They appeared to be ghostly things traveling across his face, whispering to him in their strangely accusatory voices as they did so. Ben wanted to close his eyes and blot out the sight before him, but he found he couldn't. They were just too captivating. He wanted to avert his eyes, to look at something else, but he knew; he could feel the dull, vacant eyes on him. There was a presence that was always with him and oddly absent from him--one he could almost touch if he reached out, but he was too afraid to reach out. And he couldn't turn around and face him just yet. So Ben stood there staring at them, counting them, and tracing them with the invisible fingers of his mind.

They were hideous.

He had spent hours--no--days examining his ruined face in the small mirror above the bathroom sink. The clock ticked patiently as he examined every gouge that sliced across his cheek and forehead. When he was feeling bolder, he would let the hospital gown slip and follow the road map of scars to their ultimate destination. Here was the town of Devastation. There was the borough of Anger, right next to its neighbor, Bitterness.

The doctors and nurses came and went, diplomatically focusing on his eyes, though unable to keep their gazes from flickering every once in a while. The physical therapists poked and prodded, talked amongst themselves, and scribbled on their pads about their plans to torture his broken body back into its former glory. He always had the urge to ask if he was ready to be served because surely they realized what he was now--an unappetizing dish left cold by all the guests who shuddered at the sight. The medical staff members were the oblivious chefs, clucking over the dish, trying to choose just the right garnish to convince their guests that here, indeed, was a meal fit for kings.

He reached out to the mirror and was surprised when his fingers brushed the cool, smooth surface. Though his silvery reflection was masked by dozens of his own fingerprints, something inside told him that today would be the day when his hand would slip through--as insubstantial as the still air--and he would fall to the other side where nothing could touch him.

More importantly, on the other side of the looking glass, he, Benjamin Bruckner, couldn't touch anyone else.

He turned from his own face and shuffled out of the bathroom. The man sitting on the one chair in the room smirked at him.

"Did you think it would look different, today, Benny?"

"Leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that. I have nowhere to go. You saw to that."

Ben made his way to the bed, reluctantly. He would rather be anywhere but here with his unwelcome guest, but having the other man follow him around drew too much unwanted attention. Their intense verbal sparring had bought him a new round of visitors who tried to help him "channel" his feelings in a healthier way.

"It was an accident." It was his usual protest and it brought the usual response.

"What? You accidentally slipped into a bottle of wine? Come on, Mr. Bruckner. You can do better than that."

"I wasn't drunk." Ben sat heavily. The stitches in his side pulled and threatened to pop, but he refused to lie down until this latest verbal duel was over.

"Spare me. You couldn't see straight to save your life."

"It's not true!" Ben started to shake as he always did. His denial rang through his head, turning into an accusation against himself.

His guest's smile stretched and tightened into a deathly, sardonic grin. "You said you loved me, but you couldn't see straight to save mine."

Ben gasped and fell back on the bed. His eyes closed against the pain wracking through his body. His face throbbed as if the skin were trying to peel itself off. It lasted only a moment--an infinite moment--but when he opened his eyes, Paul was gone.

The argument happened over and over, seemingly without end, but the result was always the same. Ben was always alone.

And Paul was still dead.

There was nothing he could do about it. There was no prayer he could say, no magic lamp to rub, no mantra to utter over and over again until it wasn't so horribly true. So disfiguringly real. Not a damned thing. This wasn't a dream, and he so desperately needed it to be a dream. He wanted to wake up and have it be the worst nightmare he'd ever had...but it wasn't. The pain of his stitches and the road map of scars on is face told him that. Paul was dead, Paul was angry, and Paul blamed him.

Even though Ben denied it, there was something deep inside of him that knew Paul was right. Ben hadn't been able to save his lover. He'd barely been able to save himself. The scars covering his body and especially his face were a testament to this simple yet unavoidable fact. He'd done this.

A wave of guilt washed over Ben like the ocean storming the shore at high tide. He was drowning in it and the pain was almost unbearable. What made it worse was that it didn't come in short, jabbing stabs that he could handle. Because that meant it would attack, then leave for a while, allowing him to recover a little. No. This was a slow, thudding ache that continued night and day, growing in intensity with each beat of his shattered heart. It was a maddening thing, causing his mind to cave in on itself.

Debbie paced impatiently back and forth, wearing a groove into the plush rug under her slippered feet. It was Sunday afternoon and no one had heard anything from her middle son since Friday evening. She wondered if she should trying calling again, but then she worried that she'd miss his call coming in while dialing.

She ran scenarios in her head as to what she was going to do once she finally saw her wayward son. First, she was going to hug the shit out of him; then she was going to kill him.

Vic sat at the table watching his sister pacing with an ever-growing sense of anticipation. He knew the boy was fine. Hell, he was a man now and, like all men, was prone to bouts of being inconsiderate. However, this was so unlike him. Just when Vic thought he couldn't stand watching his sister's pacing any longer, the phone rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Brian sat at his desk in his loft staring at the computer screen, clad only in the briefs he had put on after getting out of the shower about an hour ago. The pie chart he was supposed to be analyzing for the proposal he was to give on Monday was nothing but a multi-colored blur to him. Periodically, he'd glance over at the phone, willing it to ring. Brian was worried and he hated to worry about anyone but himself. It made him nervous. The only thing Brian hated more then worrying was being nervous. It killed his hard-on.

David sat on the sofa, remote control in his hand, clicking the channels aimlessly. He was pissed off. How dare that little brat not call? David picked up the phone on the end table several times and slammed it down each time. There was just no fucking way he was going to call him.

He threw the remote down and watched with satisfaction as it bounced off the sofa and onto the floor. If only he could rid himself of his responsibilities as easily. Time and time again, it was the same story. How many times would he be expected to come to the rescue? Everyone else screwed up their lives and then came to him to fix it. What would they do without him to fix it all?

His little brother was getting too fucking old for these childish games. Someone was going to have to knock some sense into him, and pretty damn soon, and he was just the one to do it.

As soon as Michael opened the door to his apartment, he knew he was going to catch hell. A feeling of dread blanketed him like freshly fallen snow in winter, cold and precise. It had effectively killed the buzz he'd been hanging onto all the way home. He hadn't meant to worry anyone. He just needed a break from all of them. He loved them dearly but they had no idea how batty they were making him.

When he left his mother's house on Friday after a family dinner, he had meant to go home. All he wanted to do was unplug the phone, turn off his cell, lock the door, and sleep until Monday when he had to be back at work...or until his mother came over and nearly knocked down the door to see if he was still breathing. Whichever came first, either was acceptable as long as he got some time away from them. But once he started driving he just he couldn't stop and didn't stop until he found himself in Philadelphia.

It was time to bite the bullet. Michael picked up the phone dialing his mother's number. She picked up on the first ring.

"Michael Charles Novotny, you better have a damned good explanation for this! Start talking!...Don't 'Ma' me! Do you know how much you worried me? Well, do you?...Get away? What the hell do you have to get away from? Where the hell were you?"

Vic stepped carefully around his sister as she paced like a restless tiger while winding the phone cord around her wrist. Any minute now and the cord would be yanked out of the wall. He stopped her while she ranted on and attempted to unwrap the cord. She shook him off impatiently and started pacing the kitchen again.

"Yes, I know you're a grown man! Since when does being grown mean you take off and scare your family half to death? Your brothers are beside themselves! They've practically been combing the streets!...Of course. He's been even more worried than me. I even had to stop him from calling the cops....Why would you say that? They were both worried....Damn it. I know he's not your father, but he is your older brother....If you were an adult like him, we wouldn't be having this conversation. HE would have called me....Sorry isn't good enough, especially if you're going to use that tone of voice....No. You give ME a break! If you're father were here, it would kill him to see you acting like this....Excuse me?"

Vic jumped back when Debbie whipped around and started stomping in the other direction.

She slammed her clench fist against the counter. "You're supposed to be the one I can count on! How could you? Ever since your father..." She dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs in a defeated posture. Her voice shook with her next words. "You're so much like him that it scares me sometimes. I keep thinking that one day you'll walk out like him and never..." She choked and on a sob and paused to listen. "...Of course. I love all three of you, but it's not the same." Debbie fumbled in her pocket until she was able to produce a wrinkled handkerchief. She dabbed at the tears on her face and wiped her nose. "No. No. I'm fine...Yes, I know. I love you too, baby."

Vic approached silently and placed his hands on her shoulders. She acknowledged his comfort with a glance and a nod.

"Just...Call them, okay? They really are worrying. And you have to come to dinner tonight. I made your favorite--lasagna....Well GET hungry. I'll be expecting you at seven o'clock sharp!" She slammed the phone down.

"So, do you feel better now that you ripped him a new one, Sis?"

"Don't start with me Vic. I've had a crappy weekend." Her face told the truth of her claim--the faint, dark circles under her eyes, the sag of her shoulders, the downturned corners of her mouth carving permanent grooves into her face.

Vic sat at the table and took one of Debbie's hands in his own. He frowned at the calluses that had never been there before. Once, in another life, her hands had been as soft as silk and his sister had been almost a lady of leisure. Since Charles was gone, the light had gone out of her eyes as quickly as the money, the so-called friends, and the social status. The hands that had held fine silverware and sported precious jewels were now roughened from her work at her restaurant. These same hands tried to hold onto Michael with an iron grip. "You're going to lose him if you keep doing this."

"What am I doing? I'm just watching out for him."

"Why do you feel you need to? He's an adult."

Debbie snorted indignantly. "An adult? He's got his head in the clouds half the time. The rest of the time, he's got his face in those damned comics. When is he going to wise up?"

"He's like his father, in that way."

"Exactly my point!"

"But would you have wanted his father to be different than he was?"

Debbie looked up, her face twisted with grief. "If it meant that Charles would still be here? Hell, yes."

Michael hung up the phone carefully. His ears still rang from his mother's abrupt and loud disconnection. It hadn't gone as badly as he thought it would, although his resentment was still roiling around in his stomach like sour fruit. He was tempted to ignore his mother's demand for an audience with him. It could only lead to a continuation of the conversation. And once his mother got started on her long-lost husband, there was no stopping her.

He walked across the room to the one picture he had of his father. His apartment was quite different from his old room at home. That one was jam-packed with photos and souvenirs from as far back as he could remember. They created a nest that comforted him when he needed to hide from his brothers and their relentless harassment of him. Here, he had little of himself besides a few pictures and posters, as if by keeping the walls empty of the past, he could put aside the memories. Despite the few reminders, the past was always there waiting...

As a child, he used to slither under the bed, trying to forget the latest name-calling or the play fighting that became a little too rough and a little too deliberate. Under his bed was an oasis of quiet--like Superman's Fortress of Solitude where he could regain his strength, far away from the ills of the world.

But his favorite times were when he wasn't alone. His father would come home from work and climb the stairs to the bedrooms to join him. Their house was large and well appointed--not a showstopper, but clearly the product of healthy finances and good taste. The upstairs, though, was a different story. Debbie and Charles had allowed the boys to participate in the decoration of their rooms. They could have changed their minds when Michael had taken the Captain Astro theme a bit too far, but they had the sense and the caring to indulge their boys in creating their own niches in the rambling house.

And so, Charles Novotny would climb the stairs and make his way to Michael's bedroom. He would kick off his shoes, take off his jacket and tie, and roll up his sleeves. Thus prepared, he would join Michael under the bed, pushing aside the Captain Astro sheets to enter another world. Sometimes they discussed what events had driven Michael to hide, but most of the time it was just the two of them and the latest stories of all Michael's heroes. The best times were when Michael's father would make a big production out of opening a crisp paper bag--as if it could be anything else other than the latest issues of Michael's favorite comics. Together, they would read the adventures, taking turns acting out the characters. Time would slip away like fine sand through an hourglass until the indignities of school or the playground or of Michael's own backyard would fade to the recesses of his mind.

Michael picked up the picture and looked at it. He did look like his father--practically a spitting image. He liked to think that it was a good thing, but sometimes when his mother would look at him in a certain way--as if she was waiting for a dangerous animal to show its true colors--he wondered if it was.

"Fuck." He put the picture back in its place on the bookshelf. He didn't need to reminisce. He needed to shower off the two days of road dirt so he could feel human again. The wind in his hair and the sun beating down on him on the long stretches of highway had been a balm to his restless spirit, but they had left him with fine grit nestled into every crevice. He needed to drink a strong cup of coffee and recapture the most resistant of his brain cells that were still floating down from their high. He still wondered how he had managed to make it home without being pulled over. The danger had revved his adrenaline to the max and left him quivering from its effects. Not even his mother's scolding could get him down. Not yet.

Ben lay on his stiff hospital bed, unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the man sitting only inches from him. He would turn over and face the window if it didn't require so much effort to do so or tempt the fates into bursting a few of his stitches. That's all he'd need--a setback. Finally, he let his gaze fall fully on the figure sitting silently in the chair next to his bed, the man waiting with the patience of the dead to be acknowledged.

Paul looked different this time, but for a moment Ben didn't know what it was. Then his mind opened fully and he saw it with gut wrenching clarity. Paul looked as he had the very last time Ben had seen him. His sandy hair was matted with patches of vibrant, wet, sticky blood in some places, and dark, drying blood in others. The left side of his face was split wide open, exposing his high cheekbone. His left eye was nearly torn from its socket. The beautiful Egyptian cotton shirt he'd been wearing that day was now covered in its owner's blood. And like that day when they both sat pinned in the car, Paul was trying to tell him something. But Ben couldn't hear it then and he couldn't hear it now. He kept staring at Paul's mouth, trying, in vain, to read his lover's lips. He closed his eyes against the thundering silence of the muted accusation.

His face hurt, his side hurt, his back hurt, his heart and soul hurt. He picked up the buzzer that connected to the nurse's station and, with a trembling thumb, pressed the button. They waited in silence until a young woman entered the room, smiling brightly and asking Ben what he needed. Ben told her as politely as he could, through agony-driven, clenched teeth that he needed something for the pain. She looked at her watch, smiled again, and left the room. When she came back, she had a small cup of water in one hand and an even smaller cup with his medication in the other. Ben sat up a little, trying to cause himself as little pain as he possible, and allowed her to give him first the pills, then the water. He smiled, said thank you, and watched her leave the room.

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Benny," Paul said in a soft gentle voice.

"You're not here," Ben said, lying back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

"You can see and hear me. I'm in the one place you can't get rid of me and I'm not going anywhere," Paul said, venom slipping in to his voice so that it sounded almost like a hiss.

"I'm a crazy man talking to a dead man. That's all I know. All I need to know," Ben said, looking back at the chair only to be surprised to find it empty.

"We're both dead men." Paul's voice echoed in Ben's head like rolling thunder or crashing waves.

Chapter 2

After taking a long, hot shower, Michael felt more human. The cool wood felt good against his bare feet as he went into the kitchen, got a glass of juice, and stared at the phone. Then he walked into the living room, plopped down on the sofa, and again stared at the phone.

The last thing Michael wanted to do was talk to either of his brothers, especially David. Since Brian had gotten older he'd become less of a prick. He had even become somewhat of a friend. David was another story all together.

When their father walked out the way he did, David had stepped in as man of the house. He had to take care of everything and that was a lot to handle. He did it and he hardly ever complained, but Michael also knew that most of David's frustrations at having to be the man of the house were taken out on him. He and Brian would gang up on him before, but it got so much worse when their father left. Or maybe it just appeared that way because he was gone. Because that buffer between Michael and the world had effectively disappeared, leaving him to contend with things the way they really were.

He picked up the phone and dialed his oldest brother's number first. Better to just get it out of the way rather than drag it out. The longer David had to wait the worse it would be. No matter what his mom had said, Michael knew David was more pissed than worried.

"Hello."

"Hi."

"Hi. That's it? All I fucking get is 'Hi'?"

"David--"

"Where the fuck were you?"

"Look, I just called to let you know I'm home."

"So you're home. And we're all just supposed to be so goddamn grateful for that fact that we don't get an explanation?"

"I'm not a child, David."

"You're not a child? You took off and didn't tell anyone, Michael. You scared our mother to death. She's been calling your apartment and cell phone every fucking hour since you decided to disappear and she's had us out looking for you. What kind of man does that?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry anyone. I just...I just..."

"You just what? You just didn't think. You never think Michael and it's going to get you hurt. You're all right though?"

"I'm fine." Michael said, wiping tears from his eyes and trying to hold the sound of them out of his voice. That's all David would need to hear to rip into him again.

"I'll talk to you later."

Before Michael could say anything else, the phone went dead. He sank back into the couch and wanted to disappear. He wanted it to swallow him whole and never let him go. David always made him feel helpless, stupid, and, in a fucked up way, loved--and all at the same time. David would say all these mean things, then he'd throw something in there that let Michael know his older brother cared about him, deep underneath all that anger he carried around with him like a tree trunk on his shoulders.

With trembling fingers, Michael dialed Brian's number. With any luck his younger brother would be out somewhere getting laid or would have someone there and wouldn't answer the phone. No such luck, Michael thought as he heard his brother's voice on the other end of the line...

"The wanderer returns." Brian said, laid back.

Michael could hear the worry in his voice. "You gonna scream at me too?"

"I was thinkin' about it, but I figured that right about now you feel lower than dog shit and I hate to kick a man when he's down."

"No, you don't."

"That's true, but I'd never kick you while you were down, Mikey. So what happened?"

"I just can't take it sometimes. That's all," Michael said, closing his eyes, glad to talk to someone who was at least trying to understand, even if Brian never would.

"Do me a favor, Mikey. The next time you feel like that, give me a call. Hell, I might even go with ya," Brian said, only half joking.

"It's not that simple."

"I know. But do it anyway."

"Sure." Michael said, feeling completely defeated and hung up the phone without another word.

"Do you have everything you need, Mr. Bruckner?"

Ben looked around the room. His clothes and toiletries were packed. He had his prescriptions and his cane. He had no cards, flowers, or gifts to take because he'd refused them or given them away. "I'm all set."

The chipper nurse handed him a printed copy of his discharge instructions, which included a long list of appointments to be kept.

"Thank you."

"Let's go. Your chariot awaits. Best of luck to you."

He sat in the wheelchair and let the transporter roll him to the exit where his taxi awaited. As the corridors of his home/prison of the last few weeks whizzed by in a white blur, Ben looked at the sheet. It took a big team to rebuild a man from scratch: physical therapists to get him walking upright; occupational therapists to teach him how to use his hands like a fully evolved human being; orthopedic doctors to check on his shattered bones and the pins and rods that held them together; surgeons to fix up the soft parts inside and to turn his outward appearance into some semblance of a man; and, of course, a psychiatrist to make sure that he didn't go off the deep end and waste all that hard work.

How many times had he recited the nursery rhyme in his head? All the king's horses and all the king's men...He wondered if he would suffer the fate of poor Humpty Dumpty. The bright light at the end of the corridor drew him and he wondered if this was what Paul had seen in those final moments. Or was it like falling asleep or floating up to the sky? Was there anything at all? Ben's trip down the tunnel of light led not to some final reward. Instead, a bright yellow taxicab stood at the curb while the driver idly picking at his fingernails and awaited his passenger.

"Here we are!" said the transporter cheerfully. He and the driver helped Ben out of his wheelchair and into the back seat of the cab. While Ben adjusted to life on the outside, they loaded his bags into the taxi's trunk. All too soon, Ben was on his way home. He kept his head down, in a vain attempt to avoid the eyes of the driver and puzzled at the idea that he had any vanity left.

"You were always hot. I loved making all the other boys jealous."

Ben refused to turn or to answer out loud, fully aware that Paul was invisible to everyone but him. He had given up on the hope that ignoring the incarnation would make it go away, but he'd learned to wait until he was alone before responding.

"Did you hear me, Benny?"

Ben risked a brief glance out of the corner of his eye. Today, Paul was as he was on some long ago vacation. Where had they been?

"Miami. How could you forget?" Paul laughed. "You couldn't keep your hands off me. I wore all those tight clothes just to make you nutty." He sighed and brushed his sun bleached sandy hair out of his eyes. He looked out the window at the crowded buildings and the pedestrians walking to and fro, buried in their own lives. "This isn't exactly a sun-drenched tropical paradise." He turned and pinned Ben with icy blue eyes. "I don't feel hot where I am. But I don't feel cold either. I don't feel anything. What about you?"

Ben turned away. He wished he had someone in the cab with him...someone real.

"I am real," said Paul and reached out to touch Ben. The cab hit a pothole and the vehicle lurched so that Ben never knew if he'd actually felt anything. "I'm as real as you are."

Ben looked up to find the driver staring at him. He turned again so that the scars faced away from the mirror. Real? He didn't feel real. The only thing he felt was distant--as if he were wrapped in a bubble. But when the sting of human interaction pierced the bubble, he felt too much. The numbness of the bubble was better. He crumpled the discharge sheet in his hand and tossed it out the window. He wouldn't be needing it.

"Oh, look! Slow down. This is my stop."

The cab was passing a large, grassy stretch of land. Through the high walls of the iron fence, the white blocks of carved stone dotted the ground in endless, straight rows that stretched as far as the eye could see. Only winding pathways and the occasional tree interrupted the obscenely geometric vision. Ben suddenly realized that he didn't know where Paul was buried. It had taken almost a week for him to wake up from the effects of the accident and the surgery. It had taken another couple of weeks before he could remember.

Once he had actually been able to talk, rehashing the horrific events had been impossible. One by one, the number of visitors had dropped and the phone calls had dried up. He hadn't wanted to rehash. He refused all comfort. He didn't want to talk to anyone and he didn't want to hear the pointless platitudes and hollow sympathy. He didn't want to know, so no one told him. And now he was left wondering where Paul was. The lack of knowledge seized him by the throat and he was drowning in fear. He had to know. He had to know, now!

A cold voice blew across his ear and sent a shiver through the very core of him. "Don't worry. I'm right here. I'll always be here."

"Ma, will you listen to me for just five minutes?" It had been days since Michael's little escape and he'd been avoiding having this conversation with her, but during his getaway, he'd had a lot of time to think about his life.

"Not now, honey. Opening time is coming and we're not nearly ready."

"You always say that and we're always ready."

"Well, we won't be if you keep distracting me. Here. Take care of these."

Michael's breath left him with a whoosh when his mother slammed the bucket of salt and pepper shakers into his stomach. He started laying them out on the tables while trying to talk to her. "I just want to know what you think."

Debbie was a flurry of activity as she stacked menus, checked the silverware, and checked the bar. "What I think? What do I know about these things? Did you talk to David?"

Michael sighed and ground his teeth. "Yes."

"What did he think?"

"Michael, it's just not practical. What are you going to do with an English degree? Teach? You'll make less money than you do now."

"No. I don't want to teach. I want to write."

"Do you realize how hard it is to break into the publishing business? You need contacts and you need a lot of talent."

"But it's what I want to do. It's worth a try to--"

"And while you're in school, how are you going to support yourself?"

"I'll still work. I'll go to school part time. I know I can--"

"You had a hard time when you first went to college. You dropped out. What makes you think that this time will be easier?"

"I'm not stupid, David. I didn't apply myself, then because I didn't want to be there. Now, I know what I want and I'm willing to work harder to get it."

"I never said you were stupid, but it takes more than hard work to be a writer."

"So, I shouldn't even try?"

"Do it as a hobby if you want, but if you go back to school, you should do something more realistic--something you can handle--something that can pay the bills. If Dad had done that--"

"Dad was an artist! And he was good! If he had been able to spend more time on his music--"

"More time? He nearly blew all our savings on a pipe dream. And then, when he couldn't hack it, he left! He left mom and he left us. Do you want to be like him? Always dreaming? Always letting people down?

"Well? What did your brother say?"

Michael repositioned a chair that didn't need repositioning. "I don't care what David thinks. I want to know what you think."

"Honey, I can't make this kind of decision for you."

Michael slammed a pepper shaker down, spilling the black and grey grains across the white tablecloth. He swept them onto the floor. "I didn't ask you to decide. I can do that. I only want a second opinion--or some support if that's not too much to ask."

Debbie stopped lighting candles and looked at Michael squarely. "I think it's a bad idea."

"What? How can you say that?"

"I talked to David--"

"Oh, sure. If David said it, then it must be right!"

"You asked, now listen."

"Fine." Michael sat in a nearby chair. "Shoot."

They both turned when the door open and admitted a shadowed figure.

Debbie stepped forward. "I'm sorry, but the restaurant isn't open for lunch for another half hour."

The figure came closer and revealed itself as the figure of an earnest, young man. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I'm not here to eat. I have a package for..." He consulted a sheet of paper on his clipboard. "Mrs. Charles Novotny? I was given this address as an alternate to her home address. I tried there, first, but no one was home. Do you all know if I can find her here?"

Debbie nodded. "That's me. What is this about?"

"Oh. Hello, Mrs. Novotny. I have a package for you. I need you to sign for it."

Debbie didn't come any closer. She stared at the proffered clipboard as if it would bite. "Who is this from?"

