ."

Blue eyes were suddenly ablaze. With a towering, indelible rage. "Walk away? Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think I want to do?"

Brian shrugged - a classic, Brian-Kinney/take-your-best-shot-I'm-bulletproof-mode shrug. "I'd walk away . . . if I could."

"No, you wouldn't." Harsh and coarse - almost a snarl. "You've never walked away from anybody or anything in your entire fucking life. But you'd let me do it . . . because you want to spare me. You think I can't handle this, because you're no longer perfect? Jesus, Brian! You don't have a clue how beautiful you really are. Do you?"

Very deliberately, Brian took Justin's hand and guided it to the raw, blistered, mutilated, lurid swatch of crimson/purple that curved beneath his ribcage, and forced the young man to trace the wound with trembling fingers. "Not so beautiful now, is it?"

Justin looked directly into Brian's eyes, and read the message there with painful clarity; Brian expected him to recoil from the horrible damage done to that perfect body - expected him to be unable to endure the process of contrasting the image of who he was now with the memory of who he had been before.

Thus, with infinite gentleness, Justin leaned forward and touched his lips to the angry scarring, tracing its edge with his tongue. "You think this changes who you are?" he asked. "Or how I see you?"

Carefully but thoroughly, he kissed his way around the livid mark. "This," he said slowly, "is a badge of courage. A mark of honor. And . . ." he looked up then and smiled into eyes gone dark with emotions too deep to verbalize . . . "a big 'Fuck you' to the slime who tried to destroy you. You're indestructible, Brian. And you always will be, no matter what they manage to do to you; they'll never succeed in making you less than who you are."

"Andthat," said Brian, actually biting his lips to keep from laughing aloud, "is the biggest bunch of bullshit you've ever come up with, which - for you - is saying a lot."

The twinkish grin was irresistible. "Maybe." Then the grin was gone, and there was nothing but truth - beautiful, unvarnished truth - written across that perfect face. "But there's not a single trace of bullshit in this. I love you, Brian. I always loved you - even when I was so fucked up that I couldn't figure out which way to turn next. Even when I walked away from you, fighting it with everything I had in me. I always loved you. And I know you loved me too. That's why you never tried to stop me - never tried to hold on to me when I was fighting to be free. And that means . . ." He paused then, and waited until Brian was looking straight into his eyes, waited until he was certain that Brian was going to hear exactly what he was trying to say. "That means that I will accept whatever decision you make - do whatever you want me to do - and always, always go on loving you. I finally understand."

Brian did not smile. He simply lifted his hand and cupped Justin's face, using his thumb to trace the curve of that sweet, almost irresistible lower lip. "Took you long enough," he whispered.

The smile this time was bittersweet, hinting of too many lonely nights, too many wasted hours.

"I know." Then he closed his eyes for a moment, and seemed to gather his strength before pushing himself up to sit back on his heels, to give the man who was sprawled so fetchingly beneath him room to breathe - or whatever else he might need to do. "Brian," he said slowly, as he shifted back and down to touch just the tip of his tongue to the head of the massive cock that was stirring against Brian's belly. He took his time tasting the bead of pre-cum glistening there. "I want . . . all I want - right now - is for you to take me, like you never have before." He turned his head slightly, to allow him to bury his face against the dark curls that cradled Brian's manhood and inhale the spicy fragrance that was uniquely Brian Kinney. "I want you to take me and make me yours, in a way that'll mark me forever. I want you to fuck me. Fuck me harder and deeper than you ever have before." He shifted again, and flattened his tongue against the fat vein throbbing on the organ's underside and slowly worked his way up to revisit the tip, noting as he moved that the body beneath him was trembling slightly, probably anticipating what would come next. "But it has to be because it's what you want too. Not just because it's what I want. I'll do . . . whatever you really want me to do." With a quick swipe of his tongue, he circled the cock-head, savoring the sweet, musky flavor, also uniquely Brian Kinney. "Because I have, finally, learned that it's never enough for it to be what one of us wants. We have to want it . . . together. So do you . . ." He had to pause again, to gulp for the breath necessary to continue, and equally necessary to allow him to move away, just far enough to prove that he could do what he was promising. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

There was only silence for a while, and Justin was careful to keep his eyes downcast, knowing that he was committed now. That if Brian should say that he really did want him gone, he would have no choice but to obey. There were no half-measures left to them.