The boy dropped his arm and pulled a manila envelope from under his arm. "It's from Phillips, Myers, and Hart Law Associates."

Debbie paled and took a step back. "Excuse me?"

"Phillips, Myers, and--"

"I heard you!" Debbie took a few shaky steps forward and held out her hand. "I'll sign that." She signed the paper and took the envelope. "Thanks. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."

"That's all right, Ma'am. Have a nice day." The courier left the restaurant and the two remaining occupants behind.

Michael hurried to his mother's side. "What is it?"

Debbie looked at Michael with wounded eyes. "Nothing." She took a step back when he opened his mouth to insist. "Nothing at all." She rushed to the back of the restaurant and out through the kitchen door, clutching the envelope in a death grip.

A moment later, Vic came out of the kitchen, wiping the flour from his hands on a towel. "What the hell happened to your mother? She took off crying."

Michael shrugged, but inside he was worrying. "Someone delivered a letter from some law firm. She got upset without even opening it. I hope she's not in some trouble."

Vic frowned. "What law firm?"

"Phillips, Myers, and uh..."

"Hart?"

"Yeah. That was it."

"Fuck." Vic turned to look at the kitchen door, through which his sister had disappeared. "Fuck," he repeated.

"What is it? Who are those people? Is the restaurant being sued?"

"If I'm right, Phillips, Myers, and Hart was the law firm that your father's family always used."

The room started to spin and Michael sat again in the nearest chair. He had a feeling that the news would be anything but good.

Chapter 3

The place didn't look any different than it had the afternoon he and Paul had set out for the garden party at Janet and Steve's. It had been a beautiful day. The sun had been shining and the flowers in Janet's garden had smelled absolutely wonderful. One could have become intoxicated from the fragrance of the roses alone. Ben had spent a great deal of that day being distracted by how beautiful Paul looked in the garden: how his hair had caught and held the rays of the sun; how his body had been perfectly silhouetted in the golden hues of his shirt; how his pants had seemed to hug him in all the right places while still leaving something to Ben's overactive imagination. He couldn't wait to get home and remove those barriers.

Maybe he should have waited. Maybe five or ten minutes either way would have made a difference. Maybe. Maybe. The world was full of maybes, what ifs, could've and would've beens. The entire universe was awash in doubt and guilt and alternate scenarios and roads not traveled down. And they changed absolutely nothing because, in this reality, things were still nightmarish. In this reality, things were still painful and scary and filled to overflowing with the inky black bile of loss, confusion, and guilt.

No. Nothing had changed except for the thick covering of dust that seemed to blanket everything in sight. Ben dropped his gaze to his hand and the keys still in it, then tossed them onto the small, mahogany table next to the door. The taxi driver had been great about helping Ben into the house. He'd even carried the bags into the bedroom on the second floor. The guy was looking for a big tip and Ben didn't disappoint. But now, Ben was alone with him in this place and it scared the shit out of him.

He closed his eyes as the keys made the familiar sound of metal hitting wood. It used to be comforting. It meant he was home. The rigors of the day could fall away and the world could fade because he was home and either Paul was there already or soon would be. But, as he opened his eyes, Ben realized with agonizing certainty that this place was no longer home. This place, his house, their house, was now nothing more than a reminder of the past--a living breathing embodiment of his loss.

Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of his life with Paul. There were pictures on every available surface, pictures Ben couldn't remember being there before. But now they were there glowing beneath the dust covering them with neon clarity. They called to him; they smirked, taunted, and teased him. He heard the laughter of the moment when those pictures were taken and he heard their hollow sound bounce around in the emptiness of the room.

Ben wanted to leave. He wanted to run as far and as fast as his painfully mending legs could carry him, but he stayed planted in the spot where his old life and his new life met like mountains kissing the sky. It was seamless in the perfection of it and yet it was an illusion. Mountains don't kiss the sky; they stand forever, reaching for something that can't be reached, longing and envying what will never be theirs. When God separated earth from sky, he tore apart lovers. The earth, in revolt and in sorrow, stretched forth its arms, reaching for something that could never be as it once was. And so it was with Ben. He was standing in the entryway of his own house, reaching for something he could no longer have, but he could do nothing because it was his fault it was gone in the first place. He could neither advance nor retreat. He simply stood there with his back up against the door as his mind tried to adjust to his previously familiar surroundings that now appeared foreign to him.

"Come on in, Benny boy. Now we can talk without you feeling like a nut in the privacy of our own home," Paul said in a mocking voice, sitting up from a supine position on the sofa.

"Give me some peace...for a minute, please," Ben said, whispering softly to himself.

"I don't have peace. Why should you?" Paul spat at him.

"I'm sorry," Ben said as tears rolled down his face.

Paul placed both hands over his heart, smiling smugly as he did so. "My life was aborted and you're sorry. Don't you see how ridiculous that sounds?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Ben screamed and held his head, dropping his cane in the process.

"Then whose fault was it? Who was driving the fucking car?" Paul asked in a calm, soothing voice.

"It was an accident," Ben said weakly.

"There are no accidents. You should know that by now," Paul replied before he vanished. "You should know that by now."

Paul's voice echoed throughout the corners of Ben's mind. "Don't go," Ben heard himself saying over and over. "Don't leave me alone. Not here..."

After calling David at his office and contacting Brian, Debbie finally called Michael at the restaurant where she'd left him to take care of the morning rush. Her hand trembled and she paced the floor as she waited for her sons to reach her house.

Vic, too, was a nervous wreck. He knew this couldn't be a good thing and he was hoping against hope that it wasn't what he thought it was because, if it was, everything would blow up in her face, especially where Michael was concerned.

David arrived first, looking somber but saying nothing when he saw the look on his mother's face. Brian arrived next. He and David exchanged looks as he sat down next to his older brother. Then Michael came and he felt the tension in the room. It was so thick he felt as though it were closing in on him from all sides. He silently took a seat beside his brothers on the couch and waited for his mother to start talking. Vic sat nearby in the overstuffed armchair and closed his eyes.

"This came from the law firm your father used to use," Debbie said, holding the package in her hand.

"What's in it?" David asked, leaning forward a little.

Debbie cleared her throat before telling her boys, her three sons, that their father was dead. David sat back, his face emotionless. Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Debbie's eyes were glued to her middle son. Michael hands began trembling and tears slowly began spilling out of his eyes, but he said nothing.

"He sent all of you something." Debbie reached inside the package and handed each of her sons the letters their father had written to them.

Michael's, however, was more than one letter; it was a packet of several. Michael took them from his mother with shaking hands and said nothing. David asked if there was anything else. Debbie told them all that their father had left a will, but that he really didn't have anything to leave any of them.

"He did leave Michael a little money, but, after the lawyer's fees and taxes, it only boils down to a few hundred dollars."

"Figures," David said smugly.

"Are you all right?" Michael asked his mother as he got up, walked over to her, and placed his arms around her.

"Oh, I'm fine, sweetie," Debbie told her son as she leaned into him, betraying her true emotions.

Michael closed his eyes and held his mother. Something in him had suddenly gone completely cold. He felt nothing as he held his mother in his arms. He felt nothing as Brian and David came and put their arms around both of them. He felt nothing as Brian gave him an extra squeeze of understanding.

For the first time in his life, Michael felt alone in the world. These people around him were strangers to him. The only person he'd ever felt a really strong connection to was now gone. All he had left of his father was a few hundred dollars, which would be gone in no time at all, and a few letters that were supposed to explain it all to him--or at least he hoped so.

After the boys left and Vic had gone to his room, Debbie sat down and read the letter Charles had written to her.

At first, David threw the letter on to the table and walked away from it, mumbling to himself about how he'd never read it. He went into the kitchen, poured himself some bottled water, and went back to the table. He picked it up, held it up to the light, and then dropped it again. When he couldn't take it anymore, he opened the letter and read it.

Brian walked into his loft, not feeling much of anything about the death of his father. He knew he should feel sad or angry, but he'd felt none of these things when his father was alive. He looked at the letter and smiled to himself. He knew he'd never read it, knew he'd never be tempted to. So he fished in his pocket and found his cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth, found his lighter, and lit it. While the flame was still blazing, he picked up the letter from his father and set it on fire. He placed the burning paper in the ashtray, sat back, and watched as the flames consumed it. A single tear rolled down his cheek. It would be the first and only time Brian would cry for his father.

Michael sat on the sofa of his apartment after unplugging the phone and turning off his cell. He looked at the small packet of about ten letters in his hand and closed his eyes. He flipped trough them slowly and saw that there was one letter there for every year his father had been gone. All were dated on Michael's birthday. He smiled to himself before he got angry at his father for not mailing these to him. There were times he could have used something like these letters to better cope with everything. Then he thought: what was the use to being angry at a dead man? It changed nothing. And, anyway, he had the letters now. He closed his eyes again, feeling the paper glide underneath his fingers. Then he read the letter on top. The one his father had written before his death.

Chapter 4

Scott Holton shifted uncomfortably on the loveseat. The dust that clouded up reached his nose and mouth and made him cough. This place is like a mausoleum, he thought to himself. How can he live like this? Looking around the formerly luxurious room, he wondered about the blank space over the bar. There was a telltale rectangle of bright wallpaper, around which the rest had faded. A missing painting, perhaps? Sold off for cash? With a more careful eye, he noticed numerous remaining souvenirs from Ben and Paul's travels. The quality of these pieces could not be completely obscured by the lack of housekeeping. Nothing else seemed out of place since the last time he'd been there other than the missing painting. In fact, if he weren't mistaken, there seemed to be more pictures of Paul than there had been before. He was about to stand to take a closer look when halting footsteps approached.

Ben entered the room with a hesitant gait. In his hands, he held a tray with a small coffee pot, cups, saucers, and a small pitcher of cream. Scott was tempted to run over and help, but the determined set of his friend's jaw and the fierce concentration on his face, warned him to let Ben do this on his own. He sat and waited for his friend to speak.

"Cream and sugar?"

Scott nearly laughed at the banality. He was sitting with this battered man in a house that bore a striking resemblance to a set from a gothic horror movie and having coffee as if it were only natural to dine with the utmost civility in such a setting. What else was there to do but cooperate with the farce? "Yes, please. One sugar and light on the cream, if you would."

Ben busied himself preparing Scott's coffee, keeping the untouched side of his face forward. The less Scott could see, the more his curiosity grew. His eyes automatically swung to the space above the bar to catch a reflection and answered his earlier question to himself. Not a painting, then. Missing was the ornate mirror that had hung there for as long as he knew. In fact, he hadn't seen a mirror since he'd entered the house.

"Here you go."

Scott took the coffee cup and sat back. The dust clouds surrounded him again and he sneezed, nearly upending the steaming coffee in his own lap. "If you need a new cleaning lady, my wife uses one I can recommend."

"I'd rather not have anyone else in the house. I like my privacy. Besides, I'm doing fine on my own."

Scott watched curiously as Ben still fiddled with the coffee service. He had poured himself a cup and was making a third. His hands had a fine tremor, but his movements remained slow and deliberate. "Are you expecting someone else?"

Ben looked up and Scott received the full brunt of piercing eyes. Never before would he have described Ben's eyes as icy, but that was just what they were--as cold as the frost in winter--so cold that the usual bright blue took on a steely gray cast. And distant in a way that made Scott wonder if the old Ben was still all there.

"No. Why do you ask?"

Scott nodded at the third cup of coffee. "Either you're expecting a third person or you've become really impatient for a jolt of caffeine." Ben looked quickly to his left at the empty chair and turned away with a bent head. Despite the posture, Scott still detected a flush in Ben's pale cheek.

"I must have spaced out for a minute."

Scott puzzled at Ben's studious lack of attention to the third coffee cup and to his entire left side. Once again, he wondered if there was some lingering brain damage that the doctors had missed. Ben's actions were awkward and distracted to a degree that seemed out of proportion to what he might have expected after all the weeks of rehabilitation. Then again, what could he realistically expect from a man whose his life had been shattered? No words could repair the invisible wounds any more than a surgeons scalpel could get erase all the physical scars. It was no surpise that Scott felt his helpless so keenly. "How has the therapy been going?" he asked, fearing the reaction. His fear was for naught because the response was remarkably subdued.

Ben's mouth pinched into a thin line and his hand gripped the coffee cup a little tightly. "You know I haven't been going. I told you I haven't left since I came back. Why do you bother to ask?"

"I keep hoping that you'll change your mind."

Ben's face became shuttered. "I won't. I'm sure you didn't drive all the way out here just to ask me that."

"I wouldn't have had to come all the way out if you would use the phone." Unbeknownst to Ben, Scott had entertained the worry that Ben had fled the town. When he tried to call, the phones were disconnected. No one in their circle had seen Ben in days. He even wondered if Ben had had a medical setback and had been readmitted to the hospital. When he came to the house and found that none of his fears were true, he had felt relief that it wasn't the worst, anger that Ben had made him worry, and an all-encompassing fear that Ben was lost in a more profound way. The longer he was in the house, the more he felt that his fear was justified.

"You could have written me a letter."

"I needed to talk to you." And yet they weren't talking--not really.

"About what?"

Scott took a deep breath. "When are you going to come--?"

Ben put the coffee cup down so hard that it was a miracle the delicate china didn't chip. The coffee sloshed over the sides and spilled on his hand, but he never flinched. "Don't."

"Don't what? You didn't even let me ask."

"I'm not coming back."

"Your students have been asking about you." Scott chuckled ruefully. "I don't think I was the best substitute." The workload had been manageable, but stepping into the shoes of one of the most popular professors at the university's Liberal Arts department had been daunting. The students had been clamoring for Professor Bruckner's return and Scott hoped that this might be an incentive to get Ben back into the stream of life.

"All my students have already moved onto the next semester. I'm just a memory to them."

"But--"

"It's not going to happen, Scott."

"I'm sure Paul would never want--"

Ben stood faster than Scott would have imagined he could. "I think you should leave, now."

Once Scott had the bit in his mouth, he refused to let go. "It's been weeks. You've holed yourself up in here like some kind of hermit. In town, there are all sorts of crazy rumors going around. You can't spend the rest of your life up here." He ran a hand through his red hair in frustration. Damn Ben and his stubbornness! "They are going to revoke your tenure if you don't talk to the Board about your plans. You worked so hard to get this far. Don't throw it all away!"

Ben walked to the window and stared out at the garden. "I don't need the money right now. I can live off my savings and my inheritance for a long time. Why should I go out there so they can stare at the freak?"

"You're not a freak." Scott caught a glimpse of Ben's face and flinched, despite himself. Ben might not be wrong about the reactions to which he might be subject. Already, uncomplimentary nicknames were flying fast and furious among those wont to gossip.

"What have they been saying about me in town?"

Scott squirmed with discomfort and refused to meet Ben's eyes. When had Ben become a mind reader? "I don't remember."

"Just as I suspected. I really do think you need to go."

"Wait!" Scott grasped at any thread of conversation that might keep Ben talking to him. "People are wondering if you are going to have to go to court. I was wondering myself, though I assumed not."

Ben's hand pressed against the windowpane so hard that the glass bowed, but didn't break. "My alcohol level was below the legal limit. I'm completely exonerated." Ben leaned his forehead against the window. "According to the law, I'm totally innocent." He laughed harshly, as if listening to an inaudible joke.

"That should be good news." Scott squinted with worry when Ben looked to his side and stared off at nothing. The silence stretched into nothingness until Ben spoke again. His voice grated as if he'd been shouting for hours.

"I'm sorry, Scott. I appreciate you coming to check on me, but I have a splitting headache."

"Of course. I didn't mean to tire you out." Scott stood and walked to the window where his friend stood. He carefully touched Ben on the shoulder and was saddened when Ben stiffened in rejection. He dropped his hand and said sadly, "Is it okay if I drop by next week?"

"I wouldn't want you to waste your time."

"I want to." Scott wanted to pound on the nearest piece of furniture. He would probably get more of a response than what he was getting from his friend.

"I'd prefer you didn't. I just need time to myself. I'll be fine." Ben fell silent.

Scott reluctantly showed himself out of the house. After slipping into his car, he looked back at the house. He wanted to run inside and drag Ben out of the home that he was slowly turning into a prison of his own making. Ben was anything but fine.

Michael was twiddling his thumbs at the laundromat, watching his clothes tumble in the dryer, and wondering how it all connected to the meaning of life. The two children--a boy and a girl--playing on the other side of the room probably didn't have this problem. To them, life was about the next game they played, the next school assignment, the next meal, the next fight over a toy, and other trivial matters that took on so much importance at that age.

Maybe, if they were more introspective, they wondered about why the sky was blue or why bunny rabbits exist. They probably weren't that deep, though. They certainly weren't wasting time like he was doing, staring at sheets circling over and over and trying not to wallow in his own dark feelings.

For a while, he had been telling himself that it was simple fatigue. Too many late nights drinking, clubbing, or doing whatever seemed so more pressing than sleep were bound to take their toll. But for the past few weeks, he had done nothing but go to work, eat, and sleep--as repetitive and boring as the clothes in the dryer. Yesterday, he'd done nothing more strenuous than lounge around his apartment and watch TV. He'd slept so much that his body rebelled at the inactivity, so being physically tired was not the issue.

He sat and listened to the little girl who was whistling for no apparent reason. Two men sat to his right talking quietly. Their Spanish was incomprehensible to him, but the lilting rhythm of the words was like music. A cool breeze blew through the open door of the laundromat and washed over him, stirring the tiny hairs on his arms. The sun poured through the open door and kissed his cheek with its warmth. He had a paying job, a decent place to live, and a family who said they loved him. There was no reason on earth not to feel good. What more could he want? What more did he deserve to ask for

But instead of feeling grateful, he sat in the laundromat, surrounded by strangers, wondering if it had any more meaning than the clothes spinning in the metal vat. Did a dryer know the meaning of its life? Or did it sit, staring at the various faces that came and went and wonder what the point was. Life's a wash and then you dry, he thought humorlessly . There had to be more than this. As a child, he would have asked his father. For the past several years, even with his father gone, there had been the knowledge that somewhere out there was someone with the answers. Someone who would love him patiently and share his wisdom. Someone he could follow. He'd never know who precisely he thought that someone was until his mother announced his passing. Now that illusion had been ripped away like a bandage off an open wound. He was bleeding and he was desperate for a way to stop the flow.

"Why the fuck would you want to do that?"

"He's our father. We should pay our respects."

"Bullshit." Brian pulled open a box and started rolling a joint, his movements practiced and efficient. "Why now? He died months ago."

Michael sat next to Brian on the floor. "We owe it to him to say a real goodbye."

"He's dead."

"I know that!"

"Well, then you should know that he can't hear you anymore. He probably couldn't hear you when he was here."

Michael's face darkened. "How can you say that? Don't you remember how he used to spend time with us and teach us stuff? How he was always--"

Brian sniffed loudly and cut Michael off. "That's some memory you have, there, buddy. Don't YOU remember him staying out all night without telling us where he went? Not unlike your little vanishing trick. Do you remember the fights him and Mom used to have?"

"He loved us."

Brian sneered. "Is that what he said in all those letters he left for you? How much he loved you?" He flicked the ash of his cigarette as easily as he had swept away the ashes of his father's legacy.

"He did in the one I read. I didn't read all of them yet."

Brian took a deep drag from his joint, leaned his head back against the couch, and let the smoke absorb into his lungs. With a rough voice, he asked, "That's touching, Mikey, but if he was such a great fucking father, then where the hell was he for ten years?"

Michael's teeth ached with a desire to spill his knowledge and thus alleviate his burden, but his father's words wouldn't let him: Don't be angry with her, Son. I agreed with her, so if you have to be angry with someone you be angry with me. "Just because he couldn't live with us, doesn't mean he didn't love us."

"Just because he's dead, doesn't mean I have to give a shit."

"You already do."

"Bullshit." Brian stared at Michael, but could only hold the look for a minute. "Fuck."

"Just come with me."

Brian stubbed out the end of the joint in his ashtray. "I already said goodbye in my own way. I don't need to go. Brian sighed tiredly. "Can we talk about something else for five minutes? You're ruining my high."

Michael crossed his arms and glared at his little brother's casual pose. The minutes ticked by until Brian swore out loud.

"Christ, your stubborn! Fine. I'll go."

"Good. Now you can help me convince Mom and David."

"No."

"But David--" Michael looked at Brian desperately.

Brian raised an eloquent eyebrow that said, "I told you so." He took a swig out of his beer bottle, leaned back on the couch, and put his feet up on the coffee table.

"How many times do I have to tell you that the table is a museum piece? Get your goddamned feet off of it!" David was standing, arms akimbo, glaring at Brian's lanky figure.

Brian widened his eyes innocently. "I don't know how I keep forgetting that. You must remind me next time I'm here." He left his feet planted exactly where they were.

David turned stepped up and nudged Brian's legs until his feet were off the table. "Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?"

"Mikey and I learned from the best." Brian grinned at his older brother pointedly.

David rolled his eyes and looked at Michael who was perched on the edge of a chair and wringing his hands. "I don't want to go. I see no need for us to do this. I'm not closing my practice on short notice so we can go gallivanting off to the back of beyond."

"It's not that far and it's not gallivanting. I thought that you would want some closure."

David linked his hands behind his neck and pressed against the knots that always seemed to be there. His forehead was creased with a frown and the lines around his mouth formed deep brackets. "I got my closure when he walked out the door."

"Fine!" Michael bounced out of the chair and stalked to the door.

"Mikey!"

Michael swung around when Brian grabbed him. "What? He doesn't want to go, so forget him! Who needs him anyway?" Michael yanked his arm away and rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

Brian turned to face David, who was staring at the floor and rubbing a finger across his lip. "He didn't mean it."

David looked up sharply. "I don't need you to tell me what he means. I practically raised him."

Brian reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

"Don't smoke that in here."

"Don't worry. It's the legal kind. I agree that you partially raised Michael--"

"And you."

"That's true...But you can't take Dad's place no matter how hard you try."

"I never tried to."

Brian cocked an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

David exhaled with exhaustion. "Go after him. Knowing the stubborn little shit, he'll walk all the way home."

Brian sauntered to the front door. "Think about what I said, bro. You know I'm right."

The sarcasm dripped like honey from David's voice. "Yeah, Brian. You're always right."

"Finally, he comes to his senses. It's about damn time." Brian exited before David could respond.

Vic sat on the edge of the bed and watched his sister packing an overnight bag. "With all that happened, why are you doing this? You're not going to hurl rocks at his tombstone, are you?"

Debbie looked up. "Of course not! I can do this without resorting to an emotional display." Secretly, however, she didn't think that her brother's idea was an entirely bad one. If she didn't harbor the tiniest fear of some divine retribution for such an act, she might actually do it.

Vic leaned back. "You are Debbie Novotny? My sister, Debbie?" He ducked and laughed when she tossed a piece of clothing at him that covered his head. He pulled it away from his face, looked down at the tee shirt, and said, "Thank goodness. I was afraid that it was your bra."

They both burst into giggles until Debbie sat on the bed, her bag forgotten as quickly as her laughter. "What am I going to say, Vic? I can't believe this mess."

"Michael still hasn't talked to you about it?"

"He's barely said a word to me in the last few weeks. He says he's not angry, but I don't believe him."

"Give him time, Deb. He'll come around. Losing his father for a second time sent him into a tailspin."

"I know. I hope that saying goodbye helps him...and Brian."

"Brian will do all right. So will Michael. And you too."

"Me? I'm tough as nails."

Vic nudged Debbie with his shoulder. "I remember a girl who wasn't so tough. She used to flutter when a certain boy was around."

Debbie laughed heartily. "I still can't believe that I used to get giggly. Charles must have wanted to run in the other direction."

"No. He told me that you made him feel ten feet tall."

Debbie turned to her brother, her mouth open in astonishment. "When did he say that? And why didn't you tell me?"

Vic drew himself up. "We men have a code that we live by. I could never have given you information that might be used as leverage later on."

"I wouldn't have done that!"

"You forget. I know you well."

Debbie smiled. "Okay. Maybe I would have used it once or twice." She stared off into space. "I'm glad that I made him feel good at one time. I guess I forgot how." She bent over herself and shielded her face with her hands. "How am I going to do this? I'm so angry I could kill him if he walked in the door!"

Vic slung an arm around her shoulders. "Remember that no matter how much hurt, anger, and disappointment there was, there were also happy days and that you two created three things that you love dearly. That's how you do it."

Debbie pressed a kiss to Vic's cheek. "I'm so glad I let you hang around."

Michael hit the speed-dial button again. "He swore he would be here."

David dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "He also said that he might change his mind."

"He didn't tell me that! Why wouldn't he tell me? He knew we were expecting him! We arranged to leave late today because of him and his pet project at work. If he wanted to bag the trip, why not just reject me flat out like you did?" Michael was looking down the road as if Brian would magically appear, so he didn't see David wince at the little blow.

"I don't think he's coming."

"But he said--"

"He's not coming!" David spun on his heel to turn away from the wounded look on his brother's face. There was no escape, though. Michael circled and stood in front of him.

"Did he say that to you?"

David took a deep breath and looked into Michael's eyes. "Yes, he said that."

Michael started shaking his head before he could speak. "Why didn't he just tell me?"

"Because he's a coward who didn't want to disappoint you or have you give him a hard time about not going."

Michael stepped back and stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk. He turned to look at his mother, who was waiting in the rental car. She frowned and pointed at her watch. Michael turned back to David. "Tell him I said thanks for nothing." Michael walked around the car and got in the driver's seat.

"What happened to your brother?"

"Change of plans. He had some emergency at work."

"Oh. So, I guess it's just us."

Michael gripped the steering wheel and peered through the front windshield. At the motel, they would have separate rooms, but what was he going to talk about with his mother for three hours in the car? Now, he would be stuck with her until tomorrow and the thought was making his head throb and his neck muscles twist into impossible knots. With a sense of impending dread, he threw the car into drive and started their journey.

David watched as the car disappeared. He stood there long after it was gone, just staring into the glare of the day. Finally, he closed his eyes and felt the tear that had been threatening to fall since Michael's little blow begin to trickle down his face. It slowly made its way down his cheek and he found himself cursing under his breath. He'd fucked up....He'd fucked up and there was nothing he could do or say to fix it.

Michael needed this. David had seen it in his face the day he and Brian had come over trying to convince him to go. Michael was drowning and reaching for a life preserver and David had walked away, leaving his little brother to be swallowed by the tide.

If Brian was a coward, then so was he.

Chapter 5

"Wake up, sleepy head."

"Five more minutes."

"We don't have five minutes."

"Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while."

"Unless you can breathe life back into my lungs, we don't have time for this shit."

Ben woke with a start. His eyes were trying to adjust to the half light of the room. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The dawn of a brand new day. Big fucking deal."

Just imagine how I feel," Paul said, sitting on the end of the bed, looking at Ben sideways. Smiling.

Ben ignored the comment and swung his stiff legs over the side of the bed. He stood up and walked gingerly into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. It felt like daggers piercing his sensitive skin. Nope. He wasn't dead yet.

After taking a shower, he went downstairs and got a cup of strong, black coffee. He sat down and drank it while watching one of those mundane morning talk shows he'd become addicted to. It was mind candy, nothing more, nothing less. Just something to do other than talk to the incorporeal air.

His friends and colleagues had finally gotten the message that he didn't want to be bothered, so they stopped calling. They stopped dropping by just to see if he was all right, even though he knew it was really about trying to get a good look at his face. He was utterly alone in the world and he found it wasn't such a bad thing. No one could hurt him...well, no one living.

"I take offense to that, Benny," Paul chimed in. "I was perfectly willing to sit here and watch TV until you got all personal and shit."

Ben turned his head and looked at the empty space next to him. He knew he was insane. Or did he just think he was insane, but was actually sane? Would a sane man ask himself these questions that were more like progress reports on his mental well being? Would an insane man actually know he was insane or would he think he were sane and everything else around him was insane and he was just trying to make sense of it? Could he make sense of it? Would a truly insane person know to try and make sense of it? Or would they leave it as it was and travel through the world not understanding their place in it? Where there actually such things and ghosts? Or was it the mind's way of vomiting up guilt and regret? Was Paul talking to him? Or was he talking to himself using Paul as the vessel for his pain, his anguish, his remorse? Was--

"You're talking in circles again. I told you about that. You keep this up and you're going to give yourself a headache. Hell, you've already given me one."

Ben laughed out loud. It was the first time he'd done that in ages and it sounded hysterical. But was it the laughter of an insane man?

Michael drove in silence, his hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white and his fingers ached. He kept his eyes on the road and said nothing to his mother. Right now he wished he were alone. The anger building inside was suffocating him. He wanted to scream but his father's words kept playing over and over in his head on a continuous audio loop. They were the only things keeping him from bursting at the seams.

"Michael, you shouldn't be angry with you're brothers. They just weren't ready yet," Debbie said softly to her son, watching as the muscles in his jaw tightened.

"I'm fine," Michael said, trying to sound fine.

"Baby, you know they love you. They just need more time." Debbie reached over and touched her son's hand.

Michael recoiled from her touch as if he'd been doused with scalding liquid. "I said I'm find, Ma."

"No you're not," Debbie said, looking concerned. "When we get back, I'll make a dinner and you and your brothers will sit and talk this thing out."

"That's not going to happen," Michael said through clenched teeth. God, he wished he'd come alone. That way, after visiting his father's grave he could just drive and drive, until he was so far away from his family that even the mere thought of them was like looking back on a dream.

"Michael."

"Don't. I'm always the one who has to be so fucking understanding of all of your feelings. I'm always the one who has to apologize, I'm the one who gets walked all over, and then I'm made to feel like some ungrateful little shit. I'm sick of it. I'm so fucking sick of it you have no idea." Michael said, his voice full of tears and anger.

"I know you're angry at your brothers, but there's no need--"

"You really think this is about my brothers? In one way or another they've treated me like shit my entire life. I expect it from them," Michael said, his voice and body trembling uncontrollably. So much so that he had to pull over and stopped the car. He turned and glared at his mother. "This has nothing to do with my brothers. I'm going to see my father's grave because that's all I have left of him, because you wouldn't let him come see us. To see me."

"Oh, Michael. Please, baby, give me a chance to explain." Debbie gasped, moving both hands to her mouth as if trying to catch the words.

Brian slid the door to his loft open and was greeted by a devastated looking David. He stepped aside and allowed his big brother to walk in. Brian slid the door shut and followed David over to the sofa. David plopped down like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. This was nothing new. What was new, however, was that for the first time David looked as if he couldn't handle the weight. As if it were crushing him.

"You told him?" Brian asked as he sat down.

"Yeah," David said.

"How'd he take it?" Brian asked, a little nervous.

"We're in trouble, Brian," David said, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"He'll be fine. He'll forgive us," Brian said, leaning back, not sure he believed it himself.

"No. He won't. Not this time."

"What'd he say David?"

"He said tell Brian thanks for nothing."

"That's all?"

"You didn't see the look in his eyes. You didn't hear the way he said it." David opened his eyes and sat up. "I'm telling you, Brian, if Mom wasn't in the car with him, I don't think he'd come back."

"Look, I'm not going to feel guilty for not going. That bastard walked out on us. He left you to be the man of the fucking house. I don't owe him a goddamn thing. We, none of us owes him a goddamn thing," Brian said.

"What do you owe Michael?"

"What?"

"What do we owe Michael? 'Cause that's what this was about. He needed us Brian, and we blew him off. Again. He needed to do this, and he needed us, his fucking brothers to help him. We hurt him Brian. I mean we really fucking hurt him this time. And I don't know if we can fix it."

"He'll calm down. "

"That's just it, he was calm. He wasn't angry, he didn't yell, he didn't pout or whine. None of his usual Mikey shit. He just turned around, got into the car, and drove off." David put his hand on Brian's knee and took a deep breath before continuing. "It's like he disappeared right in front of my eyes."

"You're over exaggerating." Brian pulled away from his brother moving off the couch with feline grace and walked over to the counter.

"If you say it enough, you'll convince yourself," David said, slumping back into the sofa.

Michael's anger had evaporated. He never could stay angry long. It always seemed to disappear when he looked into his mother's eyes, or David's, or Brian's. But this time was different. This time his anger was replaced, not by a sense of love for this woman, but by an overwhelming sense of sadness and loss. He found that he was grieving for her, for them. He blinked, suddenly, as if something were in his eyes and when he looked again he found he didn't know the woman sitting beside him. He found he didn't want to know her. He felt a coldness creeping up his body, traveling through his veins like ice water. And even though there was an indifference attached to his sadness, he didn't want to hurt this woman. But he found he could no longer bite his tongue.

"What's there to explain? You kept my father from seeing us and you lied about it." Michael heard himself talking almost as if in a dream. Almost as if he'd been asleep and were now only half awake. In that moment when the conscious mind meets the real world, one can hold a conversation and never know what was said but still have the feeling of having said it.

"He wasn't coming...back...Michael. We...needed to...move on." Debbie said, fumbling for words, which was so unlike her.

"He wasn't coming back to you, you mean. And so, as part of his punishment for that, you kept him away from us." It was more of a realization than an accusation. Just something he suddenly understood, something he wished he hadn't.

"Your father lived on dreams. It was like a disease and I didn't want him..." Debbie stopped short when she saw the look in her son's eyes. "I don't know if I can explain it to you in away that you'll understand. Hell, I don't even really understand it. I never meant to hurt you, Michael, or your brothers. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do."

Debbie looked at her son. Michael's _expression was unreadable. He had detached himself from the situation in the same way his father used to. He wasn't ignoring her, not really. He'd just stopped listening to her and traveled to a place inside of himself that no one could touch, which was worse. Because it meant he wasn't being indifferent to her. That she could understand. That she could fight and make him pay attention. No. Michael was protecting himself the same way Charles used to. He was using silence as a protective screen. Silence would insolate him from the barrage of feelings flooding him at this very moment. The most predominate of all of them was her son's sense of sadness. It dripped off of him like dew off trees in early morning. His face was blank, but Debbie could always read her son's mood through his eyes. And right now those beautiful, dark chocolate eyes, which held all of his joys, his fears, and his loneliness, so like his father's, were almost black. They looked exactly the way Charles' eyes looked the night he told her he was leaving. His face, usually so animated, was muted, but his eyes were always expressive. His eyes told the world how he felt if you knew how to look, and Debbie had always known how to look. Her son was the same way. His eyes told you exactly how he was feeling even when his facial expression said nothing.

She hadn't remembered that until now. She hadn't wanted to. She found it tickled her, the way the mind had a way of keeping from you things you'd rather not remember, but things you never cease to know. Michael had effectively tuned her out and was now starting the car. The conversation was over for him. He looked up through the rear view mirror and then pulled into traffic.

"Don't worry, Ma, if you don't tell them, they'll never know." Michael's voice was ice. He paused for a second, took a deep breath, let it out, and then said. "A storm's coming." This was to be the last thing he said to her for the rest of their drive.

The wind blew hard and often and the rain came down in blinding sheets. Lightning streaked across the sky, cutting into the darkness like a knife and the thunder sounded like the angry voice of God. It was a damaging and cleansing storm. It was the kind storm that up turned trees, causing gouging wounds to form. It was the kind of storm that stalled cars, stranding their occupants on the side of the road, forcing them to seek refuge elsewhere. It was the kind of storm that knocked down power lines and plunged the world into seemingly endless darkness. It was the kind of storm that forced a changed, be it for the better or not didn't matter.

Ben stood looking out the window. Finally, the world was reflecting his inner torment. The sky was as dark and foreboding as his mood. The storm was leaving, in its wake, nasty scars upon the earth. He stood in wonderment at how captivating destruction could be. How natural it seemed to watch something whole get turned into something deformed and yet, in its deformity, be strangely beautiful while at the same time taking on the haunting quality of having been something else before.

Michael and Debbie sat in the car until Michael just couldn't stand it anymore. He saw the house. It was only about a hundred yards away. The length of a football field and he could escape what wasn't being said in this fucking car. Michael opened his door. His mother looked at him, but didn't say anything. In Michael's mind, if not reality, he was alone.

She watched as her son stood there letting the rain wash over him, as if it could take away the sadness filling his slender frame. He finally closed the car door and started walking slowly, in the direction of the house. Debbie, not wanting to be alone, followed. It was a miserable walk and she was getting soaked, but this didn't seem to bother Michael. He seemed to be enjoying the storm.

Ben saw them coming and was a bit reluctant to have them in their home, but it was pouring and he couldn't leave them out there in the rain. He was glad the lights had gone out. He could stay in the shadows and offer them a place to dry off until the rain stopped.

Something distracted him. The dark haired man walking in front of the woman, was swinging his arms and smiling. It was odd, and yet it stirred something in Ben. It wasn't freedom. In the manner of his step before he'd started his dance, in the way he held his head, and in the entire scope of his body's language, the man seemed too grounded for that. No, it wasn't freedom...far from it. It was something else. It was abandon.

They were halfway to the house when Debbie slipped and almost fell in the mud. She nearly called out for Michael, but stopped herself. What on earth would she do if he didn't answer? As soon as she had righted herself, she hurried to catch up. They walked on in silence, he radiating a nervous energy as if he could dance between the raindrops, she with a determined trudge and a heavy heart born of the guilt that had silenced her for so long.

With step after step, the panic rose in her throat. The silent, dark house up ahead had a forbidding facade. It was cloaked in the shadows created by the setting sun, whose rays escaped through heavy clouds. Its walls were covered with ivy as if the earth, itself, would pull the stone structure into its dark depths. Windows blinked down like empty, blank eyes--like Michael's eyes the last time she'd dared to look him in the face directly.

It suddenly seemed important that she speak to him and make him understand before they entered the house. Inexplicable instinct told her that crossing the threshold would be an irrevocable boundary. It screamed at her to drag Michael by the arm back to the car. Perhaps it was the unblinking stare of the windows that were watching her and waiting to devour her. But Michael, with an almost frantic sense of disinhibition, was rushing forward with little caution.

"Maybe we should wait in the car, baby. It doesn't look like anyone's home." She felt uncharacteristically flustered when her son gave her a look of bewilderment--the kind given when rain falls upwards or your dog starts to quote Shakespeare or your mother babbles utter nonsense.

"The power's probably out like it is everywhere else. It won't hurt to try."

She tried to hide the hope that flared. The conversation was mundane, but at least he was speaking to her. "I don't want to disturb them. They might be nervous about strangers."

Michael didn't stop on his trip to the front door. "If they don't want us to come in, they can say no." His back to her discouraged further conversation, so she followed silently. They ascended the flagstone steps to a large door with a brass knocker.

"How do I look? All right?" asked Debbie nervously. She patted at her hair and fussed with her damp clothing until Michael turned to look at her. His eyes were hidden in shadow, but she suspected that they would have been unreadable even in full daylight. He stared at her face, as expressionless as the lion's head on the door's brass knocker.

"Well?" she asked in a high-pitched tone of voice, uncomfortable with his blank gaze.

Michael reached towards her face and she stood steady despite her first instinct to flinch. This is Michael we're talking about. He wouldn't hurt a fly. But that was the problem. He looked like Michael. He walked like him. His voice, when he deigned to speak, was that of her beloved son, but the man before her seemed a total stranger--wounded, despite his earlier celebration in the storm. At that moment, she felt the weight of her choices like a mountain on her shoulders.

Meanwhile, Michael's hand was still reaching. Instead of striking out like they might have done, they brushed her cheek lightly and impersonally. He drew his hand away and looked at his fingertips, which were smudged with black. "Your makeup is running. You look like you're crying black tears." There was no smile, no quick joke like he ordinarily would have made. Nothing to indicate that he had any feeling whatsoever. He wiped his hands on his jeans, stepped back further into the shadow of the door, and turned to grasp the brass knocker.

The metallic echo held the ring of accusation and judgment. Debbie scrubbed at her cheek with her sodden coat sleeve, knowing that the black tears were now mixed with real ones.

The shiny aluminum covering the toaster served as a mirror in a house that had no others. Ben examined his face from every angle. In the premature darkness of the rainstorm, his face was barely visible. Held just right, the candle he had found in one of the kitchen cabinets illuminated the good side of his face while throwing the other one in shadow. If he let them in, there was always the risk that the lights could suddenly come on, exposing him to the world. Perhaps it would be better if he hid and let them think the house was empty.

"God forbid you should put yourself out to help somebody. Just lock yourself up in this pretty house and pretend like the world doesn't exist. Forget about them...just like everyone's forgetting about you."

Ben spun around and flinched when the edge of the ceramic tiles caught his shoe. The light flickered wildly, casting ominous shadows on the walls that seemed to reach out to him. "Where the hell are you?"

"Right here."

Ben turned around and almost yelled at the grinning, macabre face.

"You're worried about them seeing you? What would they think they if they got a load of me?" With an almost clinical detachment, Paul patted a dangling piece of skin, still wet with blood, back into place. "It never stays long."

Ben closed his eyes and swallowed back the rising sickness. It was impossible, but he could almost smell the decay. He felt his way out of the room until he was away from the ghastly vision, but Paul's persistent voice followed him. "Honey, where are you going? Don't I look nice?"

By the time he reached the front door, he was shaking like a leaf. The candle's flame bounced dangerously each time the melted wax brushed the wick. He took a deep breath to steady himself. This should be easy. He could do this. Then came a heavy, metallic knocking like distant gunshots in rapid succession that almost made him turn and walk away. He waited for enough time to go buy so that they wouldn't realize he'd been standing guard, waiting, and then he swung the door open.

One blue eye. That's all Michael could see of the stranger who opened the door. A blue eye with an unblinking fringe of blondish lashes. An eye with shadows underneath it.

But were the shadows created by the contrast of grey darkness and shadow, or were they there all along? The eye wasn't welcoming. Curious? Maybe. Suspicious? Undoubtedly. There was some other quality in the sweep of the eyelid and the way the eye almost made contact, but not quite. He half-expected the strange man to melt back into the shadows of the dark foyer or to slam the door without a word.

Michael thought his prediction came true when the door started to swing towards him.

"Sorry," the stranger said as he yanked on the door. "Sometimes it gets caught on the rug." His foot was busily tapping down the bump in the disobedient floor covering.

"We're sorry to disturb you, but our car decided to malfunction at the worst possible time and my cell phone isn't working. We were wondering if we could come out of the storm and use your phone, if it's not too much trouble."

The stranger looked up from his task just as lightning flashed silently and lit the scene. Michael's impression was of a face made of angles and planes as if life had burned all the excess flesh away and left only the spare frame of the man's face. And yet the stranger had a stark beauty about him. He started speaking again and Michael focused more on the vibration of his voice and the movement of his shadowed face than on the actual message conveyed.

"I don't have a phone, but you're welcome to wait out the storm until you can get to the next closest house."

Michael was surprised to hear his mother talking because, frankly, he had forgotten that she was standing there.

"Thanks. Maybe you could point us in the right direction and we can walk there, now."

The stranger shrugged. "You could do that, but it's a couple of miles down the road and I don't drive." The stranger pointed to his leg. Only then did Michael notice the stiff posture and the cane in the man's hand.

"War injury?" asked Michael joking. He cursed internally when a flash of pain and the ghost of a mirthless smile crossed the visible part of the man's face. The candle lowered and now Michael could barely see him.

"You could say that. Come in, please." The stranger stepped back and bade them enter.

Michael stepped aside to let his mother enter first, but she was shaking her head.

"We can walk two miles in no time," she said. "Really, the weather's not that bad."

Mother Nature must have heard Debbie's words and taken up the challenge, for at that very moment of denial, the wind set to gusting, and lightning and thunder turned the world into a booming, chaotic sympathy. The ground seemed to hurl itself up in worshipful offering to the gods of chaos and destruction. And with the fury came a wash of rain, at first gentle, but increasingly powerful, until it lifted every leaf and every blade of grass that had the unfortunate luck to be less than tightly bound.

Michael waited until resignation wrote itself across his mother's face and she preceded him into the house.

Chapter 6

Ben was exquisitely conscious of every movement of his body. The floors were solid enough, but his mind was doing its best to convince him that every footfall might tumble him into painful oblivion. The eyes of the pair behind him burned holes in his back and suddenly he remembered himself. He stopped short and was about to turn when someone, from the feel of lean muscle, it was the man, bumped into his back. That was the closest thing to human touch that he'd had since leaving the hospital and every molecule in his body wanted to lean back and luxuriate in it, while at the same time wanting to flee like the wind. He waited with his breath held until his guest righted himself, stepped away, and apologized. Then he turned to face them, ever conscious of keeping the light away from his face.

"You'll have to excuse me. It's been a while since I had guests. My name is Ben Bruckner." The redheaded woman squinted with suspicion, but the younger man with her smiled. It was as if the stars had come out and Ben almost wished for a little more light. Just a little so he could see the man more clearly.

"My name's Michael. Michael Novotny. This is my mother, Debbie."

Michael was already stretching his hand forward while Ben was desperately seeking a way to avoid a further touch. The innocent, friendly gesture struck terror into him and he prepared to make some excuse--any excuse--for his rudeness. Luckily, the storm took matters out of his hands. A crash and a high-pitched, tinkling sound of glass shattering, distracted the trio. The disturbance seemed to have come from above them.

Ben hurried them to the library and left the candle with them. "A tree branch must have come through the window. Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I check it out."

Michael stepped forward. "I can help, if you want."

Ben felt his heart leap. Alone? With this man? He wasn't ready for even that much, so he hastily rejected the offer. "No, thank you. Really, it's not a big deal. Just sit here. I'll bring you back some towels. And tea. Would you like tea or coffee or something else?" They agreed on hot chocolate as the best way to chase away the chill. Ben left them in the room and made his way through the darkened halls using his hands and rote memory. On his way, he gathered all that he'd need from a supply closet: another candle, a broom, a large sheet of plastic, a hammer, and nails.

Upstairs, it was just as he'd thought. One of the branches from the old garden tree had been blown through the window. Broken glass and chips of soggy wood crunched and squished obscenely beneath his shoes. The wind whistled through the gaping hole with insolence, as if saying, See? Look what I did. You can't stop me.

"We sure stopped you, though," said Paul with a smile. He picked his way through the glass without stepping on a single shard. "What's with you and Brown Eyes?"

Ben ignored Paul. The familiar numbness blanketed him while he hammered the plastic sheet into place and cleaned up the mess of broken glass and wet leaves. He stooped awkwardly to sweep it up into a dustpan when a glass sliver jumped out of nowhere and stuck in his hand. He stood and dropped everything to dig at the sliver.

Rather than pulling the splinter out, Ben clenched his fist and drove it deeper into his palm. The blood trickled from his fist and dripped onto the carpet.

"As if that would even begin to make up for it," said Paul. He shook his head sadly and faded away.

"Are you okay? I know you said you didn't need any help, but I couldn't let you do it alone."

Ben looked up and thought that he had finally gone around the bend for real. Unless his mind had found a new trick to play on him, he was staring at an angel, glowing in the moonlight, come to save him. The vision stepped forward and continued to speak.

"After sitting in the car for over two hours, I was getting restless, so I followed the sound of the hammering. My mother made her way to the kitchen. She's probably whipping up a three-course meal, even as we speak."

Perhaps Michael wasn't an angel of the heavenly kind, but his timely entrance rescued Ben from the magnetic draw of his own dark thoughts. He opened his fist and gasped at the pain that he hadn't felt before, but which was returning three-fold.

"You hurt yourself? Let me see that."

"No!" said Ben and stepped back. His back hit the wall and he felt taut with embarrassment. Hidden back here, in the shadows, he could maintain his illusions. But if Michael stepped closer and saw him...

Michael retreated and said in a pacifying tone, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to barge in. Why don't you go bandage your hand while I clean the rest of this up?"

Ben nodded with relief. He could barely tolerate this quaking, quivering being he had become, but felt helpless to overcome it. By now, Michael probably suspected he was locked up with a madman. If he ever knew the ugly truth, if he could see it written on Ben's distorted features, his suspicion would become hard knowledge. He accepted Michael's offer and fled to the nearest bathroom where he could lick his wounds--both real and imagined.

Brian was sitting on his sofa with the television on, but it was watching him more so then he was watching it. He was too busy watching David slowly pace back and forth. He was worried too, but he'd be damned if he'd say anything about it. Suddenly the phone rang making David stop dead in his tracks, while Brian jumped a little. Slowly he reached over and picked up the phone. His heart sank when the voice on the other end wasn't the voice he had been waiting to hear.

"No Uncle Vic, they haven't called here...No, I told you, I'd call as soon as they did...I know you're worried about them being out in the storm...I know...Michael will call...Yes, Uncle Vic...No...Yes, I'm sure...No...David's right here. Why don't...No...Yes...I'll tell him...Are you sure you don't...Yes...Yes...I will...I'll tell him to call as soon...Okay...Bye."

Brian hung up the phone again, watching as his brother took up his slow march to nowhere. It was getting on his fucking nerves, but it was better then having to actually talk to David about this shit. He could feel it bubbling up inside him.

"Would you sit down already?" Brian couldn't help himself. The tension in the room was becoming too much.

"I'm nervous," David said, continuing to pace.

"Well, be nervous on the couch!" Brian spat.

"I think better when I pace," David replied.

"I think better when you don't."

'I thought you weren't worried about it?" David said with a sly smile on his face.

"I'm not."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

"No one."

"Yeah, right." David stopped pacing and stood in front of his little brother.

"Fuck you," Brian said, looking around David and trying to see the television.