He would go, if he was asked. He would, no matter that his heart would break within him with every step.

He would go, if that was what Brian truly wanted.

He would - but with every fiber of his body, every particle of his being, he was praying that that particular request would not come.

Silence, he thought, had never felt so heavy - so infinite. And it just stretched - and stretched - and . . .

At first the only sound was the dull roar of the surf, frosted by the whisper of the night wind, and then . . . very faint, barely there, almost beyond hearing.

"Maybe later." Hardly a sound at all. "But . . . for now . . ."

Justin looked up, and knew that he would never forget the smile that formed on that perfect, beautiful mouth, or the look in those incredible eyes that were suddenly dark amber in the reflected firelight. "For now?" he asked, barely able to contain a rising urge to stand up and shout and go turning cartwheels through the froth of the tide, only - not quite yet.

"For now . . ." the smile gentled, and became something else, something almost luminous that he could not quite find words to describe . . . "don't you have something else to do?"

Justin forgot everything at that moment. He forgot that the body before him was battered and bruised and still recovering and hypersensitive. He forgot about the injury that elbows and knees and a flailing, desperately horny body could inflict. He forgot everything - except the need to be closer, to touch completely, to eliminate space or separation as he threw himself forward and fitted every inch of skin to the skin below him.

Brian responded with a faint "Ooph!" - and a burst of soft laughter.

Then, with incredible tenderness, he braced his hands around Justin's face, and touched his lips to the softness at the corner of that young mouth, before inclining his head so that they were forehead to forehead. He was still then, apparently content to simply breathe the same air for a while and inhale the scent of Justin's skin. For a while, they were immersed in a sweet, comfortable silence, but Brian eventually pushed back slightly, eyes dark and brooding, and seemed on the verge of speaking. Yet, he was slow to do so and took a long time to consider what he wanted to say next, and Justin closed his eyes, content to simply revel in the sensual presence of the man he had missed for so long. When Brian finally did begin to speak, there was nothing of his customary bravado or conceit in either his tone or his words. "After you left, sometimes I felt like I'd forgotten how to breathe, like I had to learn how . . . all over again. I thought . . . I'd never breathe free again."

The words were so softly spoken, barely a whisper, that Justin thought, for a moment, he might have imagined them, as this was something he had never heard before. Once in a while, since that horrific night when Babylon - and the strangely innocent world that existed around it - had exploded, Brian had admitted that he had grown to love the young blonde twink whose virginity he had claimed, but he had never embroidered on it much, or seemed particularly comfortable with voicing the feeling, so this . . . this was extraordinary. This was real and visceral, and it showed as much in the warm glow in wine-dark eyes as in the tone of the voice that had offered the words in the first place.

Brian had spoken from the heart, with words dredged up from his deepest core. And then, as if he felt a need to underscore the message, he proceeded to demonstrate the reality of his declaration. If Justin had harbored any doubts at all that the man he loved, the man who had always owned him - body and soul - was still present in the body beneath him, he was quickly disabused of that notion, as Brian - obviously tiring of his role as the submissive partner in this relationship - proceeded to reclaim his alpha-male title.

Eagerly, happily, Justin yielded when Brian pushed himself up and used his momentum to force Justin over onto his back, before bracing himself on one arm and taking advantage of the opportunity to watch the way the firelight painted delicious shadows on alabaster skin as he began his own journey of exploration, using gentle fingers to trace the lines of the face looking up at him. For a while, he seemed content to simply drink in the beauty displayed before him, but then he leaned forward and began to taste and sample, using lips and teeth and tongue and enjoying the growing warmth of skin to skin contact. And there was, to Justin's delight, plenty of beautiful, bare skin.

Brian seemed particularly enthralled with the sweet downy softness beneath Justin's jaw - tasting, sampling, licking. He spent a long time there, and Justin was seriously beginning to wonder if it was possible for a man to come to orgasm from nothing more than the assault of a talented mouth and tongue on an area of the body that no one else had ever identified as an erogenous zone. But in the next moment, that question became moot as Brian shifted downwards and began a deliberate assault on the hard bud of his left nipple. Then on to the right.

Then a pause as Brian looked up, and Justin . . . felt the world shift under him as he saw that look - that look he had seen uncounted times, which had always reduced him to abject fear - rise in those incredibly beautiful eyes. But it was different this time, as it had never before appeared during the thick, miasmic heat of lovemaking - or fucking, as Brian would call it.