"Fuck me?" David said, laughing a little. "You're so full of shit. You want the whole world to think you're this uncaring, cold-blooded asshole who doesn't need anyone, who doesn't care about anyone or what they think. The truth is, you're scared shitless that Michael won't forgive you. You're scared that the one person who has never judged you will never be able to look at you the same way again. That's why you told him you'd go in the first fucking place. And instead of telling him you changed your mind, you had me do it, figuring what the hell. Michael's always pissed at me for something. You couldn't face him, or what he might say, or the look on his face."

"Fuck me?...No. Fuck you, Brian," David said a little too calmly for Brian's taste. Then he watched as David began pacing again.

"You don't know shit about me and Mikey," Brian said softly.

"Maybe....Maybe not. All I do know is right now he's pissed at both of us and I'm not the only one who can't handle it," David said, never even looking at his little brother.

Brian was starting to believe David. Maybe the reason Michael hadn't called was because he was too pissed to call. Maybe Michael didn't want to talk to his brothers, to him. That had to be it because the alternative was too fucked up to even think about. Mikey was upset and not in the mood for conversation. That's all it was. By the time they got back, Michael would have had a chance to calm down. Mom would have worked her magic by then and all would be forgiven.

He'd take Michael out dancing and explain it to him and that would be the end of it. Michael could never stay angry at him for long. It just wasn't in him to do it. Michael's heart was too big for him to stay pissed off for any length of time.

Brian thought back to the time he spilled beer all over one of Michael's comic books. The look on Michael's face was so odd, it was like he was deciding whether or not to scream or something. His eyes glazed over and it was like looking in the eyes of a stranger. It was like a storm cloud had descended on Brian's heart. He was actually a little afraid of Michael in that moment. But then something happened--the same thing that always happened. Michael would make a decision and then he'd smile the biggest, brightest, warmest smile in the world. The kind of smile that could melt icebergs or put the sun back in the sky.

Fumbling in the bathroom cabinet with his bleeding hand and trying to balance the candle on the edge of the sink in the guest bathroom with the other was a chore in and of itself. But the bigger chore, as it turned out, was trying to get the image of the Michael out of his mind. The kindness he'd expressed, the way he'd come to search Ben out just to help. The smooth softness of his voice and the welcoming expressiveness of his eyes--what little Ben could see of them. Maybe his mind was playing more tricks on him. Maybe he was reading this man all wrong. Maybe he was just lonely. Maybe...

"You like him. I can tell. How soon they forget. I'll give you this though, Benny--you do have impeccable taste. He's fucking beautiful," Paul whispered in Ben's ear.

"It's not like that," Ben replied softly to his decaying lover.

"Isn't it, Benny boy? I can't blame you. I'd fuck 'em myself if my dick still functioned." Paul moved closer so that Ben swore he felt the warm stickiness of Paul's breath on the outside of his ear.

"It's not like that," Ben said softly before closing his eyes.

"So you say, baby. So you say." Paul's voiced echoed in Ben's head, then slowly started fading away. "Why don't you two have a drink, then go for a ride." Paul's voice was mocking, yet barely audible. Ben heard, and it sent painful electric shocks through his system.

Michael's silence had been deafening, which is why Debbie decided to fumble around and find the kitchen. Whenever things became too emotional for her, she had to find a kitchen and cook. It made her feel better. It took the edge off and gave her time to think of what the hell she was going to do next. The only thing she hoped for now was that this guy, this Ben, didn't have an electric stove. When she was leaving the room, she felt as her son shoot daggers into her flesh. She felt them penetrate her skin and dig deeply into the soft tissue they found there. The pain of it was eating away at her like a cancer. All she wanted was to find someway to make it better. To give her son back something she'd stolen from him in anger, out of hurt, or vengeance. Something she knew she could never give him, because what her son wanted was buried not fifty miles from here. She'd had to forgive Charles for a lot of things, but she didn't know if she could forgive him for this.

She didn't know if she could forgive herself for this. What could she do or say to make it up to her sons, especially Michael? Debbie had a feeling that David and Brian would understand, but not Michael, never Michael. All of her sons were good, strong, honest men. David was honest, but he could abide a lie if need be. Brian was brutally honest, and could deal with being lied to if it was to protect, defend, or in some way keep the peace. Michael, however, was different. Lying to him was personal. It didn't matter the reason. He hated to do it and hated even more having it done to him. For Michael, the truth, no matter how harsh, ugly, or mean spirited and hurtful it was, was better than the most beautiful lie, because then he'd deal with it and move on. Charles had been right. Michael was the most adaptable of their sons and, therefore, the most capable of being devastated by such a lie.

Debbie knew there were things about himself that Michael kept to himself, but he never lied about them. He just didn't talk about them. If she got too close to asking, he'd change the subject. It kept him from having to tell a lie and it also kept him at a distance from everyone, including her and his brothers. Although Debbie got the feeling that there were certain things Michael had shared with Brian. Next to Charles, Brian might know Michael better then anyone, but now even that had changed.

All the time in the car, even before his little tirade at her, Debbie could feel the coldness coming from Michael. It radiated from his in the same way his joy did, in ever widening circles until there was nothing that wasn't touched or changed by it. It was as if deep winter had come early and this wasn't just a frost covering everything. No, this was something else. This was the kind of bitter coldness that comes from arctic winds blowing strong and steady. This was the kind of coldness that caused frostbite, so deep and devastating that entire limbs would be lost to its lingering icy embrace. This was the kind of cold that killed the spirit before it obliterated the body. This was the kind of coldness that didn't come from anger, rage, or even disappointment. No, this was the kind of unrelenting coldness that came from betrayal.

Debbie wanted to find the deepest, darkest hole she could fit in and crawl in, dragging the hole in behind her. She wanted to escape the accusations inherent in Michael's stark silence. From his unwillingness to bend or yield, from his need to close himself off from her in order to continue breathing. From the mocking tone in his voice and his wounded posture.

After doing all she could in the kitchen with what little Mr. Bruckner had in his pantry, Debbie thought she'd do a little exploring, just to keep her mind occupied with something other than her son. Debbie came to the end of the staircase and gave a listen for the two men above her. Hearing nothing, she went into the living room and looked around. The place was a mess, dust everywhere. Hell, it even looked like the guy slept down here most nights.

Michael stood in the darkness of the room for a little while, watching the candle flicker against the night. He was distracted, nowhere near himself, and yet oddly closer to himself than he'd ever been. He wasn't in the least bit worried about his mother, downstairs in a strange kitchen, searching for food. Nor was he bothered by the fact that he should be worried he hadn't talked to his brothers in hours, or his Uncle Vic, who knew all the family secrets. Michael stood there watching as the small flame struggled against the gentle blowing of the wind that had found a way to sneak past the plastic Ben had just put up. He realized that at this particular moment he was more intrigued by the man who had just left the room than he was about just about anything or anyone in his life.

Slowly it dawned on him that he was supposed to be doing something in his room. Finally he started doing the task at hand. It wasn't until he heard the sound of Ben's cane on the carpeted floor that he realized how long Ben had been gone.

"Mr. Novotny, please leave the rest and I'll clean it up later. Why don't we go downstairs and help your mother?" Ben said, standing in the doorway, not wanting to get too close to the smaller man.

"Call me Michael. My father was Mr. Novotny," Michael responded a bit sadly, suddenly remembering what this completely fucked up trip was about.

"Michael, come on. Let's go downstairs," Ben said, catching wind of something having slightly shifted in the air.

"Sure, my mom must be going a little nuts by now."

Ben led the way and Michael followed, not too closely, but close enough.

A loud, creaking noise startled Debbie. It's only the house, she told her palpitating heart while she gripped the framed picture in her hand more tightly. Instead of sitting around listening to the wind and rain and the groaning of the house, she had started to look at the pictures scattered around the room. She looked at the couple in the photograph. Underneath the dust was an image of two attractive men with their arms around each other's shoulders. They looked to be about the same age. One, presumably their mysterious host, though she had barely seen his face, was a handsome, brown-haired man with stunning blue eyes. The other was looking away from the camera and at Ben, laughter crinkling his eyes and sunlight reflecting off his sandy blonde hair. She put the picture down. Closer inspection had revealed that many of the pictures were of the same men, though most of them were of the blonde man in various poses. All the pictures exuded joy and lightheartedness that was nowhere to be found, now. She wondered where the blonde man was, since there seemed to be no sign that Ben lived with anyone. Had he run away from his partner's eccentricities? Or maybe he's buried in the basement, she thought, with ghoulish fascination. This house looked like it held a few secrets within its walls.

Debbie crept quietly through another door and found herself on a large porch. She blinked and prepared to run back in the house until she realized it was an illusion. She was in a large, airy space, one wall composed of large window that took up almost an entire wall. Though it seemed impossible, this room was actually dustier and more abandoned than the rest of the house. There was stillness here as if nothing had dared move or breathe within these four walls for ages. It contrasted sharply with the chaos of the windblown trees. Flashes of lightning filled the room with harsh, blue-white light. The moon, showing itself only briefly from behind swiftly moving storm clouds, bathed the space with an ethereal glow.

Several large canvases with paintings in various stages of development were propped up against the walls and shelves. She walked to a cluttered worktable for a closer look. It was littered with scraps of wood. She picked up one of these and recognized it for what it was--pieces of picture frames--likely the parts that would frame all the art work in this room. She tossed it down, thereby knocking some of the table's items to the ground. As she was collecting the fallen objects, her eye fell upon what at first seemed to be a small photograph on the floor, next to an overflowing wastepaper basket. The subject of the small print was instantly recognizable, even under the layer of grime.

"Captain Astro. What's a nice superhero like you, doing in a house of horrors like this?" she whispered to herself. She brushed some of the dust off and smiled. Michael would get a kick out of this--another adult male who loved Astro. Granted, Ben seemed a little bit off his rocker, but it took a certain type to maintain an obsession. She might be underestimating this man's interest in the comic book hero, though. What kind of collector would let his items go to ruin? Michael's collection was pristine--individually wrapped in plastic sleeves, painstakingly catalogued, and packed into boxes like buried treasure. He had photographs and prints that were framed and still hanging in his old bedroom. This print, on the other hand, looked ready for the trash heap. She leaned over to toss it back in the trash where she'd found it.

"What he hell are you doing in here?" boomed a harsh voice from the doorway.

Debbie jumped and spun around, hiding the picture behind her back. "I...I was lost." She cringed when Ben scowled at her. Perhaps it was the wildness of the storm behind her. Perhaps it was her tattered emotions. Or maybe it was the way the candlelight seemed to play up that side of his face as if it had been drawn by the Devil, himself. She was stunned to find herself trembling. When Michael appeared behind the man, some of her fear quieted. "I must have taken a wrong turn from the kitchen." She prayed that he wouldn't call her on her bald-faced lie. Ben's face seemed to draw tighter.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd step out. I don't like this room to be disturbed."

Their host's voice was steely with resolve and icily emotionless in a way that might have been threatening if he weren't plastered against the doorway as if an invisible fence barred him from entry into the room. Debbie was fairly certain that there was something disturbed in this house, but it wasn't this room. She walked past Ben and her wide-eyed son, surreptitiously clutching the print at her side as she went.

Michael wanted to reach out and pat Ben on the shoulder, hold him up, or do something to soothe the upset that seemed to have taken hold of the man. His hand was only inches away from Ben's broad back, but it felt like it was swimming through an icy pool of water, as if an unnatural force surrounded Ben and held him apart from everything. When his fingertips had almost touched, the other man spun around without warning. Michael drew his hand back, feeling silly and guilty for trespassing on this quiet man's space.

"I'm fine," said Ben. "We should head back to the kitchen." But instead of doing as he had suggested, he turned back to the empty room. After a long moment of silence, he stepped in, in a trance-like state.

Michael had had more than his fair share of secretiveness for one day. He followed Ben cautiously and asked, "What is this room?" His curiosity faltered when Ben glared at him sideways.

"It's a studio," answered Ben with a clipped voice. He said nothing more, but walked around the moonlit studio, adjusting a few things as if they had been moved from their proper place. How he could tell what needed to be moved, Michael couldn't figure. The room's contents--stacks of frames, piles of books, and other odds ends--seemed to be thrown about haphazardly. But there must have been some sort of order that only Ben knew because he was painstakingly rearranging things. He spent the longest time at the large table where Debbie had been standing. When he seemed done, he stared for ages at a small wastebasket under the table.

"Let's go," Ben said brusquely to Michael. He started to walk away, his limp more exaggerated than before.

Damn, thought Michael. Maybe he's just angry because he's in pain. All the running around the house could have re-injured his leg. Maybe he wasn't used to walking on it this much. Debbie had probably been right. Maybe they shouldn't have barged in and demanded shelter, but now that he was here, Michael couldn't bring himself to leave. Ben drew him. The man's cloak of isolation begged for someone to tear it off and comfort him. In a way, Ben reminded Michael of himself, hiding under a bed, hoping no one would find him, but praying that one certain person would find him and take away the loneliness.

For a moment, before they had found Debbie wandering in the studio, Ben had seemed far away. They'd been walking through the halls looking for her when Ben stopped suddenly and stood, his mind a million miles away. Michael had walked around him, but the hand holding the candle had dropped to his waist and his face was completely hidden. Ben's tall figure stood frozen, then shaking, then he had heaved several gasping breaths. The moment had ended as if had never happened and they'd continued searching. That moment had repeated itself, here in this room.

Something was wrong and Michael wanted to fix it. His brothers had often laughed at this side of his nature. You're not one of your superheroes, Michael. You can't save the whole world. They had never understood--not even David, who spent his life taking care of people in pain. But David's chiropractic career was a business affair, something to pay the bills. It didn't consume him outside of the walls of his office. Brian might have laughed, but it didn't stop him from taking advantage of Michael's 'mother henning' as he used to call it, especially after their father was gone. They never talked of it, now, but it had been Michael who had held his brother and wiped away the angry tears that Brian had shed privately, not their mother and not David.

And now Michael had been presented with a new wounded bird and he couldn't help but reach out to him. He babbled, hoping that something would draw Ben out of his shell. "I got lost, too. This house is like a maze in the dark. Have you lived here long?"

"All my life," was the abrupt answer. "We should rejoin your mother before she gets lost again." He started walking away without a glance at Michael.

Wounded bird may have been too poetic a description. Ben was more like an injured wolf that bared its teeth at any approach. Michael only hoped that he wouldn't get bitten.

Chapter 7

Brian was well on his way to being drunk, so David's disapproval had no effect on him at all. Not that it would have anyway, but the alcohol definitely helped.

"Do you think you could talk to me instead of drowning yourself in cheap wine?" asked David. They had been silently watching a series of mindless sitcoms though neither was in the mood to laugh.

"Fuck you. This wine set me back half a paycheck and it was worth every penny. I only drink it on special occasions."

"Half our family missing is a special occasion?"

"Of course not. It's you, dear brother. I think this is the most amount of time you've spent here in the last five years. I'm touched. Really, I am." Brian lifted his glass in a toast, but David pulled it out of his hand before he could drink it.

"They could be hurt, you know. Even if Michael wouldn't call, Mom would. Did you think of that? Can you be serious for five minutes instead of clubbing me to death with your sarcasm?"

Brian laughed. "Be serious? What? Like you? Always the self-righteous one with all the answers. Shit. Even when you're sitting there feeling guilty, you have to do it better than me. My guilt and worry isn't good enough for you? I'm not expressing my feelings in a manner that you feel is most appropriate for the occasion? Well, fuck you. I'm not you and I never wanted to be. I don't need you telling me what I feel, who I am, or how to act." Brian grabbed his wine bottle by the neck, tilted it to his lips, and defiantly took a swig.

"Sometimes, I don't know how to talk to you," said David tiredly.

"You never did. You were always too busy trying to talk at me and telling me what I was supposed to be thinking or doing." The television image was starting to swim, so Brian leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. "Mikey never does that. He knows how to listen."

"If you appreciated him so much, why didn't you ever let him know? If your relationship was so special, why are you sitting here and not in that car or wherever the hell they are?"

Brian rolled his eyes behind closed lids. "I don't owe you any answers about me or Mikey. That's our business."

"You always were a prick."

"So were you."

"What the hell did I do to make you resent me so much?"

That made Brian open his eyes again. David was staring at him with hooded eyes. "What?"

"You think it was easy? You think I wanted to step into Dad's shoes? You think I wanted to always be the one telling you what to do? I never wanted to be the heavy. I never wanted to act like your damn father. I did what I had to do. I never got a chance to do what I wanted to do. I never got to indulge myself in daydreams and fantasies like Michael. I was too busy studying so I could get a good job. You may work now, but you had an easy ride for a long time on MY back. I didn't get to party and cause trouble like you did. I was too busy working or helping Mom. That wasn't by choice, baby brother. It was out of necessity. But I'd do it all again if I had to."

"Do you want a fucking medal for being noble?" asked Brian. "Nothing I do or say is ever thanks enough for you. Who the hell asked you to give up your life?"

"No one had to ask! I did it because I loved you!" By this time, the two of them were glaring darts at each other.

Brian leaned back and said coolly, "Bullshit. You did it because you love being in control. You thrive on it. Look at what you do. You're a chiropractor. They call it manipulation, right? Sounds like a perfect fit for a control freak to me."

David clenched his fist and his jaw. His whole body quivered with outrage. Then he sagged like a popped balloon. He stood and walked to the door. "Unlike you, I don't try to hurt people around me on purpose. If I did wrong, it was only with good intentions. I'm going to Uncle Vic's to wait. Call me if you hear anything." He slid the door open and left the loft.

Brian made a solitary toast. "To Brian, for hitting another bull's eye." But his victory rang as hollow as his empty wine bottle of wine and left him feeling just as sick.

There was, for an instant, the overwhelming need to be touched. To be held and loved in a way no longer familiar to him. To be kissed all over by lips that knew nothing of his past and cared nothing for the future. For an instant, there was the intoxicating allure of possibility. The dream of the 'what if' became reality in that instant. The clouds parted, the sky lightened, birds sang sweet songs of promise and renewal, and there was sun and joy to be had. All there at his finger tips to be touched, savored, lingered over and made his. The connection he'd once had to the dream was tangible, was palpable, and then, as quickly as one can bat an eye, was gone. Erased by circumstance and the haunting truth of what was, what is, and what will never be again. Replaced by the sameness of the day, by a darkness that encompassed everything, by wave after wave of unyielding grief and anguish. By longing for things better left unspoken. Of broken hearts and shattered bones, and the unrelenting lie of forever. Replaced with a ghoulish voice that taunted and teased him mercilessly, by golden strands of sun kissed hair caked with dry decaying blood. Replaced with the stench of the decomposing remnants of his life.

Dreams are the things you wake up from with a sense of longing, a sense of promise. Nightmares are the things you carry around with you like thousand pound weights on your feet, making the loss of such dreams even more devastating.

On the seemingly unending walk from the studio through the living room to the kitchen, Ben felt his wounds more acutely and not just the physical ones. His limp was more pronounced and he felt as though the entire world could see him. Making things worse was the presence of Michael. And the infuriating presence of Michael's mother. He knew she went snooping, but he didn't want to say anything for fear of saying too much. These people didn't need to know his life's story. The storm would be over soon and they'd be gone, leaving him to his lonely little life. Michael's cell phone would repair itself with the clearing of the storm and then this little diversion would be over. The real world would come crashing back upon him. The world was already crashing in on him, but there was still the distant hint of the dream he'd been clinging to since he saw the dark chocolate eyes of Michael Novotny.

"You can't have him," Paul's voice taunted from the dark recesses of the living room. "He'll take one look at your face and go running for the fucking hills," Paul now whispered in Ben's ear. "He could never love you. He feels sorry for you. And why not? You are something to be pitied," Paul said laughing.

Ben felt tears stinging his eyes. He wanted to run, to hide, to disappear and never be seen again by anyone. He wanted to lose himself in the darkness of his insanity and never come up. The truly insane are never aware of themselves and this is what Ben wanted more than anything at this moment. Not being able to accomplish this task only brought his anger from a slow simmer to a raging boil. It took all the strength he possessed not to explode. Not to take his rage out on the not so little snoop in the kitchen. Not to scream and throw things and hurt someone else. Or himself.

As Michael followed Ben out of the studio, through the living room, and on towards the kitchen, he suddenly felt grief wash over him with such force it made him stop in his tracks and gasp for air. It was like a curtain being drawn. All was darkness and there was a chill that didn't emanate from the outside, but from deep within. And the chill was the thing taking his breath away. He felt as though he was about to have an asthma attack, which was odd because he hadn't had one for years. But his chest was getting tight--a clear indication of his lungs closing up on him. His throat was starting to burn and he was becoming light headed. He felt dizzy and his legs felt as though they'd betray him at any moment. He thought he might drop like some lifeless puppet whose strings had been cut. But then he felt a presence behind him. He hadn't seen or heard Ben move, but it wasn't unusual for Michael to kind of blank out when he couldn't breathe for shit.

But this was different. This was something else choking him, something else causing his heart to race and the palms of his hands to feel clammy. He knew what it was. He just couldn't name it. Or maybe he was afraid to name it here in front of this stranger, who wasn't such a stranger. Maybe if he admitted it, he would explode and never be able to put the pieces back together again in anyway that resembled who he was now. Who he had always known himself to be, had always known his world to be. His brothers, his mother, his Uncle Vic. Even his limited circle of friends. So he held it in, closed his mind around it and forced himself to calm down, to relax, to fucking, breathe. What made it a little easier was Ben standing behind him, willing to bear Michael's full weight if he had to.

"Are you all right, Michael?" Ben asked, worry permeating his voice.

"Not...really." Michael struggled to get out.

"Should I get your mother?" Ben asked.

"No." Michael said seeming to recover a little. "She's the last...person...I...want to help me. I'll be fine...in a minute..." Michael felt the air coming more freely into his lungs again.

"Are you sure?" Ben asked, his voice gentle and soothing.

"Yeah..." Michael said "Sorry, it hasn't...been a good day. Hell...it hasn't been a good day...for a long damn time..." Michael said trying not to break down and breathe at the same time.

"I know what you mean," Ben said, looking at Paul's ghoulish face in the flickering glimmer of the candle light.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this..."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah...I feel a lot better. Thank you. I'm just tired, and sad, and missing someone," Michael said before he realized he'd said it.

"I need to put this thing back. I never should have picked the fucker up...or went snooping around this man's house...It was in the garbage, though. I mean really he won't even miss the damn thing...and Michael would love it...But this man has been gracious enough to let two strangers come into his home...I'll put it back...No. I'm keeping it. I gotta win some points with Michael...I'll just put it in my bag. He'll never know. He won't miss it...And even if he does, what's the worst he could do? Throw my ass in jail? Make my kid hate me even more then he does now?...Bullshit. Michael doesn't hate me. He's just a little pissed off. He'll get over it. He always does...I want out of this fuckin place. It's givin' me the creeps...Okay...Okay...they're coming...Act cool...Calm down...Relax...Everything is all right...Everything's fine...So what I'm a snooping thieving little bastard...Smile...

"I hope you boys are hungry..."

Vic had a feeling that Michael knew everything. He had a feeling that Debbie had walked willingly into something beyond her control. He'd begged her all those years back, when Charles wanted to see the boys for her to let him, for whatever impression they got of him to be from him. He'd told her that she couldn't keep them from knowing forever. If there was blame to be placed, let it be placed on Charles and not her. But she was their mother and she said she knew what was best for her boys. Up until Charles died, Vic thought he'd been proven wrong. But once he saw the little packet of letters Charles had left for Michael, he knew nothing would ever be the same. And now, with neither of them calling to check in, it made him a little nervous. Sure, the storm could be part of it. It, in all likelihood, had interfered with the service on Michael's cell. But that was only part of it. Something was up. Vic could feel it in his bones, but he had no one to talk to about it. Brian would act indifferent to it and David would get pissed.

David opened the door to his mother's house and found Vic sitting on the couch with the phone in his hand. This picture disturbed David, because Vic was always so cool about everything.

"What're you doing here?" Vic asked.

"I wanted to see how you were holding up." David said, walking over to where his uncle sat on the sofa and taking a seat beside him.

"You had a fight with Brian." It was a statement not a question.

"How do you always know?" David asked, placing his head in his hands.

"Because in ways neither of you will ever admit to, you're a lot a like. I know, I know. You don't wanna hear that, but it's the truth, whether you like it or not, whether you accept it or not. And in ways neither of you will ever admit to, Michael has been the buffer between you, not your mother, like all of you'd like to believe. And because he's been that buffer between you, he's paid a very high price for it...None of you treat him the way you should...Not one of you....And none of you see it's killing him. That's why he just up and took off...And that's why, if you all aren't careful, he'll do it again, and this time for good," Vic said, placing his hand on David's back and rubbing it in slow, moving circles.

"I've never known how to talk to him and Brian's been no fucking help."

"You and Brian have to stop getting into these pissing contests when it comes to Michael," Vic said, getting up and walking into the kitchen for something to drink. "You want anything?" he hollered over his shoulder.

"A beer if you have one," David shouted back.

"Since when don't we have?" Vic retorted.

The storm had cleared up, but it was too late to go vamping to the next house. The lights still weren't on, but Ben had said they would be by morning. It was decided that Debbie and Michael should spend the night and leave first thing in the morning. Ben led them upstairs and into the room they'd be sharing for the night. Then he left them without saying another word. Michael dreaded having to be alone for the rest of the night with his mother, but he said nothing as he took a pillow and a blanket from the bed and lay on the floor. He said nothing to her after she said good night to him. He said nothing as she tried to talk to him after she'd gotten into bed. Michael made of himself a stonewall. A stonewall has no ears, no tongue, and no feelings. After he was sure his mother was asleep, Michael wept for his father, for himself, and, oddly enough, for the stranger who had opened his home to them.

Earlier in the evening as the storm began to settle down, Michael tried his cell phone one last time and found he could get through, but it was only long enough to tell his uncle they were fine. The battery was low and completely died out soon after he heard his uncle's voice and found out that David was there. Michael was glad for that because he really didn't feel like talking to his big brother. Not that he was angry with him anymore. He just wasn't up to it.

Ben found he couldn't sleep that night. This was nothing new. He hadn't slept well since...it happened. But this night was different. This night he couldn't get the image of Michael out of his mind. There was just something about him that drew Ben to him. Ben couldn't explain it. He knew nothing could ever come of it. He just couldn't get the man out of his mind. Michael had said he was tired, sad, and missing someone. Ben wanted to ask for details, but didn't. How could he ask this man to tell his life's story if he was unwilling to do so? But he still wanted to know what had made Michael so sad and who he was missing.

Ben walked over to the window and looked out. The stars were shining brightly in the sky. After a storm, the stars always seemed to shine more brilliantly. It seemed to Ben that they were apologizing for the recent, bad behavior of the sky. He stood there looking up and then started worrying about the morning and how he would be able to hide his face from them, from Michael, any longer.

"What do you care if they, if Michael, sees your face?" Paul's voice came rising out of the darkness to greet Ben.

"Leave me alone," Ben, whispered back.

"What do you care if he's horrified by what he sees? I mean you said it yourself--you're never going to see him again. So why worry about it?" Paul asked, his voice for the first time not mocking.

"Am I in hell?" Ben asked to the night air.

"A self imposed one, I guess," Paul whispered.

"So, you're not really here and I'm not really talking to you?" Ben asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So why ask?" Paul said, his voice fading a little.

"Did it hurt?" Ben asked, turning around to face his dead lover.

"You won't believe me if I tell you. So why ask?" Paul repeated before smiling and then vanishing.

Ben turned back to the window with tears slowly gliding down his face. He felt more alone then he'd ever felt at any moment in his life. He was tired and sleep refused to come. He was grieving and could not be comforted. And yet, there was Michael. Ben had a feeling he could tell Michael anything. That he could pour out all of his sadness onto to him and still there would be room for more, that Michael could just absorb it, and still not judge him.

"Those are the kinds of miracles you pray for," Ben heard a voice say. Slowly he came to the realization that the voice belonged to him.

It was about 7 'o clock when Michael woke up the next morning. He carelessly tapped his mother to wake her up. Even before Debbie could roll over, Michael had left the room. He walked carefully downstairs so as not the awaken their host. At the bottom of the stairs, he found a piece of paper on the banister.

Michael was disappointed that he wouldn't get to see their host before they left. He slowly walked back upstairs and went into the guest bathroom. There, he saw that Ben had left for him and his mother towels, soap, shampoo, and mouthwash. Michael slipped out of his clothes, turned on the shower and got in. The water as a little cold at first then slowly began to heat up. Michael found that when he closed his eyes he could feel Ben's presence, almost as if he were being watched and he found he liked the thought. He found he wished Ben where there watching him.

Michael found himself moving his hands slowly over his body and imagining Ben's hands tracing over him. He was brought out of his daydream by the loud pronouncement of his mother. She entered the bathroom, trying to hurry him up like when he was a kid and she caught him daydreaming and not getting ready to go to school.

Michael yelled that he'd be out in a minute. He was good to his word, for he got out of the shower as soon as his mother closed the door. He toweled off, got dressed, and went down stairs. He poured himself a cup of coffee, when to the refrigerator, and got himself an apple. He sat at the table and waited for his mother. Michael found he wanted to leave as soon a possible, because it made him nervous being here with Ben gone. When Debbie got downstairs, he asked her if she was ready to go.

As soon as they were outside of the house, Michael marveled at how lonely it looked in the glaring light of day. He'd seen it on his approach to the house yesterday, but thought it was only an effect of the storm and his mood. He'd been wrong. The house was a lonely as its owner and Michael found this produced in him a new and strange kind of sadness, not only for the owner of the house, but for the house itself, which he believed at one time harbored great love and happiness.

When he and his mother had got back to the car, they found that a repair truck was already there and waiting for them. Wherever Ben was, he'd found a phone and called for help. Michael smiled to himself. Once the car was fixed it had only been a busted water hose he and Debbie were on the road once again.

They drove in silence until they reached their destination, the law firm his father had used. They were told where his father was buried. Before they left the office, they called home again and told everyone that they were fine. Debbie gave Vic a little detail as to what had happened to them during the storm. She told him she'd tell him everything once she and Michael got home. Michael refused the phone when Debbie said David and Brian wanted to talk to him. He walked outside, got in the car, and waited for his mother. Then they proceeded to drive in silence to the cemetery.

Debbie went over first and said a few words to her late ex-husband while Michael stood nearby, with his back turned to her. He didn't hear what she was saying, but he clearly heard the anguish in her voice. Against his will he felt his heart go out to her, but he steeled himself against the urge to go over and put his arms around her.

When she was done, Michael walked over to his father's grave and knelt down. His body slumped as if he'd traveled a long way by foot just to get there. His whole body spoke of defeat, of anguish, sadness, and loss. He wanted to cry, but found he couldn't. He wanted to throw his arms around the headstone, but couldn't. He could feel his mother's eyes burning holes into his back. Finally, the flood gates opened and out of him poured everything he'd been holding in since he found out his beloved father was gone...

So much fucking time got wasted, and for what? Either she was punishing you for walking out or you were punishing her and us by not fighting to see us. I don't know and, at this point, I don't care. You're gone and I'll never get the chance to tell you to your face how much I loved you. How much I missed you. How much I fucking needed you to be around to talk to. How, when you left, I felt so alone it hurt sometimes.

When you left, there was no reason to go hiding under the bed anymore because there was no one to come find me. There was no reason to go out to our little fort because there was no one there to talk to. Both of my loving parents lied to me. Both of you did what you did for your own reasons and you really didn't take me or my brothers into consideration. And I'm left here trying to figure it all out and where to go from here.

I wish I could be pissed at both of you. I wish I could dismiss it like Brian would and vent some other way or get pissed like David, who would eventually let it go and move on. But that's not me, not how I'm built. I'm left empty, sad, and missing you. And I'll go the rest of my life missing you.

Michael stood up without looking at his mother and walked slowly to the car.

Debbie followed along, making sure to stay behind him. She didn't want to get to close for fear of actually looking in his eyes and seeing that he felt nothing for her.

"He didn't want to talk to you," Vic told Brian and David.

David sat down on the couch as if the entire weight of the world had suddenly become too much for him. Michael didn't want to talk to him. From the look on Vic's face, it was more than that, but he didn't feel like getting any deeper into it. They were fine and that's all he needed to know for right now. He'd deal with the rest as soon as they got back from their trip.

Brian heard the news and bolted out of the house. They were fine and Michael didn't want to talk to David or him. He just needed to get some time alone with his brother and talk to him. He knew how to get around Michael. He'd always known how to get around him. This time would be no different.

Michael dropped his mother off at her front door and drove off before she could even turn around. When Michael had gotten out of the car to put gas in it on the drive back, Debbie slipped her stolen treasure in Michael's overnight bag. Michael silence was deafening and she dared not speak to him. She was certain that once he found the print of Captain Astro that he'd come to see her and she'd be able to finally talk to him in a way that would get her back in his good graces.

Michael drove in silent dread as he went over to David's house. As so as he got there, he drove up the driveway behind David's corvette and parked. He got out, walked to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

"Your car's in the driveway," he said blankly. "Go check. Not a scratch on it."

"Come in," David said.

"I want to go home," Michael said, turning and walking way from his brother. He walked back to the car, took out his overnight bag, and left.

David stood in the doorway for a while, watching as his brother disappeared. He stood there for a long time, wondering if he'd lost his brother forever, wondering if Vic had been right, if his and Brian's pissing contest had driven their brother away from them.

Brian, who had been given a key to Michael's apartment a long a time ago, lay sprawled on his brother's bed when Michael came in. Michael threw his bag onto the table, walked into his bedroom, saw his brother, and went to turn around when Brian rolled over.

"You're back," Brian said, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

"Looks that way," Michael said, turning and heading into the kitchen for something to drink.

"How was the trip?" Brian called after him.

"Nothing to write home about," Michael called back.

"Mikey. Look I know you're pissed--" Brian started.

"I'm not pissed." Michael interrupted his baby brother.

"I just wanted to say--" Again Brian was stopped short by his brother.

"You just wanted to say what? That you're sorry? Hell, we both know that's not true. And even if it were, what if it got out, this apology of yours? You'd never be able to live it down. We wouldn't want that, now would we?" Michael said angrily to his brother who was now in the living room.

"Mikey."

"Look, Brian, it was a long drive, proceeded by an even longer night. I'm tired, and I have to work tomorrow, so if you don't mind?" Michael said, walking past his brother after picking up his bag and heading towards his bedroom. "Oh, and Brian, leave the key on the table when you leave," Michael said, closing his door on the conversation and his brother.

Chapter 8

In the silence of his bedroom, Michael sat and tried to figure it all out. If only he could pinpoint what was missing, he could fix it. Something had to be missing. This void inside him couldn't be all there was. He had hoped that saying goodbye to his father would be the cure, but it hadn't quite done the trick. Even with the strain between him and his mother, he was glad he had gone, was relieved that he'd taken that step, but an ache was still there that wouldn't go away With every passing moment, the pain of it sharpened and gnawed at his insides, making him wonder when he would start bleeding for everyone to see.

Brian, David, his father, his mother--they were all part of him. In the past few days, he felt like he'd lost all of them in one, fell swoop. They say that home is the where the heart is. So where is home when your heart is tired and broken?

He chuckled dryly and rubbed the knots of tension at his temples. He hadn't spent this much time feeling maudlin since his father had disappeared. One day. That's how long he would give himself to not think of any of this shit that had been weighing on him. One freaking day wouldn't be impossible, would it.

With firm resolution, he grabbed his overnight bag and opened it to unpack. On top, was a picture. He pulled it out and examined the subjects more closely. Agony tore through his chest and he fell to his knees, gasping loudly.

Ben dragged the box to the bedroom. He'd done several rooms already and he felt as if he'd been dipped, soaked, and wrung dry. As a break, he decided to work on Paul's closet. The first sight of the row of shirts, hanging neatly, waiting for their owner, had nearly driven him out of the room, but he had shaken off the clutch in his chest and the tremor in his hands and started working. As he folded each item and packed it, Paul paced behind him.

"Is this it, Benny? You're going to pretend like I don't exist?"

"You don't exist," said Ben through clenched teeth.

"How do you know?"

"They didn't see you, did they?" Ben shook his head. What the hell was he doing?

"Yes. What are you doing? If I'm not real, why are you arguing with me? Because you know I do exist."

"You don't."

"I do. Why do you think your new little boytoy almost swooned? He could feel me there."

"That was just...Well, I don't know what it was, but I know it wasn't you."

Paul laughed. "Don't bullshit me. I can read you like an open book and I know you're wondering."

Ben ignored the apparition, pulled an item off the closet rack, and held its heavy weight in his hand.

"Oh no. Not that! You got that for me for my birthday, I think. You don't want to forget that, do you?"

What Ben really wanted to do was hurl the damned thing into the fireplace and burn it.

"It's just a jacket. Nothing to get you all bent out of shape. Come to think of it, you didn't buy it for me. I bought it for you. I always did like wearing it because it smelled like you."

Ben sniffed at the jacket. It smelled like old leather, cedar, and, faintly, of Paul's favorite cologne. There was nothing left of him in it. Time had taken away the memory of him and left Paul behind in a strange role reversal. Or maybe Time or Fate or something knew what really should have happened on a certain day when everything had turned upside down. He tossed the jacket angrily behind him. It hit the bed with a dull thud and slipped to the floor where it lay like a victim of neglect.

"Why so upset, Benny? You've got your health. You've got your life. You've got a roof over head and money to burn. You've got everything."

"I haven't got you." Ben picked the jacket up and crumpled the thick leather in his tight grasp. " I haven't got anyone."

The wall he'd built around himself was an uncomfortable fit. If Paul were here, he could turn to him and rid himself of loneliness. If Paul were here, he could share the burden of this crushing pain that dogged him. If Paul were here...but Paul wasn't here and he never would be. All these things left behind were only a reminder of what Ben no longer had and could never have again. They were a reminder of what he wanted so desperately he could taste it--an end to this cursed isolation. He wanted it so much that he could almost start praying for another storm to bring him an answer, even if it were for just one night. He wanted it even though he couldn't yet convince himself that he deserved it.

Brian sat on the couch and waited for Michael to come to his senses. There was a pattern to all this and, over the years, it had never veered. He and Michael would fight and Michael would get angry. Brian would take the first, small step. Michael would forgive him and meet him the rest of the way. He took advantage of the pattern shamefully because he needed it like a drug. Test after test and the pattern had never failed him. Michael had never failed him.

Michael's recent trip had been the closest thing to making Brian lose faith, but, in the end, Michael hadn't failed to return. Brian didn't think this time would be any different. Time passed and he wondered if Michael even knew he was still out there. Usually, his brother would know instinctively when Brian needed him or needed his forgiveness.

Brian turned the key in his hand over and over. He had gone so far as to take his keys out if his pocket and pull Michael's key off the ring. He'd held it over the table, prepared to drop it and walk out. Fuck it. He wasn't going to beg. He never had before and he wasn't learning any new tricks, now. But the key had clung to his hand as if it knew where it belonged. Brian sat and waited with the small scrap of metal digging into his fingers and palm. He wasn't sure how long it had been when he heard Michael call his name. He jumped up and burst into the room. There, he found his brother, kneeling on the floor, curled up in pain. He rushed to his side, his heart thudding in his throat.

"What is it? Michael?" He heard the harsh wheezing coming from Michael's chest and he jumped to action. "Where the fuck is your inhaler?" he shouted even as he ran to where it was always located on the bedside table. He was rushing back to his brother's side when Michael held his hand up in protest.

"I'm not having an asthma attack!"

Brian sat on the floor, itching with a need to punch Michael for his stubbornness. "You could have fooled me." But Michael's breathing was already easing and the wheezing had subsided. "What the hell was that?"

"Why are you still here?" Michael dragged himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over and hyperventilating. His voice was shaky and quiet. "I asked you to leave."

"Actually, you didn't."

"It was understood."

"Not by me. Are you going to tell me what the fuck just happened or am I going to have to call Mom and let her nag the truth out of you? Or David?"

Michael fell back onto the bed. "I'm not in the mood, Brian. I've had enough of you, Mom, and David to last me for a long time."

"I'll leave as soon as you convince me that you're not going to stop breathing on a dime."

"I was upset. That's all."

"That's all? You were so upset that you practically suffocated? What could possibly have happened while you were by yourself?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Unacceptable answer." Brian sat at Michael's side. "Imagine what might have happened if I hadn't been here to rescue you, Mikey."

Michael sat up. "Rescue me? Is that what you really think of me? That I'm some helpless baby who can't make it through the day without you? If you're going to insult me, at least treat me like a grown fucking man instead of a toddler. I can take care of myself!"

Brian leaned back. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I was joking."

"I'm not really in the mood for jokes, right now. Just go home."

Brian started to wonder if David had been right about this time being different from Michael's other fits of temper. He stood up to leave, but before he crossed the threshold, he turned back and sat next to Michael. "Hit me."

"What the fuck are you talking about? I'm not going to hit you."

"Then yell at me."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Hit me. Yell at me. Do whatever the hell you need to get over this."

Michael smiled sadly. "If only it were that easy. I'm not mad."

"Then why do you want your key back? What is all this soap opera drama you're unloading on me? You won't talk to Mom. Fine. You're pissed at her and I get that. You won't talk to David? That's fine too. He pisses me off on a daily basis. But me? What the fuck did--"

"You know what you did."

"I tried to apologize, but you wouldn't let me. I'm sorry. There! Do you want me to commit hari-kari? I know I said I would go, but I couldn't!" Brian whipped around to hide his face. He punched at the doorjamb until he'd gotten a hold of himself. His loose control almost disintegrated when he felt Michael's gentle hand on his shoulder. "After all this time, I won't let him get to me....I can't." His heart was thudding heavily in his chest and his eyes were burning, but he reigned it in until the only outward sign of his unrest was the fist that pounded softly on the wall. "I just can't."

Michael said only, "I know," before hugging his brother. In a recreation of many times in the past, they held each other up against all the things that might try to knock them down.

Michael sat at the table across from Buzzy and waited patiently. Or as patiently as he could. He squirmed in his seat and couldn't seem to keep his feet from tapping while he watched the man chew his food thoughtfully. After an eon, Buzzy swallowed and held up his fork while he made his point.

"You know I'm no art expert. I just sell the comics. I can't guarantee anything."

"Yes, yes, I know, but what do you think?"

"I wasn't sure so I showed it to a friend of mine--big collector, really knows his shit."

"And? And?"

"He think it's authentic."

Michael slumped back into the chair and stared at the print on a table. He had suspected, but had also had his doubts. "But it can't be!"

Buzzy frowned and paused in the act of spearing a roast potato. "If you're so sure, then why did you ask me to look at it? Nope. It's real. I'm telling you, you could get a nice stack of change for that print if you want. It's one of a kind. Since the artist died, the value of his work is going through the roof. Too bad. The guy who replaced him on Astro was good, but not quite the same. In fact--"

Michael cut Buzzy off without guilt. "How much do you think?"

"Over a thousand. Maybe even close to two."

"No way! For something like that? It's not like it's 'Batman' or 'Superman.'"

"Believe me, this friend of mine really--"

"Knows his shit. I gotcha."

"Art isn't my thing, but apparently, the artist made quite a name for himself in the art world. My friend said that the last person to have bought it was some rare objects dealer who was into restoration. He died a few months ago and no one knows what happened to the stuff that he hadn't sold yet. I don't know how you got it, but it's worth a mint if you can get it authenticated officially."

"Thanks for all the info, Buzzy. Dinner's on me." Michael stood to return to work and took the print with him. He had already taken too long for his break.

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I don't mind paying. All I did was make a couple of phone calls and one short visit to a friend."

Michael patted Buzzy's shoulder. "It's the least I could do. You did me a huge favor."

"See you in the store soon? I got a new shipment with some stuff you'd like. And if you're still looking for an illustrator for that idea you told me about, I got a couple of inquiries about your ad."

"Yeah. I'll be by this week. Enjoy your dinner." From across the room, Michael watched his mother circulating among the customers and chatting cheerfully. She was the only one who could have stuck it in his bag, but she wouldn't have paid for this, even if she had the money to blow. So, where the heck did she get it? He turned when one of the customers called him over. He'd have to talk to her really soon and get to the bottom of things.

After the last patron had left the restaurant, Debbie sat on a chair and put her feet up. Her face felt like it might crack from the forced smiles. It took hard work and discipline to maintain a cheery disposition when all she wanted to do was sit at home and stew. She'd felt Michael's eyes on her numerous times. They always flitted away when she looked back. In such a small working place, it shouldn't have been possible to avoid one another so thoroughly, but Michael had succeeded with flying colors.

Still, she could tell he wanted to say something. It was in the way his brown eyes squinted at her and the way his mouth moved as if he was chewing something over. She waited for him to approach. It took longer than she expected, but she wasn't disappointed.

The chair across from her scraped back and Michael sat across from her. He threw the Captain Astro print on the table between them.

"Did my father leave it for me?"

Debbie was bewildered as her mind fought to make sense of Michael's words. "I'm sorry?"

"I've been trying to figure out where you got it. We didn't stop anywhere where we you could have bought it. I can't imagine you had it here, dragged it with you on the trip, and waited until we were coming back to give it to me, so I figured that Dad's lawyer must have given it to you when I wasn't looking."

Debbie stared at Michael, astounded. "Your father didn't leave it for you. It was from me."

"Bullshit. If you're going to make up a lie, you can probably do one better than that."

Debbie felt the blood drain from her face. She was two milliseconds from unleashing her fury on Michael when he spoke again.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I shouldn't have said that. I just..." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what I should do, to tell the truth. Part of me really wants to walk out and the other part of me is wondering what the hell happened. If I can make sense of this one thing, then I can make sense of the rest. I just want what answers I can get since most of them are buried about three hours from her."

Debbie touched Michael's hand where it lay on the table. "I know you've been upset, honey, but--"

Michael pulled his hand away. "I'm not upset. I left upset way behind. All I want is the truth. Where did you get this?"

Debbie laced her fingers together to stop herself from shaking Michael until he listened to her or grabbing him in a bear hug and never letting him go. "I don't remember." The guilt still lay like a heavy yoke across her neck.

"Don't remember? Did someone give it to you?"

"What does it matter? It's just a picture. I saw it in one of those souvenir shops and I picked it up. Maybe you were getting gasoline or in the restroom. I don't remember."

"A souvenir shop? That picture is worth close to two thousand dollars!"

"What?" Debbie felt her stomach turn over heavily. "It can't be. It was in the trash." Her mind raced. Now she knew she would have to get it back to the owner. She knew she should have followed her first instinct and left the fucking thing behind. The accusation in Michael's face was lancing through her and she knew she deserved it for making one, momenumentally foolish move. She'd gone from petty thievery to grand larceny in the blink of an eye.

"In the trash? I thought you said you bought it."

"Michael, just forget it. It was all a misunderstanding. Give me the print and I'll get it back to where it needs to go. I'll...The seller must not have known what he had and I don't feel right about taking advantage. I'll return it."

Michael frowned and picked the print up. "Don't worry. I'll return it. Just tell me where you got it."

"What does it matter?"

"Maybe the owner has other stuff that I could afford to get. Or maybe he would be willing to sell it for a moderate price."

"I don't think it's a good idea. Just give it back to me."

"No."

They stared each other down, at an impasse. A long silence had passed before Michael said, "When you're ready to tell me the truth, you know where to find me." He started to get up when Debbie spoke.

"I found it."

"Found it where?"

"At that house. The one where we stayed during the storm."

"Are you serious? You can't be serious. You took it out of Ben's house?"

Debbie wringing her hands. "It was an accident. I was looking around and I found it. I swear it was in the garbage! Or near the garbage! It was all covered with dust like no one wanted it--"

"Everything in that house was covered with dust."

"Don't you think I know that? I...you two walked into that room and I had it in my hand. I felt so stupid. I know I should have left it, but I thought it was trash. Otherwise I never would have..." She fell silent, out of words to excuse herself. "Just give it to me and I'll return it and explain as soon as I can." Debbie reached out and latched onto one corner of the print.

Michael tugged back. "I'll take care of it."

"But, Michael--" Debbie pulled harder and felt the sickening sound of a half-empty water glass clink against her braceleted arm With horror, she watched as the glass upturned and splashed on everything nearby, including the valuable print. She and Michael sat watching the print wrinkle like sea waves. Then they both sprang into action, blotting it dry with every napkin they could grab, both of them cursing a blue streak. But the damage was done.

"Maybe if we explain..." Debbie began, filled with helplessness.

Michael jumped out of his chair and took the ruined print. "I said I'll take care of it." He shook his head with bemusement. "I always thought you were one of the most honest people I knew. You and Brian. I guess we all have our moments, huh?"

"Michael--"

"Good night, Ma. I'll talk to you later." Michael hurried to the back room where he collected his jacket and keys before he left for his long walk home.

The rain was drumming against the window and creating a lulling rhythm. Ben watched his breath fog against the glass and hoped against hope. The last storm had been a force of destruction, reflecting the chaos inside him like an all too accurate mirror. This one was gentler, washing away the grime that coated the windows, caressing the leaves and grass as it fell, baptizing the world with its cleansing power. Despite the rolling clouds, the sun kept trying to fight its way to the ground and the rays of golden light turned the raindrops to flecks of gold. Through the shimmering water curtain a brighter light appeared.

Chapter 9

Brian let himself into Michael's apartment for the second time in as many days. Their mother had called frantically when Michael hadn't shown up for work tonight. In his worst nightmare, Brian imagined finding Michael collapsed on the floor, still as death, having suffocated in another one of his 'not an asthma attacks.'