Not now. No fucking way . . . not . . .

Desperately, the blonde reached up and wrapped his arms around the satin smoothness of Brian's shoulders. "No, you don't," he said firmly - almost shouting. "Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow, like you always do, you begin to second-guess and question your own instincts - or question me - but not now. Now . . . you fuck me, Brian, or I swear, neither one of us is getting off this beach intact. Just . . . stop."

Something soft, almost vulnerable, moved then in the depths of shadowed eyes, and Brian almost nodded. But then he couldn't - entirely - leave it alone. "I need a promise, Justin."

Justin blinked hard.

What? A promise? Brian Kinney asking for a promise? Was Armageddon at hand? Were the Four Horsemen about to come riding out of the surf?

"What promise?" he asked finally, fairly sure that he wasn't going to like what he heard.

He was right. "The only promise I'll ever ask of you." And there was no way of refusing to hear the absolute finality wrapped up in those few words.

"Go ahead."

"When - if - the day comes that you don't want . . . that you want to walk away, you have to promise that you'll tell me. That you won't just expect me to figure it out for myself as you ride off into the sunset." He smirked then, and although he didn't actually say, "with your new, improved version of Prince Charming," Justin heard it anyway. "You have to stand up - and say so. You don't have to explain it, or excuse yourself, or provide reasons - or apologize. But you do have to tell me. Fair enough?"

The eye-roll this time came from Justin. "Why on earth would you think . . ." But the protestation died in his throat, as he realized that he knew exactly why. Because it was what he'd done before - what he'd always done: walk away undercover of a massive camouflage of wounded feelings and injured innocence, specifically designed to foster guilt and regret in the man who refused to become someone he wasn't, just to fit into Justin's romantic fantasies.

And Brian almost smiled, because he saw the light of epiphany glint in Justin's eyes. "Fair enough?" he repeated.

"Fair enough," Justin whispered, realizing that later on, when his mind was settled and his body not a flaming mass of desperate libido, he would need to do some rethinking, some serious contemplation of what he really wanted and expected out of this strange, new relationship. But not now. "But the same goes for you," he continued. "No throwing me off that Kinney-cliff, just because you think you know what's best for me. You have to speak up as well."

Brian's smile was lazy, faintly mocking, and slightly smug. He had obviously expected no less than the response he'd received.

"But . . . not tonight."

The mocking smile became a self-satisfied sneer. "A sweeter, sadder song I'll sing to thee tomorrow." ***

"Fucking liberal arts major," Justin muttered. "Bur for now, would you please just . . ."

"Fuck you?" The laugh was pure Kinney arrogance, and Justin was certain he'd never heard anything so beautiful, so perfect in his life.

"Yes. Just shove that beautiful, huge, throbbing dick into my hungry, needy, empty little hole."

"You do realize," Brian pointed out as he returned to his assault on budding nipples, "that you're going to have sand in places never intended to experience sand."

"I don't give a shit what else gets inside me - as long as your dick is first and foremost."

Dark eyes blazed with need and lust. "I think we can manage that."

But not too quickly, Justin knew. A lesson was in progress - a lesson that could not be rushed.

Brian Kinney 101: How to Drive Your Lover Completely, Batshit Crazy, Before Fucking Him into Oblivion.

By the time Brian finished exploring nipples, belly, and groin, flipped Justin onto his stomach, and proceeded to give him the rimming of his life, before flipping him once more to his back, and swallowing his cock completely, Justin had already shot his load twice, and was building to a third, soul-shattering orgasm when, boneless, breathless, and reduced to mindless pleasure, he felt Brian's lube-coated fingers push into his hole - a hole so relaxed from his repeated orgasmic eruptions that there was no resistance there at all - and then, quickly but not nearly quickly enough, the hot, wet throb of that massive cock was pushing into him, invading him, claiming him.

And in that instant, he knew.

Brian would always be inside him. No matter where he went; no matter what happened from this day forward.

Brian Kinney had claimed him, branded him, marked him forever.

No one else would ever really stand a chance.

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

TBC

* - Adapted from Francis Bacon
** - A Valentine - Lewis Carroll
*** - Melancholetta - Lewid Carroll