What he found was much less dramatic but no less worrisome. Everything was neatly in its place--the first clue that told Brian something was drastically wrong. The curtains were drawn and the apartment had a stillness that it never had before. He flicked on the light and looked around. Taped on the bedroom door was a single sheet of paper. Brian read it without touching it.

Brian read the letter a half a dozen times before the meaning really soaked in. Michael was gone--maybe indefinitely. Or maybe he would walk in the door, laughing about his stupid idea of taking off again. The two of them would toss back beers and go out and play pool or just shoot the breeze.

He waited until the afternoon sun had waned and the rain outside had stopped, but Michael didn't magically reappear and the door remained firmly closed.

Ben walked reluctantly to the front door when he heard the knock. What was it about the rain that dumped unwelcome visitors on his doorstep? He opened the door slowly and found a half-drowned waif standing there. The waif looked up and Ben held his breath at the sight of the deep brown eyes that had been in his thoughts for so many days. He wanted to touch his returning visitor and reassure himself that Michael was real and not another ghost to taunt him. He waited anxiously for the vision to speak. Michael shook some of the water off of his head, but his hair remained plastered to his head like a pelt. The raindrops landed on Ben's face and he felt the first stirrings of faith that this was real. A smile curved Michael's lips.

"I know this is going to sound like deja vu, but would it be okay if I came in out of the storm?" Michael asked, wiping rainwater out of his face.

"What are you doing here?" Ben asked, shielding the damaged side of his face with the door.

"Getting wet. Are you going to let me in or do I drown?" Michael asked gently with a smile on his face.

Ben was caught, taken aback, and held captive by a single drop of water hanging precariously on Michael's long, lush lashes. It seemed to hang there forever until it fell as if in slow motion. All of this took only an instant to happen in real time, but real time was something that, of late, had come to him in fits and starts.

"Did you forget something?" Ben asked, blinking wildly while trying to compose himself and failing miserably.

"Ben, could you please let me in?" Michael asked again, his eyes still smiling, but his face taking on a more somber expression.

There was no way he could hide his face this time--no way he could remain in the shadows. Even with the curtains drawn there was enough light for Michael to see the road map that covered one side of his face. And even though Ben knew he shouldn't care, knew it wasn't supposed to matter to him what this stranger thought of his face or his life, it did matter. He suddenly found it suddenly a great deal to him. Ben was tempted, for a moment, to close the door in Michael's face and go hide. However, it was only a brief moment, which faded.

Michael looked so adorably miserable standing there in the rain. His raven black hair wet and sleek, clinging to his head and making him look an innocent child who had been caught out in the rain playing. Ben was hypnotized by the way Michael had smiled at him, the way his eyes seemed to shine, his rain kissed lips trembling ever so slightly. The lush fullness of them, threw Ben off. He found he couldn't resist the image standing before him even though he wanted to--even though something deep inside of him needed him to do so.

"Come in."

"What the fuck do you mean he's gone?" David asked, the color rising in his cheeks.

"What part of it didn't you understand?" Brian asked, looking from his brother to his mother.

Debbie felt somewhat deflated as she sat in the chair at the kitchen table. "Where'd he go?"

"I don't know," Brian said, looking down at her.

"Let me see the note," David said angrily.

Brian was not about to hand it over. "I told you what it said already."

"I want to see it," David demanded of his little brother.

"It wasn't addressed to you," Brian hurled back.

"Stop it both of you. We have to find him. Before..." Debbie stopped short.

David looked at his mother gravely. "Before what?"

Tears welled in Debbie's eyes. "Before he does something stupid."

"What the fuck's going on?" Brian asked his mother.

"Nothing," Debbie said half-heartedly.

"Nothing? You call me, nearly hysterical, and tell me to go over to Michael's apartment and find him. I get there and he's fucking gone. And now you tell us that we have to find him before he does something stupid." Brian took a seat next to his mother. "What went on between you two?"

"He's just upset. He might do something..." Again, Debbie stopped short. She got up and half ran up stairs.

"This is bullshit," David said, his hands on his hips and his head down. "We have to go find him."

"He doesn't want to be found, David. That's the fucking point," Brian said, placing his head in his hands.

"We have to do something."

"For once in your life, David, stop pushing."

"Come in."

The words seemed innocent enough as they fell from Ben's lips. It was just an invitation out of the rain. It didn't have to have any deeper meaning than that. It was just the right thing to do when someone came to your door, dripping wet and looking like one of God's own angels. Michael or his mother had probably forgotten something the last time they were here, and Michael had come to retrieve it. Ben would let the raven-haired beauty in, help him find whatever it was, and then watch in silent admiration as he left.

His pulse quickened and his heart felt as though it were about to burst the constraints of his chest. His palms were sweaty and his breath came quicker than he wanted it to. He felt lightheaded, as if he were in a dream. He'd wake up in a minute and life would be as it had been--but this was no dream. Michael was here, standing only a few feet from him, and in that moment he felt his scars more acutely than ever before.

Michael saw him. Michael saw him completely and the expression on his face didn't change. The bright spark in his eyes was still there. Ben found that he was breathing again.

He realized that up until this very moment he had been holding his breath. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop--to see that shocked look of horror flash across Michael's face and then the familiar attempt to recover. He'd seen it all the time, in the beginning, with the doctors and the few friends he'd let come around.

Michael smiled. It was a smile that lit up his entire face--a smile that lit up the long lived with gloom of Ben's house. A smile that told him that maybe, just maybe, there was something out there other than the dark, dank remains of his life.

"So, are you gonna tell me or am I supposed to guess?" Vic asked as he sat on the end of his sister's bed.

Debbie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't want to talk about it."

Vic rubbed the lower portion of his sister's outstretched leg. "What did you do?"

"What makes you think I did anything?" Debbie asked, trying to muster righteous indignation.

"Because I know you. You fucked up. So what did you do to try and fix it?" Vic asked without accusation in his voice.

"He's never going to forgive me now," Debbie said more to herself than her brother.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"Shit," Vic said with a heavy sigh.

"I wanted to make it up to him somehow. That's all. I know I can't...I knew I couldn't when I took the damn thing," Debbie said.

"Took what? From where?" Vic asked, moving to the head of the bed to embrace his sister.

"From that house...we stayed...at. It was in the trash...or...near it and he didn't...even want it...And I knew...Michael would love it...and I picked it up...and they came in...and...and...I pocketed it...and gave it to Michael...and somehow he knew...and I told him...and now he hates me even more...and he's gone...again...and it's all my fault..." Debbie managed to get out through deep wrenching sobs.

"You stole something and gave it to Michael. He confronted you, you told him, and he's even more pissed so he took off," Vic said, holding his sister. "This is bad."

David sat, looking at the phone, willing it to ring. All he wanted to do was hear Michael's voice. Brian had told everyone that Michael had left a note saying he was gone and that he didn't know when he'd be back. However, the little prick refused to let anyone see the damn thing. Sometimes David felt like knocking the hell out of his little brother because of the games he played.

Then he'd catch himself, take a deep breath, and walk away. Brian's antics weren't worth it, but on of these days that little pissant was going to push too damn hard and end up eating knuckles.

"Goddamn it, Michael! Call!" David heard himself yell at the phone.

As Michael stepped in from the rain and moved past his host, he saw what Ben had been hiding from him on his last unexpected visit. With a suddenness that startled him at first, he remembered what Buzzy had told him. He'd heard Buzzy in the restaurant that day, but, like most people, he was only listening for the parts that affected him. He had focused on the bits and pieces that were further confirmation of the fact that he knew very little about the people he'd loved his entire life. Those little gems spilling absentmindedly from Buzzy's grease-stained lips produced, in Michael, a more complete portrait of betrayals by one he had loved so completely and, as it would appear, rather blindly.

Buzzy had said that the last owner of his mother's ill-gotten gain had been killed. Michael knew with a certainty that rocked him (because it had been so long since anything was certain in his mind let alone his life) that the previous owner had been Ben's lover.

The guilt he felt for what his mother had done in an effort to score points with him, welled up and nearly cut off his breath. The sense of simpatico He'd felt before with that man who was scarred in more ways than one, turned to an overwhelming sense of empathy. Michael wanted to reach out and touch Ben, to hold him until the grief they both felt receded just enough to allow them to breathe.

"Did you forget something last time Michael?" Ben asked, turning his face aside so that Michael could only see the undamaged portion.

"I wish it were that simple," Michael said, looking down at his waterlogged feet.

"Where are my manners? Let me get you a towel....I'll be right back," Ben said and headed for the hall pantry.

"Look. That's not really necessary," Michael called behind him. "Plus you might wanna throw my soggy ass out once you know why I'm here," Michael muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Ben called over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

"So, how'd your trip turn out last time?" Ben asked, trying to make small talk. It had been ages since he'd done so with someone who was actually there.

"It came and went. I didn't get any of the answers I was looking for," Michael said before he caught himself.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ben said as he came back with the towel.

"Look. Something happened the last time I was here. Something I don't really know how to explain, because I really don't understand it myself," Michael said, taking the towel being offered to him with an unsteady hand. Their fingers touched lightly and it sent a shock through both of them.

"I have a feeling this is one of those sit down moments. Why don't we grab a seat in the living room? Can I get you something, tea, coffee, beer, water?" Ben asked, leading the way and attempting to recover from the unintentional glance of flesh against flesh.

"No thanks." Michael followed Ben into the living room, his heart pounding in his chest harder than it ever had before. He could feel himself getting lightheaded again. He fought with all of his might to stave off a repeat performance of the attack from the last time he was in this living room. Michael felt a growing sense of dread clutching at as his lungs and threatening to close them once more. He took several deep breaths and felt himself calming down.

"So, what's this all about?" Ben asked, taking a seat and offering one to Michael. He made sure Michael was seated on his good side.

Michael gave a great sigh. "This is hard."

"Take your time." Ben said, looking at Michael with concern.

"I have something I need to give you," Michael started, looking down at his hands.

Ben was intrigued. "Something for me?"

"Not really for you. Something of yours," Michael said, finally looking up.

"Something of mine?" Ben asked, getting nervous.

"God...Ever just want to crawl into a hole?" Michael asked with a strained voice, his eyes brimming with tears.

"All the time," Ben replied, looking at the smaller man with a growing sense of compassion. "Just say it. Sometimes it's like a Band-Aid--the quicker you pull it off the better."

"My mother . . ." Michael started, then paused, taking another deep breath and looking at Ben. "She took something out of your studio," Michael said thickly. "Oh God! I think I'm gonna be sick." Michael jumped up and raced up the stair to the guest bathroom.

Ben sat in the living room with his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted to move but found he couldn't.

"You thought he came back here for you?" Paul scoffed. "What a fucking joke."

"Shut the fuck up," Ben said angrily.

"You thought he wanted you. I told you, Benny boy, you and I are stuck with each other," Paul said, laughing as his voiced receded back into the darkness of Ben's mind.

Ben was about to reply when he heard a loud crash come from upstairs. As quickly as his still mending legs would carry him, he mounted the stairs and rushed into the bathroom. He found Michael collapsed on the floor, with his head bleeding slightly and his breath coming in slow, labored gasps.

Michael wasn't unconscious, but he was unable to get up under his own power. His lungs and throat felt as if he'd swallowed burning embers. When he focused, he saw the worried face of Ben above him and Ben's lips moving. It took another few seconds before he could actually hear what Ben was asking him.

"Michael...Michael, can you hear me?" Ben asked. "Don't move. I'll get some help."

Michael tried his best to sit up. "Don't. I'll be fine in a minute."

"Like hell you will."

"Really. It's nothing," Michael said, finally sitting up.

"You do realize your head is bleeding?" Ben asked while reaching up to grab a towel.

Michael reached up and felt his head. "I must've bumped it when I fell."

"How'd you fall, Michael?" Ben asked.

"Remember the last time I was here--that little incident in the living room? Well, it was like that, only this time I kinda blacked out," Michael said, wincing a little as Ben placed the towel on the small cut.

"Maybe we should get you to a doctor and have you checked out?"

"No. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I just need a minute." Michael said, getting to his feet slowly.

"You scared the shit out of me," Ben said.

"Sorry about that. If it's any consolation, I scared the hell out of me too." Michael said, suddenly achingly aware of Ben's closeness to him. To distract himself, he nudged the towel aside and began gingerly palpating the edges of his head wound.

"Michael..." Ben started, then stopped short.

"Yeah?"

"I'll wait for you downstairs," Ben said, before tossing the blood-stained towel in the sink and leaving the bathroom.

It had gotten a little too close for him in there and he found he needed more space between them. He needed it like he needed his next breath. He had actually forgotten what Michael had come to tell him, had come to return to him. All that was on his mind at this moment was the overwhelming urge to kiss those luscious lips.

"Are you fucking out of your mind?" Paul hissed as Ben negotiated the stairs once more.

"That's the sixty-four thousand dollar question isn't it?" Ben replied. He entered the living room and plopped down on the sofa to wait.

Once he was alone, Michael automatically turned to the medicine cabinet to examine his reflection, but the door was missing. Instead of his own image, he was confronted by small shelves that were empty except for a fine coating of dust and a lonely bottle of vitamins. After wasting as much time as he could cleaning his wound, Michael left the bathroom. The nauseating sense of dizziness had settled enough to let him walk around without feeling like a tiny sailboat in a hurricane. Now, he only felt panic and guilt and that was more than enough. "Why am I feeling so guilty?" he thought to himself. He wasn't the one who had lifted the print. He was only returning it--making a wrong, right. Nevertheless, the feeling wouldn't go away completely, almost as if it were flesh and blood.

From nowhere, a whisper...Maybe it is.

Michael whirled around and instantly regretted the action when darkness pulled at him again. He recovered his balance and was surprised to find himself alone. The whisper must have been a product of his overactive imagination. He didn't ask if his imagination was also making the room feel a few degrees colder than it had a moment ago. To himself, he said, "That's enough. If he could see you, Brian would call you three different kinds of pathetic and he'd be right. Just go down there and tell Ben the truth. What's the worst that could happen?"

He reached under his soggy jacket for the print that he'd tucked away for safekeeping from the storm. Wrapped in a protective mylar sheath, the water damage was still apparent. Captain Astro's cape seemed to be melting around him. The lettering, once brilliant and crisp, was blurred into illegibility. Over one thousand dollars, close to two, down the drain.

Michael started laughing. His laughter grew until he had to lean against the wall and catch his breath. "Un-fucking-believable," he said to himself. After he regained his self-control, a quick look out the window proved that a speedy and secret getaway wasn't in the cards. Given the choice between hiding up here or going downstairs and presenting the truth, there was nothing to do but face the music.

He was at the living room entry when he stopped and stood stock still. Ben was sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing. Absently, he rubbed at his right jaw. Underneath his fingers, the flesh was rippled, not unlike the print that Michael was carrying. The pink streaks spoke of healing from a recent injury. They stretched across Ben's face and down his neck, disappearing into the collar. And when Michael looked closely, there were similar scars on the back of Ben's hand. He hadn't had an opportunity to exam them very closely before, but now all he could think about was: When? Why? Did they still hurt? His eyes moved onto the rest and his thoughts turned in a different direction. Whatever had created the scars hadn't touched Ben's mouth. What would Ben's kiss feel like? What would those hands and those long fingers feel like if they...

Michael didn't know how long he'd been staring, but he gradually became aware of Ben's eyes on him and Ben's question.

"Are you done?"

Michael abandoned his musings about the scars and what they signified. Ben's bright blue eyes lanced him and he felt his heart trip. It really was a sin for a man to be so appealing. Certainly, it didn't make confessing to him any easier. "Done?"

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but then visibly changed his mind. "Would you like to sit and finish what you were going to say earlier?"

"Sure. Thanks." Michael entered the living room, perched on an empty chair, and started babbling out of nervousness. "You know, this place looks a lot less freaky when the lights are on."

Ben frowned and looked around. "Freaky?"

"Yeah, it's like something out of one of those monster movies," said Michael. He stopped short when Ben paled. "What's wrong?" Michael asked, panic-stricken by his the offense he'd given unwittingly.

"Nothing," said Ben and rubbed at his face again. "I just...I thought you were...Never mind." He walked over to the bar. "I don't keep much. How about--"

"Actually, I don't really want anything to drink. I'd rather say what I need to say with a clear mind.

Ben walked back and stood across from Michael. "Sounds serious."

Rather than wasting time explaining, Michael pulled the print out of his jacket and placed it on the table. "This belongs to you."

Chapter 10

Ben stared down at the picture. He knew, instantly, that it was one of Paul's--the last piece he had been working on. It was nothing like his usual restorations, just a simple framing. But it was ruined now, just like everything else. His eyes moved to Michael's face and he was unnerved when his guest looked back without flinching. Ben could almost feel his face itch under the scrutiny. It was the same itch that he had felt when he had caught Michael staring at him from the doorway--like light feet tiptoeing across his soul and leaving almost imperceptible footprints. Deep brown eyes had wandered over his face and there had been a flare of something. A few months ago, Ben would have said it was attraction, interest. But that couldn't be possible now. "Why did you bring it back? It's useless, now. Nobody's going to want it. It will never look like it used to."

"I don't know about that." Michael picked it up and looked at the print with a frown of concentration, nibbling on his lower lip while he paused in thought. "This part's messed up, but you can still tell it's Captain Astro and Galaxy Lad. It was supposed to be the cover of issue number 37, but there were rumors that the way Astro was holding Galaxy Lad meant that they were--"

"More than friends. Yes, I've heard the story." Ben was taken aback by another of Michael's glowing smiles.

"I know I get a little nuts about this. Collecting comics is a hobby of mine. I don't have a lot to spend on rare memorabilia but I do have a few things. Even though this print's not perfect anymore, it's still valuable to me. There's nothing else like it so I bet other people will want it too."

"Keep it." Ben didn't know where the words came from, but they felt right. "It's yours," he insisted when Michael started to shake his head in refusal. He withdrew when Michael tried to hand the print over.

"I couldn't keep it. I'll still pay you the balance of the value lost, but you should have it back."

"No. Consider it a gift." Ben suddenly needed to be out of the room. He got to his feet and started backing out of the room. "I really don't want it anymore." He paused when Michael spoke out.

"This thing is really valuable! Don't you want to work out how I'll repay you?"

"Clean my house," Ben replied facetiously. He ignored the bewildered look on Michael's face. Really, he didn't care. He didn't need apologies, explanations, or repayment. He needed distance and room: room to breathe; room to think; room to forget; distance away from the dark eyes that were a little too accepting to be true. By the time he got to his bedroom, he had forgotten all about the stranger he'd let in his house. He climbed into his bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

For Ben, there were many mornings. There were those during which he pulled the covers over his head and slept the day away, driven out only when the necessities of life forced him to arise. There were days when he woke up like a man on a mission. He would swim laps in the heated pool, the one part of the house which he maintained. Buoyed up by the gently rippling water, he could transport himself away from everything--out of sight from the world, out of time.

On other mornings, the gentle exercise afforded by leisurely laps in the pool wasn't nearly enough. For those masochistic days, he used the exercise machine, pushing his body in ways that might do more harm than good, but with determination to rebuild what had been broken.

Then there days when he woke up and the ache in his body was the usual one from having slept in an awkward position--nothing more, nothing less; when the sun was shining and he could appreciate its warmth; when he would turn to Paul with thoughts of waking his lover by tickling Paul's ear or nuzzling his neck until his eyes were open. On those days, they should have been scrambling to shower and dress because it was so much nicer to stay in bed making love than to get up and get ready for work.

He turned to the empty side of the bed and reached out a hand. He couldn't break himself of his morning ritual. As always, that side of the bed was cool and undisturbed because Paul wasn't there and hadn't been in so long. On those mornings, the pain of remembrance usually soured everything--turned the sunlight dim, made the chirping birds turn to the grating of nails on a chalkboard, made the warmth feel like a suffocating thing, a solid substance.

Today was a little different from all the rest. The pain was still there, but it wasn't as bitter or sharp as it usually was. His mind was preoccupied with other vague thoughts. Not until he had climbed out of the shower did he recall his uninvited guest. Had he really invited a stranger with stolen property into his house and given the man free reign while he slept obliviously?

After he'd completed his morning ablutions, he went looking for Michael. His guest wasn't to be found in the living room or the kitchen--or in the library. Ben saw the open door of the studio and felt a burst of anger. Ruining the print was one thing. Did Michael actually have the nerve to intrude again? Ben stomped to the studio and threw the door open. The sight that greeted him took the wind out of his sails.

Cleanliness. All of Paul's incomplete projects had been neatly sorted. The canvases were leaning against the wall. The set of World War I tin soldiers were neatly lined up. The books that needed rebinding were lined up on a shelf. Not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere.

Actually, the last thought had been formed too soon. In the corner was a small love seat. It had been Ben's practice to sit there and read or write while Paul worked. Curled up in what had to be a pretty painful position was Michael. Possibly every speck of dust that had coated the room, now covered his slumbering figure. Ben walked over to the couch. "Excuse me."

Michael murmured in his sleep but didn't wake.

Ben tapped him on the shoulder. "Michael?"

Ben smiled when Michael swatted at his fingers and rolled over. He looked around the room again. He wondered about the cleaning spree, but his own words quickly came back to him--Clean my house. It must have taken the man all night. Ben left Michael sleeping and headed to the kitchen.

Michael awoke to the delicious aroma of coffee wafting through the air. Every cell in his body craved a jolt of caffeine to drag him out of his heavy drowsiness. He felt as if he'd been drugged, but it was only the effects of staying up all night. He looked down at himself. Jesus. I look like a train wreck. I hope that Ben didn't see...

"Did you sleep well?" came Ben's voice from across the room.

Michael groaned, sank against the couch, and closed his eyes. So much for that hope. He opened them again and sat up. Ben was sitting at a small table in front of the window. Upon it's draped surface was a coffee pot and a plate of croissants. Michael's mouth started to water and his stomach grumbled, reminding him that the last meal he'd eaten had been lunch the day before. "I slept fine."

"Liar. That chair isn't made for a restful night of sleep."

Michael began to worry that the anger that had been lacking last night had blossomed overnight. One look at Ben's face reassured him that Ben was joking. He dared to hope that they could settle the issue of the damaged print amicably but he didn't mind delaying that discussion. "Well, it wasn't exactly like home, but it was better than sleeping in the car." Michael looked at his watch. He really should have asked David about 'borrowing the car, but his thoughts hadn't been clear at the time. His actions yesterday felt like something out of a dream.

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

Michael looked up. "What? No. Why do you ask?"

"You were staring at your watch like you were expecting it to start talking to you."

Michael flushed. "No. I was just remembering that I should call my brother." He laughed sheepishly. "I sort of stole his car."

"Is grand larceny a family tradition?" Ben took a casual sip of his coffee.

Michael wanted to sink into the floor, but he wouldn't let the remarks cow him. "I borrow his car all the time. It's just that I was in a hurry and I didn't really ask him first. And my mom...Oh, you don't want to hear all this. Bottom line is that I'd like to repay you. I know you said to clean your house, but--"

"I wasn't serious. Seeing that print just brought back some bad memories. I needed some time alone."

"I can imagine," Michael said with empathy.

"No, Michael, I don't think you really can, but that's okay. Please join me. I'm sure you must be starving."

Michael shrugged on a mantle of pride. "No, I'm fine, really. I'm not hungry." His growling stomach made a liar out of him.

Ben cocked an eyebrow. "If you're going to repay me the money, you might want to eat something. You have a lot of work to do."

Michael looked at Ben with suspicion. "You changed your mind?"

"I had a whole night to think about it and darned if it didn't make sense."

Michael approached the table with all the wariness of a man walking around a dangerous animal. "So, you're not mad?"

Ben nodded towards a chair and waited for Michael to sit. "I was mad."

"And now?"

"And now I feel a little better. You did a marvelous job on this room. Paul used to..." Ben's hand twitched and the coffee sloshed dangerously without spilling. "Paul used to work in this room."

Michael had started devouring a croissant, too hungry to worry about what a mess he was. When Ben stopped talking, he was moved by the faraway look in the other man's eyes. He swallowed and said, "You must really miss him."

Ben smiled a tiny smile. "He's not completely gone." He sat up straight and looked Michael in the eye. "So, what's the plan?"

Michael took a sip of orange juice and thought. "I didn't really have a plan."

"I assumed, from what you were saying, that you don't have the money."

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly means..."

"Means no, I don't have the money."

"Right. That's what I thought. So, I have a proposition."

Michael started to worry about what this 'proposition' might entail. He scanned Ben's figure. Despite the upper arm strength, Ben was hampered by his limp. Michael could run faster in case this turned out to be a lot weirder than he thought. If he didn't want to get caught, that is. Thoughts of Ben snaring him in those arms distracted him...

"Michael?"

In a flash, Michael put his woolgathering on hold. "Yes?"

"You didn't hear anything I just said, did you?"

"Uh...no." Michael took another sip of orange juice and avoided Ben's eyes. "I must be tired or something." David and his mother had often harped on him for daydreaming. Outside of school, it had never been a problem--until now.

"Do you know anything about collectibles?"

"Not really."

"Not really means..."

Michael shook his head and laughed. "Not really means that I don't know about a darned thing other than comics and the few collectible toys that I've bought."

"It's still perfect."

"How so?"

"Besides the stuff in the studio, Paul has a...had a storeroom full of pieces that he hadn't catalogued. I need help going through all of it."

Michael was puzzled. "Wouldn't it be better to have a professional go through it?"

"The storeroom is here in the house. For personal reasons, I'd rather not have people I know nosing around my home. You can even stay here while you do it. There's a small guest house not too far from the house. You'll have to clean it, but it has its own bathroom and kitchen."

"I see."

"Will you do it?"

"This will make us even?"

"I'll consider this payment in full."

Michael thought about how he was unsuited to the job and how Ben seemed strange and a little unstable, despite his attractiveness. He thought about his job that he'd left behind and his family, all of whom were probably ready to string him up for making them worry. He thought of every reason he should say no and came to a decision.

"Okay. I'll do it." At the very moment he was asking himself if he hadn't just made a pact with the Devil, Ben smiled and Michael new that he wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't the happiest of smiles, but the warmth reached out to him in a way that he couldn't resist--in a way that made him want to stretch his hand forth, trace Ben's mouth, and taste his lips. In a way that made it impossible for him to look away. What was he getting himself into?

Brian knew he shouldn't but he couldn't help himself. He found himself picking up the phone and dialing Michael's cell phone number. It immediately went to voice mail. Brian cursed softly into the phone and waited for the beep.

"I know you said you'd call but Ma's goin' a little nuts. So when you get a chance, give her a buzz. Make it soon Mikey."

Brian pressed the off button and threw the phone across the room. He hated not knowing what the fuck was going on with Michael. He hated when Michael got all silent on him. His anger soon turned to fear for his brother. What if his mother was right and whatever happened between them drove Michael to do something crazy? What if Michael had gotten into an accident or something? Worse yet, what if Michael decided not to come back at all?

What if...

"Fuck this..." Brian whispered and dove onto this bed.

At first he was pissed off that Michael had left without a word to him--leaving instead a note that no one but Brian got to read. Then he was pissed off because the little twat had taken his car. He'd given Michael an extra key in case of emergency or if their mother needed a ride somewhere and there was no one but Michael to take her. Michael had been pretty good at letting David know in advance when he needed the car. But to just come here and take it while he was at the office worked on David's last good nerve. Those feelings subsided, only to be replaced when a deep rooted fear began to sink in--a fear so thick and deep that it threatened to overtake him utterly and drive him headlong into the darkness of his rapidly growing imagination. He wanted to scream but couldn't. He wanted to get out of the house but couldn't for fear of missing Michael's call. What if Michael needed him and he wasn't there?

David picked up his phone several times before he actually dialed Michael's cell phone. He hated voice mail. No matter how friendly the voice, David always felt like it was so cold and impersonal. But there was nothing else he could do. He took a deep breath and waited for the miserable beep.

"I don't know what happened between you and Ma and I don't care. I just want to you to come home, Michael. We can't leave it like this. I don't care about the car. I don't care why you took it. Just call me. I'll even come get you if you want me to. Just come home--or at least call."

David dropped the phone and for the first time in ages, he let go--really let go, broke down, and cried deep, penetrating sobs that seemed to come from the dark reaches of the universe. He cried until his heart hurt, as if it had been broken for some time and only now was he able to feel the pain of it. He couldn't lose Michael. He needed to make things right with his little brother--not so little anymore. Michael wasn't the little boy he protected from the bullies anymore. He wasn't the little boy afraid of thunder. He needed Michael to understand how much he loved him and that he never meant to hurt him. He needed...He needed...

Ben stood at the kitchen window watching as Michael walked the short distance from the back door of the house to the guesthouse with as many cleaning materials as he could carry. Ben had appreciated the front, but watching Michael walk away was another experience all together. Those shoulders that tapered down to a trim waist that led directly to that perfectly shaped...Being alive wasn't such a bad thing today. Ben felt a genuine, uncontrollable smile creeping across his face. However, the smile evaporated once he felt a cold, familiar presence in the room.

Ben turned around, leaned against the counter, and waited. He and Paul stared unblinking at each other for what seemed like hours, years, millennia. An eternity of silence divided them. Somewhere deep down inside, Ben knew he should feel guilty but he didn't. There wasn't one ounce of guilt traveling through him about his decision to let Michael stay--to let Michael help him. He actually felt good about something for the first time in a long time. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ben felt like his old self again and it made him feel lighter inside. It felt right. He felt normal...but then there was Paul. There was always Paul.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Paul asked slowly and deliberately.

"Nothing," Ben said coolly.

"Why are you letting him stay?" Paul shouted.

Ben replied calmly, "He wants to repay his debt."

"Bullshit."

"Why is that bullshit?" Ben asked, leaning his cane against the counter and folding his arms in front of him, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Paul was jealous...

"Because you fucking want him," Paul said, pacing.

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at yourself...You're drooling like some lovesick puppy," Paul said, coming face to face with Ben. "You're fucking hard."

"It's an involuntary reaction." Ben's smile widened. "You said it yourself. He's fucking beautiful."

"I want him gone," Paul spat.

"Sorry. No can do. He owes me money."

"I. Want. Him. Gone!" Paul shouted again.

"Not gonna happen. I want him here so he stays," Ben said calmly.

"We'll just see about that," Paul said, fading away.

Ben ignored the veiled threat and turned back to the window just in time to see Michael approaching the house. Ben was trying to compose himself when Michael knocked on the back door. Ben shouted for him to come in as he pretended to be finishing up the morning dishes.

Debbie did everything in her power not to pick up that damned phone and beg for Michael's forgiveness. She cleaned the kitchen again; she dusted off all of her little knickknacks. She called the restaurant to make sure everyone had shown up and to tell Peter the day manager that she'd be in later in the afternoon. Then she did the laundry, including all the bedding--even the bedding that didn't need to be laundered. She vacuumed the floors upstairs and down; she mopped the kitchen again, cleaned the bathrooms, polished the silver, rearranged the china cabinet, cleaned the oven in and out, and re-papered the kitchen cabinets. She cooked a massive meal and then called David and Brian and told them they were coming over for dinner. She wouldn't take no for an answer. She wasn't about to lose her entire family over this.

.

Finally, when there was nothing else to do, she picked up the phone and dialed Michael's cell phone number. Then she promptly hung up. What if Michael actually picked up the phone? What the hell was she really prepared to say to him. More importantly, what was she prepared to hear him say? What if she talked to him and he told her he was never coming back and it was all because of her and her lies? What if he told her he hated her and never wanted to see her again?

Debbie sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and started crying. She knew Michael would be back. There was just no way he could stay gone for good. He wouldn't do that to her. He just needed some time to think things through. Once he did, he'd realize she never meant for any of this to happen. He'd forgive her and then things could go back the way they used to be between them. But even as this thought passed through her mind, Debbie knew that even if Michael forgave her, things would never be the same. This lie would always be between them. Michael would never forget. He'd always know and he'd always have this little piece of him that no longer trusted her. A piece of himself would always question the truth of her statements.

Ben tried not to look at Michael as he entered the back door rather hesitantly. He did see that even though Michael hadn't completely cleaned up, he had knocked at least two layers of dust off himself. Michael's hair, which had been a lackluster gray, now resembled the silky, black radiance of its natural state. His face, which had been smudged by what must have seemed like decades of dust, dirt, and neglect, was now bright and brilliant.

Ben felt himself being drawn in, so again he busied himself with the business of doing the dishes. There was something there when Michael looked at him; he wasn't sure what it was. He wanted to find out, but something in him cringed at the mere thought of it. That part of him that still mourned for everything that had gone before gnawed at him, reminded him--as if he could ever forget, as if he ever wanted to. However, his interest as well as his curiosity was piqued. He found he wanted to know everything there was to know about the raven-haired Michael Charles Novotny. Ben wanted to know about the origin of the small, almost undetectable glint of sadness in Michael's eyes. You could see it just around the edges; it looked as if a star had gone dead in the night sky. One was wont to notice it because of the sheer resplendence of the light surrounding it. Having experienced that kind of death in his own personal night sky, Ben recognized it immediately. It made him want to reach out and touch Michael, to hold him and comfort him until there was no more sadness, no more pain. He wanted to understand Michael's apprehension, to talk about the family he clearly loved but from whom he had to remove himself. He wanted to know about the person Michael had said he was missing on his previous trip. Ben found he wanted so much and yet he felt like he deserved so little.

Ben's thoughts were interrupted when Michael began to speak.

"I thought maybe we should get started," Michael said, entering the kitchen like a small child about to steal a freshly baked cookie and run.

"Don't you wanna shower first?" Ben asked.

"I figured--what the hell, I already look like shit. I might as well get to work," Michael replied, looking at his soiled clothes and smiling brilliantly at his host.

Ben smiled and averted his eyes once more. "You might be dusty but you don't look like shit."

"Thanks for saying so. But...um...I know how I look. I got a good look at myself in the mirror in the guest house."

"We can start tomorrow. You have a cell phone, don't you? Why don't you get settled and call your family--"

Michael's smile waned a little. "I'd rather not talk about my family."

"Michael--"

"I need to do something, so if you'd rather not start now then just point me in the right direction," Michael said, the light returning to his smile.

As Michael was stacking boxes for cataloging he found his energy waning as if, with every movement, his strength was slowly oozing out of his body. At first he attributed it to not having really slept and having done so on the love seat--not the most comfortable place to lay one's head in hopes of a restful slumber. His head began throbbing; he was sweating; his breath was shallow and darkness slowly descended upon him.

About an hour later, Ben went to check on Michael's progress and found him on the floor. As quickly as he could, he walked over to the prone figure on the floor and knelt down beside him. Ben could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He placed his hand on Michael's forehead and felt the heat emanating from him. Michael was burning up.

As best he could manage it, Ben half carried, half dragged the semi-conscious Michael into the house and lay him on the couch. Michael kept telling someone named Brian to leave him alone, that he was fine. Ben's heart fell a little. Who the hell was Brian?

Ben went into the kitchen and filled a salad bowl with cool water. He grabbed the unused drying cloth and brought both back into the living room. Michael's eyes were half open as if he were seeing the room, but not really.

"Brian?" Michael called.

"No. It's me, Ben."

"Where am I?" Michael asked while trying to sit up.

Ben gently pushed him back down after placing the bowl on the coffee table.

Michael allowed himself to be pushed down. He was moaning as in pain and his voice sounded hoarse and scratchy.

Ben placed the cloth in the bowl of water then placed in on Michael's forehead. After Michael had closed his eyes in a sort of half sleep, Ben proceeded to take off Michael's dirty shirt. Ben gave an audible gasp at the sight of the nearly flawless alabaster skin. He took the cloth and bathed Michael's chest with it, letting his covered hand linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary.

After He'd finished, Ben went back to the kitchen to replenish the water which had become warm. On his way back to Michael, he snatched a few more towels. When he entered the living room, Paul was hovering over Michael like a fucking vulture.

"Get the fuck away from him," Ben snapped. He was surprised at the level of emotion in his voice.

"Why should I?"

"Get away from him," Ben repeated more firmly--and Paul was gone.

Ben walked over to the couch and knelt beside it. He loosened Michael's pants and began to pull them down, very careful of where he put his hands. Regardless of his altruistic intentions, he let the back of his hands glance over Michael's heated flesh. After removing the sneakers and socks and pulling the pants the rest of the way off, Ben used the water and towels to bathe Michael's body again.

"David I'm scared," Michael muttered.

"Shh. It's okay Michael. You're gonna to be fine," Ben said, wondering who the hell David was.

Brian couldn't stand it when Michael got sick. He'd run and hide until Michael was feeling more like himself. Michael understood that it wasn't a lack of love on his Brian's part. It was just that his younger brother couldn't bear to see Michael looking so weak after his attacks. When Brian was five years old, Michael had a massive asthma attack--so massive that he was in the hospital for two weeks. When he got home, Brian was terrified to touch him. He walked around Michael as if he were a piece of fine China that would break at the slightest disturbance of the air around him.

Whenever Michael got sick it was always David who made him feel safe. It was David he wanted--even more than his father. David just had this way of being so sure everything was going to be all right. He'd hold Michael, put his hand on Michael's chest, and place Michael's trembling hand on his own chest. He'd coax Michael into breathing like him. David would take slow, deep breaths while looking Michael in the eye. If David was ever scared, he never showed it. He'd be so sure of himself that Michael would start to relax. His eyes never wavered; his breath never caught. David's voice was always so calm and soothing--like a balm covering Michael.

Whenever Michael went to the hospital in the middle of the night it was always David and their father that took him. David would be there holding his hand making sure Michael knew he was there at all times. Michael would relax and stop fighting the medicine. He could sleep because his older brother was there to fight all the demons, to chase away all the ghosts. It was a side of David that Michael missed as he grew older. A side that was suppressed as David got older and had to more and more be the man of the house even before their father left. It was a side that hardened and crusted over leaving behind who David was now--who he had to be in order for this not to fall apart. That gentleness was so far removed from who David was now that sometimes Michael thought it was a dream he'd been having when he was sick.

He wanted David now. He was scared, and alone in the dark, and something was there staring at him.

"David, where are you? I'm scared...Hold my hand."

Michael felt a cool hand on his forehead and heard a voice--new, but familiar--soothing him, calling to him, bringing him back to the surface of his fevered mind.

Chapter 11

Ben felt a little sore after having sat up all night, nursing his guest. He watched in fascination as Michael tossed and turned in his sleep. It wasn't the tossing so much as the graceful line of Michael's body that enthralled Ben. He been held captive by the sleek movement of tendons and muscle underneath the silken skin, by Michael's arms and legs, which were dusted with baby fine, black hair, and by the small adorable patch of hair in the center of Michael's chest. Ben closed his eyes more than once during the night and felt his pulse racing at the thought of really touching Michael and having him respond.

"What time is it?" Michael whispered.

Ben opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. "It's about 10 'o clock."

"Ten?" Michael asked, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.

Ben reached over to place a nervous hand on Michael forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Much better. Thank you, " Michael said, appreciating Ben's gentleness and his concern. "What happened?" he asked, sitting up and feeling a little embarrassed about the whole situation.

"I was hoping you'd tell me. I found you unconscious. I brought you in here and..." Ben stopped short.

"And undressed me." Michael smiled looking down at himself for the first time. "Sorry about all this. I'm not usually this much trouble. Must've been out in the rain too long."

Ben leaned back into the chair. "I think it's more than that Michael."

"I haven't slept much since I was here last and things with my family have been really...stressful. My asthma, which had been dormant for years, has been acting up lately...and I got caught in the rain twice," Michael said, running an anxious hand up and down his chest and abdomen.

"Is there someone we should call? You mentioned someone named Brian once and then during the night you kept talking to someone named David. You kept saying you were scared and you wanted him to hold your hand, " Ben said with his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the response.

Michael swung his legs off the couch and sat completely up. "The last thing I need is to talk to either of my brothers."

"Maybe you should call your brothers," Ben said with an inward sigh of relief.

"Where are my clothes?" Michael asked, deliberately changing the subject.

"In the dryer. I washed them. They're kind of wrecked, Michael, " Ben said, getting up. His legs were stiff and aching and his back was in knots.

"I'm so fucked up right now, it's not even funny," Michael blurted out before he could stop himself. He wiped at the tears forming in his eyes. "I'm sorry...I don't know where that came from."

"It's okay. I know the feeling," Ben said. "Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower? I went to the guesthouse last night and got a few things out of your bag. I laid them out on the bed in the room you and your mother shared the last time you were here. While you clean up a little, I'll make us some breakfast." Ben started hobbling towards the kitchen.

"Thank you," was all Michael managed to say.

"No need, Michael," Ben said over his shoulder.

After Ben walked out of the room, Michael let his worry run rampant. What the hell is wrong with me? In spite of what he'd said to Ben about his brothers, he wouldn't mind talking to David for a minute. Under extreme circumstances his older brother could sometimes be a source of support. Maybe David would have some idea about the sudden return of the asthma or whatever it was that was making him so sick. Michael reached for his pants to get his cell out and came up empty. Damn. Giving it some thought, he could visualize the cell phone where it sat on the breakfast nook table in the guesthouse. It wouldn't take long to run out and get it.

Before he got to his feet, Michael took a deep breath. The tightness was gone. The fire in his throat had become a manageable, dull throb. He was shaky but otherwise okay. He didn't need to run helter-skelter to David or anyone else. He would call a little later; it was no emergency, after all. Everything was under control and he was fine.

He was fine, thanks to the enigmatic Ben Bruckner. Michael leaned back on the sofa with a sudden and disappointing realization. He touched me and I wasn't even awake to enjoy it. Fuck. He looked down at himself. He was no gym bunny but he did work out regularly. As a result, he was in good shape--not rippling with muscle, but not a slouch either. If only his mother's family had come from swarthier stock. Her Northern Italian background combined with the good old Novotny genes left him as pale as a ghost. And it would have been nice if he had been wearing something sexier than his functional white boxers. At least I didn't go commando, he thought. He rubbed the patch of hair on his chest. Maybe I should have shaved it or waxed it off. He twisted a few of the strands and shuddered with distaste at the thought of painful hair removal. A soft footstep and the sound of a throat being cleared intruded on Michael's thoughts.

"I'd leave it alone if I were you. Some people like a little body hair," said Ben from the doorway.

Michael hoped against hope that the flush he was feeling was invisible to the outside world. He grabbed at one of the large bath towels that covered his lower half, pulled it up his body, and tried not to look like a Victorian Age virgin. "People?" he asked dumbly.

"Yeah...Anyway, I came to ask if you'd prefer pancakes or French toast."

Michael was still trying to process the meaning of Ben's previous statement. "What did you mean by what you just said?"

Ben spoke slowly as if to someone who might have trouble with the language. "There are two choices. I'm not up to making both pancakes and--"

"No...Before that."

Ben frowned quizzically. "The chest hair? You looked like you were going to yank it out with your bare hands. About breakfast--which is it?"

"Pancakes," said Michael absently while looking at Ben and trying to figure him out.

"Great. That's what I wanted too. They should be ready by the time you get cleaned up and dressed." Ben turned to leave.

"Wait!" cried Michael. He wasn't quite ready to give up the subject. "What people?"

Ben turned back, looked Michael up and down, smiled without answering, and turned to go.

Michael felt a little bubble of happiness that burst into a small smile. This little stint might not be bad at all--not if Ben followed up on the promise of that smile. Michael might have kicked up his heels if, as he stood, a wave of weakness and a bone-rattling shiver hadn't passed through him. It was over in seconds, but it made him proceed with some caution.

David opened the door to his house. Half a day and twenty-plus patients after waking up with a bitch of a headache, he was wiped out and ready to sleep for days. In the living room, he dropped his briefcase and threw himself into an armchair. For a moment, he wondered if Michael hadn't had the right idea about getting away from it all. His mother was driving him crazy. She was logging so much phone time calling him and Brian that it was a wonder she had time to sleep or eat. Brian had been scarce this week, burying himself in his work and his 'extracurricular activities.'

David glanced towards the answering machine next to him. The message light was blinking. He hit the button and let the messages play. Besides the ones from his friends, there was only one from his mother. Gradually she was accepting that Michael wasn't going to call. He got to the fifth message and sat up abruptly.

"Hi, David. It's me. I...uh...I got your message. I'm gonna keep this short. I don't need to be picked up. I'm really sorry I took the car. It was sort of an emergency and I knew you'd say yes. I'll have to figure out a way to get it back to you. Anyway, I'm fine. I'll be away for a few weeks...uh...God, I hate these answering machines. I always feel like I'm talking to myself. Uh...Sorry for rambling. I've already been through this twice on Mom's machine and Brian's and I can't remember what I said or didn't say."

There was a long pause during which David reached for the rewind button. Before he pressed it, Michael's voice started again.

"I don't hate you, you know. I just thought I should tell you that. To tell the truth, I almost called you a couple of days ago when I...uh...something reminded me of when I was a kid and you were always there...I miss the way you used to hold my hand even though I understand why you had to toughen up. I mean, every one knows I was a perfect child, but Brian was a huge pain in the ass. I'm surprised you didn't strangle him for all the stunts he used to pull."

David chuckled and pictured the mischievous twinkle in Michael's eye. "I nearly did," he replied to his absent brother. Somehow, just hearing Michael make a joke instead of talking in that distant way he'd been doing before he left seemed to make things feel a little less out of whack.

"I gotta go before the boss catches me slacking off. I only wanted everyone to know that I wasn't standing on the ledge of a tall building preparing for my final exit. Sorry about leaving a message, but I can't do more than that right now. I'll probably call again in about--"

The loud beep of the answering machine cut off Michael's voice and moved on to the next message.

Hold his hand? David thought. He didn't remember much of that from their childhood. He turned the machine off and reclined on the couch. It wasn't exactly a grand reunion, but at least he knew Michael was okay. But who was the boss he had mentioned?

"Absolutely not, Michael. I won't have you working so soon after being sick." Ben stabbed his piece of pancake so hard that his fork clicked loudly against the plate.

"But I feel fine. I can't just sit around."

"Read a book."

"Ben--"

"Do you realize how sick you were?"

"Yes, I realize. It's weird, actually. It came and went much faster than I would have thought."

"Because you were resting, which is what you should still be doing."

"I've been sleeping all morning and part of the afternoon! I can't take it anymore. Besides, the longer I wait to start, the longer I'll be in your hair."

Ben was slicing a pancake into nearly microscopic bits to give his hands something to do. As he focused on his decimated breakfast, he said, "I don't mind you being 'in my hair' that much."

"But--"

"In fact," he said, talking louder to drown out Michael's protest, "I like it." He risked a look at Michael to see if his meaning had been understood. By the sparkle in Michael's eyes, it had. Ben stood, picked up his plate, and reached for Michael's. "Well, I'll just get these dishes while you--" He stopped when Michael circled his wrist in a loose grip.

"I'll help. I think I can do the dishes without collapsing into an unconscious heap."

Ben nodded slowly, prolonging his contact with Michael. When, at last, Michael's hand slid way, Ben regretted the loss. "Thanks."

Ben puttered around, finding excuses to stay in the kitchen. His reward was the numerous times in which they brushed against each other. He could have waited until Michael had stepped away from the sink before reaching for that cabinet. Ben was sure that Michael could have walked a few inches to the left and avoided their hips brushing against each other.

By the time their silent dance was done, Ben felt as if he'd swum a few laps in the pool. He was hot and it wasn't explained by the clammy weather. Moisture trickled under his turtleneck shirt. Thank goodness for the thick denim of his pants. Otherwise, he might have embarrassed himself.

Finally, unable to take the torture of being so close to what he wanted without reaching out and grabbing it, he gave in to Michael's requests for something to do. After a frantic search through the disarray of Paul's old files, Ben offered his new temporary employee Paul's records. "These are pretty much a shambles. Paul was never big on organization. It will help you to figure out what's what if you can sort these out. Fair warning--his handwriting was for shit, so it might take you a while."

"That's okay, Ben. I want to put in the time. I was afraid that this project wouldn't really make up for what I owe you."

"Don't worry. I'll work you as hard as I can." When Michael's eyebrows shot up, Ben coughed to cover his embarrassment at his unintended double entendre and left the room before Michael could comment or notice that Ben's jeans had suddenly shrunk two sizes.

Michael was painstakingly typing up Paul's records on the laptop computer that Ben had retrieved from the library. To say that Paul's handwriting had been bad was a vast understatement. From a distance it was smooth and neat, but deciphering the actual words and letters was a monumental task that would probably break the most skilled linguist. Michael could feel his head throbbing from the effort of concentrating. He had chosen to work in the studio since the other rooms were so dusty that it would only be a matter of time before he coughed up a lung. He considered running out to buy a mask so that the dust wouldn't trigger another attack, but it would be difficult to explain that to Ben without being impolite. Instead, he picked the cleanest room and hoped for the best.

Squinting at the illegible scrawl and basking in the sunshine beating down on him through the large windows only made him feel lethargic. His thoughts began to drift. I could go find him, offer to repay my debts in other ways, and start stripping. He shook his head. As fun as it was to imagine, he wasn't quite ready to whore himself for his mother's blunder. I could complain about the heat in the house and strip off my shirt. His involuntary shiver reminded him that he could use a sweater to combat the dank coldness pervading Ben's home. Wherever they started, all of Michael's thoughts ended up with him out of his clothes and Ben on top of him. I could just stroll up to him and tell him that I want him to f--

"Michael?"

"What?" said Michael, overly loud in his surprised state.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," Ben said. "How's it coming?"

"Great. I'm getting a cramp in my hand, though." Michael didn't mention the other parts of his body that were also cramping.

Vic stood by patiently while his sister danced circles around him in the family kitchen. "I think you should tell them."

Debbie scrubbed furiously at an imaginary stain on the counter. "No way."

"It's obviously eating at you. Just tell them. Michael flew off the handle but David and Brian are a different breed. Maybe if everything's out in the open, you can deal with it and move on. You've been a basket case lately and I know it's not only about Michael."

Debbie paused in her cleaning. Every surface in the kitchen gleamed and twinkled with cleanliness and she had nothing left to do but face her brother. "I'm sick of apologizing!"

Vic shrugged. "Who the hell asked you to apologize? They're grown men. They can deal with it."

"But what if they blame me?" Debbie asked with a small voice. The dishtowel's woven threads were stretched to the snapping point in her tight grip.

"I'm not saying that I would have done what you did, but like you told me back then, I wasn't in your shoes. Tell them. They might get angry but they'll recover."

"What if they do like Michael did and shut me out?" Debbie tossed the dishtowel on the counter and opened the fridge. "You want some?" she asked with agitation.

Before Vic could refuse, he was holding a small ice cream container in one hand and a spoon in the other. He put both down and continued to argue with his sister. "Just do what you always do. Keep after them until they talk to you."

"It didn't work with Michael."

"Michael's like you in that way--always with the dramatic reactions. Just give him time to calm down, Sis. He'll come around."

Debbie picked up the ice cream and started eating it herself, though she didn't seem to be enjoying it in the least. "I wish I could believe that, Vic. I really do."

The water sluiced over Ben's body and he felt a pleasant burn in his arms and legs. While his body was occupied in the buoyant, warm pool, his mind was free to dwell on the past week.

One week. Only one week of seeing Michael. One week of hearing Michael's laugh that seemed to come from deep inside. He had looked for such laughter within himself and, miracle of miracles, had discovered it huddling in a dark corner, weak from lack of use. In Michael's presence and under his unconscious tutelage, Ben had exercised his laughter until it almost felt natural again.

There were other parts of himself that he was rediscovering. He had rebelled, at first, hiding when Michael was around by taking walks or cloistering himself in the long unused corners of his home. Somehow Michael always found him. No matter how much Ben wanted to bury himself--no matter how much he told himself that he had no right to expect more--he always felt relieved and happy when he heard Michael's voice approaching to drag him out of his isolation.

Only when darkness had fallen and Michael had made his way to the guesthouse did Ben's old doubts set in.

"What about me?" Paul would whisper in his ear. "How can you forget about me? You don't care that I'm gone, do you?" Rather than the malevolent joy Paul used to take in egging him on, there was a new aura of sadness. Ben hadn't quite figured out if this was better or worse.

They were sorting through a box of rare documents. Ben knew he didn't need to be there. He should leave Michael to his work and let him earn his keep. Every time Ben told himself that he wouldn't interfere, he would eventually make his way to the studio--ostensibly to check on Michael's progress, but really just to see him. Once he was in the room, he could hardly just stand there and chatter while Michael worked. Hours later when the afternoon sun was in the sky, he would wonder how the time could have passed so quickly.

They had developed the habit of sharing coffee on the veranda while the sun set. They did little talking but it never felt awkward. It only felt...right. The orange sun was dipping below the horizon when Michael turned to him and spoke.

"Do you ever leave this house?"

Ben continued to stare at the glowing ribbons of sunlight fading into the darkening sky while he tried to formulate an answer. He couldn't do it.

"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I shouldn't pry."

Ben suddenly worried that he would lose his last chance to do something he'd wanted to do for so long--to talk to someone--to really talk. "It's okay. It's a fair question."

Michael looked at Ben earnestly. "I didn't notice at first because I was sick, but I just realized that you go for walks around your property but you don't go anywhere, not even to the grocery store--"

"I have it delivered every week. They'll be here tomorrow."

"You have no phones."

"I don't like phones."

"And no one ever comes here."

Ben turned away. "I prefer to keep to myself."

"Is it the scars?"

Ben said with hesitation, "Michael, I'm not sure that we should--"

"They're not that bad," Michael said in a rush.

"Michael--"

"I barely notice them."

"Michael--"

"You're still very attractive."

"Michael..." Ben whispered. This time, there were no words from Michael to interrupt him. He swallowed hard around the dryness in his mouth.

Michael stared ahead. "I just thought I should tell you that. You don't have to say anything."

They continued to sit in companionable silence until dusk was fully upon them. Still, it wasn't enough time for Ben to respond in any coherent way. When the last remnants of light began to fade and the sky was turning a purplish hue, Ben stood.

"I think--" He wasn't sure what he thought. He stood and waited for the right words to take shape upon his lips. He was still thinking when Michael came and stood before him.

"Good night," Michael whispered and stood on tiptoe to brush a brief kiss on Ben's lips. He leaned back and looked up.

Ben's lips tingled and burned from the contact. The feeling spread across his face and swept across his body as if it had jumped a million nerve endings in a split second. He raised a hand to his mouth to capture the feeling before it dissipated. In the dark, he could hardly see Michael, but he could sense him waiting. What words were there for someone who touched him when no one else could? Blindly, he reached out and his fingertips touched Michael's shoulder.

"Michael," he said, practicing the name because it fit across his tongue better than it ever had before. Michael stepped towards him and their lips met.

Ben had kissed and been kissed before numerous times, but never had he poured his heart and soul into it like he did now. With Michael's silent permission, his hands caressed Michael's face, finally touching again the velvety, pale skin that had tempted him so often. Michael's lean form pressed into him and Ben forgot how to breathe until the ache in his lungs and the swimming feeling in his head reminded him to inhale. They parted and it was like tearing off a vital body part, so much did it ache. Ben was gasping and trying to understand how such a simple thing could affect him so strongly.

"This isn't right. How can you do this to me?" said Paul's disembodied voice.

Ben dropped his hands from Michael and was about to step away when Michael spoke out of the darkness.

"Did you hear that?" Michael asked with worry.

For the first time in a while, Ben thought that he might not be insane after all. "What did you hear?"

"Uh...never mind. It must have been the wind." Michael took another step back. "I guess I should go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow morning?"

"Yes," replied Ben. "Yes, of course."

"Maybe we could talk some more?"

"Uh...Sure, Michael." While Ben agreed, his mind worked out how he could avoid the conversation. Tomorrow might be a good day for one of his long walks in the wood. As much as he wanted to share his burden, he wasn't sure that Michael was ready for the heaviness of the load. How could anyone be? Michael couldn't possibly know where his curiosity might lead him.

"Good night, Ben."

Ben was startled when Michael stepped forward and hugged him. Like a thirsty plant, he drank in the sensation, finally realizing that as much as he wanted the kiss, he wanted this too. As much as he shouldn't have it, he needed the feeling of warmth and acceptance. He craved the feeling of loving arms around him. He wanted so much that it was impossible to list it all. All too soon, the hug was over and Michael was walking away towards the guesthouse. Ben followed the disappearing figure until it became one with the night shadows. He wrapped his arms around himself and felt good for a little while.

A cold hand touched his shoulder and he spun around. Paul's face was a mask of grief. "You can't do this to me. You can't," Paul whimpered, a shadow of his former self.

"Ben!" Paul shouted at Ben's departing back when his lover rushed back into the house. "Where are you going?"

From his position behind the tree, Michael watched. The lights from inside the house leaked through the window and framed Ben's body as he spun and faced the empty air. He was hugging himself as if to let go would risk his body flying into pieces. After a moment of staring, Ben hurriedly entered the house. What had seemed like empty air, seemed full for a moment. Michael had the briefest impression of a man standing there. It was gone in a flash and he chastised himself for letting his imagination get the best of him.

---

Chapter 12

Michael's body ached at the touch of Ben tracing and retracing the lines of his body. Ben rained down wet, hungry, whisper soft angel kisses on Michael's face, neck, chest, and stomach. Michael lay beneath Ben, surrounded by him, filled with him, absorbed by him, and deeply penetrated by him. Michael tilted his hips up slightly so that Ben could penetrate him deeper as he wrapped his legs tightly around Ben's waist. Ben let out a low deep moan that reverberated through the room. Michael licked his bottom lip and then sucked on it as he bit back his moans. They turned to low pitched groans, then reached the level of actual screams of pleasure, delight, hunger, and pent up emotion.

Ben let out an audible gasp as he watched in utter fascination while Michael reveled in the pleasure being generated by their bodies. Ben looked down at him and Michael could see that Ben was on the verge of tears. His eyes brimmed with them, but they were held back by the shaking of his body as he glided effortlessly in and out of Michael.

Ben closed his eyes as Michael reached up and laced his fingers through the damp softness of Ben's hair, gently tugging as he reached the nape, exposing the tender flesh of Ben's neck. Michael rose up ever so slightly and devoured the soft, sensitive skin he found there, biting, sucking, and licking every inch of it, even the scars that traversed their way down one side. Ben buried his face in Michael's shoulder and moaned greedily as he drove himself ever deeper into Michael's tight, hungry, clenching ass.

Michael lay back, pulling Ben down. At first the kiss was shallow like a hand skimming the surface of cool water, and then, by inches, the kiss became deeper as their tongues danced an excruciatingly slow tango in each other's mouths. Michael could feel the hammering of Ben's heart. Their bodies were covered in an ever increasing misting of sweat. Their bodies practically glowed in the glare of the fireplace.

Michael could feel himself being pulled closer and closer to the edge of his control. His body was an inferno and still he felt himself being scalded by Ben's touch as the other man explored his body, and by Ben's kisses which covered his face and mouth with wet warmth. Ben's body was covered with sweat showing off the muscles beneath his skin to full effect; Michael's moans kept getting louder and louder.

Finally Michael could hold back no longer. His toes curled, his back arched, and his head was buried deeply in the soft, down pillow underneath it. His body was one gigantic raw nerve. He felt everything as he came all over Ben's stomach and chest. So explosive was his release that some of it even landed on the corner of his mouth...

Michael woke up to one of the hardest orgasms he'd experienced in his life. His head was thrown back, his hands clutched fists full of bed sheet, and his breath came to him in quick, audible gasps mixed with loud, quaking moans. His whole body shook with desire and memory. He lay there for a good ten minutes afterward, a shivering mass of satisfied flesh. He found it completely unbelievable that he could come this hard without ever having touched himself.

As he fumbled around in the dark for the lamp next to the bed, he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of someone in his room. After his hand found the lamp switch, he realized he was alone and attributed it to the dream he'd just ha. Michael looked down at his sweaty, naked body and laughed softly to himself at the mess he'd just made. If Ben could see me now, he thought to himself as he got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take a much-needed cold shower.

Even while the cold water shocked his sensitive skin, Michael was still trying to recover from the effects of the dream. He could still taste Ben's tongue in his mouth; he could still feel Ben's greedy hands traveling the length of his body as they explored, traced, and claimed every inch of him. He could still feel Ben's long, thick, cock pulsing inside him, filling him up.

Michael closed his eyes and traced with his trembling hands the route Ben's had taken in his dream. He licked his lips, still savoring the sensation of the real thing--the kiss they'd shared tonight, when the sun was setting and the world was covered in the orange-gold it has right before darkness descends, creating a new night of possibilities.

Michael's eyes snapped open when what felt like light fingers traced the line up his spine to the nape of his neck. He shook his head and the feeling was gone. You're so pathetic Mikey, get a hold of yourself...It was only a kiss...One, absolutely fan-fucking-tasic kiss.

Ben woke up the next morning not dreading the rising of the sun. This was happening to him more often as time passed and Michael was near. It wasn't a dream. He'd actually kissed Michael last night, had actually held him in his arms and felt the smaller man's body respond with a resounding yes to his every touch. Those lips, which had tortured him in his dreams since they met, had finally been his to claim as his own, if only for a moment in time. He had been consumed as he never had been before. He'd been touched in a way no one had ever touched him before and as much as it thrilled him, it also scared the living shit out of him.

"Good morning baby," Ben heard Paul say from across the room.

Ben sat up and asked, "What're you doing here?" though he knew the answer.

Paul spoke in a low, menacing voice. "I paid a visit to our house guest last night."

"Why?" Ben asked.

"Because I can," Paul said, the sadness in his voice unbearable.

"Leave him out of it!"

"How can I, when I see you two all over each other? You want him and he wants you but you're mine, damn it. Mine," Paul said before fading away.

Brian had played the message from Michael repeatedly. He smiled to himself because Michael sounded more like himself than he had in a long time. Actually, he sounded like he used to before their father had taken off. It wasn't so much what Michael had said but the way in which he'd said it. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe all Michael really needed was some time to himself, where he didn't have to worry about hurting someone's feelings or disappointing someone all the fucking time.

For the first time since he found that note in Michael's apartment, Brian actually held out hope that his brother would come back--that this was just something Michael needed to in order to move past whatever it was that had laid claim to him since their father left. Brian's own feelings for his father were deeply rooted in the effect his father's leaving had on the other people in his life--his mother and David, but especially Michael. Something had died in Michael when their father walked out--something that time and distance had never been able to repair in his brother--something which caused Michael to shrink into himself in away no one had ever been able to pull him out of before.

After listening to the message one last time, Brian erased it. Michael would be fine, and if Michael were fine then everything was going to be fine. Maybe even him.

Debbie let Vic listen to the message just to make sure she was hearing correctly. She was worried her judgment was a bit off.

"He sounds fine. Actually he sounds great," Vic told his sister.

"Yeah, I know, but he didn't give us any details about how he's doing and why he's been gone so long," Debbie said, worried.

"Sis, at least he called. What more do you want from him?" Vic asked, getting frustrated with her.

"I want him to come home where he belongs."

"He's not ready to come home yet and he seems happy where he is. Let him get himself together and when he's ready, he'll come home, " Vic replied.

"He's my baby, Vic, and I want him home," Debbie said, getting pissed.

"He's not a fucking baby. He's a grown man and it's about time you started treating like one," Vic said, walking out before his sister had a chance to respond.

Ben came downstairs to the smell of coffee, bacon, and eggs. The delivery from the grocery must have come already as he couldn't remember having any eggs or bacon in the house. When he walked into the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of Michael in a pair of baggy shorts and a tight, white wife beater. His jaw nearly hit the floor when Michael turned around and Ben saw that the shorts were open in the front and folded down while the wife beater had ridden up in the front, exposing a flash of creamy, decadent flesh.

"Your breakfast is ready, Mr. Bruckner," Michael chimed, smiling from ear to ear as he registered the effect his outfit was having on Ben.

Ben blinked hard a few times to stop himself from staring. "Huh?" was all he managed to get out.

"I said your breakfast is ready. Sit down." Michael walked over to the table and placed Ben's plate and cup of coffee down on the place mat.

"You didn't have to do this Michael," Ben said softly, trying to remember where the table was.

"I know, but a dream I had last night inspired me and I woke up with all this energy," Michael replied, walking back over to the stove and making his plate.

"Must have been some dream," Ben said, taking in Michael's rear view as he sat down. "Tell me about it."

Michael blushed and smiled to himself before answering. "Let's just say it was informative and leave it at that," Michael hedged, turning around with a wicked smile on his face.

"You just can't say something like that and then leave it there," Ben insisted, taking a sip of his coffee.

Michael took a seat across from Ben. "Yeah, I kinda think I can."

"Michael, come on. Now you've really got my interest piqued." Ben grinned, glad to be sitting down. Michael looked sexy as hell with that devilish smile on his face.

"Good. There's something to be said for anticipation," Michael said, blatantly flirting.

"Michael--" Ben stopped short, his voice silenced by the desire to reach across the table, pull Michael over it, and kiss him until their lips were raw.

"I forgot the juice. Orange or apple?" Michael asked, getting up and walking over to the fridge.

"Orange," Ben replied, his voice coming back to him momentarily.

Ben watched in silent admiration as Michael walked over to retrieve the juice. The tightness of his pants was getting uncomfortable and he was trying to adjust himself when Michael turned around and caught him. He was sure his face must have been at least fifteen shades of red. He felt his scars tighten as he blushed uncontrollably. In a way, it was funny because he hadn't blushed in years. He almost thought he'd lost the ability to do so. He was about to try and explain when Michael placed the juice on the table and took a seat without saying a word, as if he hadn't seen a thing. Ben gave an inward sigh of relief that Michael was just going to let it slide.

Michael was trying with all of his might not to burst out laughing at Ben's misery. He sat down and started toying with his food in an effort to avoid looking at Ben and losing his composure. "So, Ben, what's up with you this morning?" Michael asked, bursting out laughing.

Ben found the laughter was contagious and he laughed as well. It felt so good to laugh like this with someone again. It felt so good Ben found tears rolling down his face.

Michael reached over and rubbed the back of Ben's hand lightly, tracing one of the scars with his forefinger as the laughter abated. Ben closed his eyes and absorbed the warmth of Michael's hand. He drank it in as a man deprived of water would drink it in--with greedy gulps. Ben opened his eyes when Michael took that warmth away.

His eyes opened in time to see Michael get up and walk the short distance to the back of Ben's chair. Michael placed his hands on Ben's shoulders and began to massage him slowly.

"God, your shoulders are in knots," Michael whispered in Ben's ear.

Ben stiffened as he felt the moist air next to his ear. "God, that feels great," Ben said slowly, barely able to move now, for fear Michael would stop.

David arrived at his mother's house a little harried. He'd been with a patient when his mother had called his office. He hurried through the exam and left the office as soon as he could. He hated these cryptic calls from his mother. She always made it sound as if the world were about to end. Most of the time she just wanted to get her sons together for a sit down dinner or something. There were even times she'd called him, sounding all mysterious, but when he arrived it would be nothing more than a new addition to the menu she wanted to test on him or some wine she wanted him to approve for her, because he liked that kind of thing. Even so, he always found himself rushing over after one of her calls. The last two calls he'd gotten from her were, in fact, life-changing events in all of their lives--first the news about his father and then the news about Michael leaving.

David wasn't really up to listening to any more bad news but there he was in the living room, his briefcase in hand, waiting for the arrival of his baby brother. It struck David as odd; he hadn't seen or really talked to Brian since Michael had left. Standing there, he heard Uncle Vic's voice telling him that for all these years, Michael, and not their mother, had been the buffer between them. He hadn't wanted to believe it then, but, standing there, he finally understood what his uncle had been saying.

He knew with a certainty that scared him, that he and Brian were too much alike to ever really get along. David let out a small laugh as he felt his baby brother bump into him on his way into the house.

Brian had listened with a sort of deafness he'd acquired over the years when it came to practically everyone in his family save Michael and, on the rare occasion, his Uncle Vic. So when his mother insisted that he come over after work, he said yes without really having listened to her, but having heard.

He wasn't looking forward to seeing, let alone having to talk to, David. He loved his big brother but could only really stomach him in small doses and Michael wasn't going to be there to take the edge off the rest of the family. Brian looked in his desk drawer to see if he had anything handy to take the edge off chemically, but came up empty. He knew he'd have to stop at home first. There was no way he'd be able to deal with his family completely sober. He was going to need some kind of buzz to deal with whatever new catastrophe had raised its ugly head.

Maybe Michael had the right idea after all--just make up his mind to pick the fuck up and leave. But then he'd never been as brave as Michael. None of them had.

Debbie came downstairs, wringing her hands. She didn't know if this was the right thing to do, but it was long overdue. She'd been thinking about it ever since Vic had brought it up a few weeks ago. Even though she'd been defensive about it, she knew he was right.

She looked and saw her sons sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. She took a deep breath and went into the living room to do what she knew she had to do.

"So, Ma, we're here. What happened now?" Brian asked after spying his mother.

Debbie took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. "I have something I need to tell you boys."

"If it's bad news, I think I'm gonna need a drink first," David said, trying to lighten the mood.

"David, please, this is hard enough as it is," Debbie argued. "It's the reason Michael left."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Brian asked, paying attention now. "You know why he left and you're just now telling us?"

"Give her a chance to explain," David interrupted, leaning forward and touching Brian's knee.

Debbie started slowly, already regretting what she was about to say. "It was those letters your father left Michael. He told him something I didn't want you boys to know...Your father told Michael that I stopped him from seeing you boys."

"Was he lying?" David asked, with a glimmer of hope in his voice.

"No. It was a few months after he left. He called a few times and asked to see you boys. At first I didn't answer his calls or return any of his letters. When I finally did, I told him it would be better if he didn't see you boys and he agreed," Debbie said, tears welling in her eyes.

"And Michael confronted you about this?" Brian asked, deadpan, his buzz effectively gone.

"Kind of," Debbie replied. "He was angry and then he closed himself off. When I couldn't take it anymore I did something stupid to kinda win him over again. I stole something valuable, although I didn't know it was valuable at the time. I thought it was garbage but it was Captain Astro so I knew Michael would love it."

"I gotta get outta here." Brian got up to leave, but David stopped him.

David was pissed, but it was a controlled anger. "I don't give a fuck about what you and Dad decided to do all those years ago even though it might have been easier on us if he had been around for some of the hard shit. What I'm pissed about is that you and Dad laid all this shit on Michael. No wonder he left."

"Why tell us now?" Brian hissed.

"I thought you should know," Debbie replied, trying to steel herself against their anger.

"You thought we should know?" Brian laughed. "Maybe we should have known before Michael took off. Maybe, just maybe we could have helped him deal with it. Maybe he might still be here. Maybe..." Brian tailed off when he saw Vic standing in the doorway.

"That's enough you two. No need to beat her up about it. She's been doing enough of that herself," Vic told them, going over to his sister.

"Of course it's all about her. Right, Uncle Vic? Fuck me. Fuck David. And especially fuck Michael. As long as she's not upset," Brian complained, turning to David now. "Let go. I'm fucking outta here."

"Yeah, let's get outta here. I need a drink," David agreed, getting his things.

"So that's it. I lose all my boys over this?" Debbie cried, bursting into tears.

"You don't get it, Ma. This has nothing to do with Dad and everything to do with Michael," David explained, turning around looking at his mother and uncle. "Michael's out there somewhere trying to make up for something you did to get brownie points with him. He might never come back because you were too selfish to let him be pissed off at you for a little while until he could figure things out. I love you, Ma, but sometimes you don't see. He's not a little fucking boy anymore. Captain Astro can't fix everything."

"She's not the only one who doesn't see," Vic said in defense of his sister. "You two are just as guilty of not seeing Michael."

"Yeah, but we're not his fucking mother," Brian retorted and left.

"David..." Debbie started weakly. "I know it was wrong. I'm paying for it, aren't I?"

"No, Ma. Michael's paying for it," David disagreed and followed Brian out the door.

Michael massaged Ben slowly until he could feel the knots one by one release their hold over Ben. The other man moaned softly in his throat just the way he had in Michael's dream. Michael stepped back a little because his shorts were now a giant sized tent and he needed to relieve some of the pressure before something occurred that he'd rather not. Well, he wanted it to happen but he wanted Ben's actual participation for it to happen this time.

"You should stop now, Michael," Ben said rather breathlessly.

"Why?" Michael asked, bending down and whispering the word slowly into Ben's ear.

"Oh, God..." Ben uttered under his stilled breath.

"Sounds like you don't want me to stop," Michael said before licking the outside rim of Ben's ear.

Ben willed himself to move but couldn't. "It's not that I want you to...It's that you have to."

"I'm sorry." Michael removed his hands and stepped back further from the chair. "I thought...I'm an idiot...I'm sorry..."

"Michael...Please. Don't. It's not you. I swear--" Ben stopped short.

"I took too much for granted after...last night. It's not your fault...This happens to me all the time...It won't happen again," Michael said as he left the kitchen and headed for the studio.

How fucking pathetic can you be? Always leading with your fucking heart instead of your head. The kiss meant nothing...it was just a kiss. Do your fucking job and leave the man to his house and his life. Go back home to the same old shit and...and...

The words thundered in Michael's head as his practically ran into the studio. He closed the door and started working. He'd taken too much for granted again. He took politeness for attraction. He'd taken a physical response for something more. Ben didn't want him in that way. He wanted...Michael didn't know what the hell Ben wanted, but from what just happened in the kitchen it was obvious Ben didn't want him.

Ben sat in the kitchen with his eyes closed, listening to the quickening pace as Michael retreated into the studio. When he heard the door close, he jumped a little. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw something, anything. He wanted to rush in there, take Michael in his arms, and hold him and kiss him until he kissed it all better. Instead, he just sat there, eyes closed, seeing nothing but Paul's face.

Later in the afternoon, Ben ventured into the studio under the guise of offering lunch but really to see if Michael was all right. When he opened the door, he saw Michael fast at work. He had his shirt off while moving boxes and Ben's breath caught once again at just how beautiful Michael was.

Michael stopped on his way to the other side of the room once he felt Ben's presence. He dropped the box, walked over to the little love seat, and put on his shirt. He looked across the room at Ben and then walked over to him.

"Something you need?" Michael asked, his face blank.

"I wanted to know if you wanted lunch," Ben replied, trying to read Michael's expression but coming up empty. Maybe if he knew Michael better this wouldn't be so fucking hard.

"I'm not hungry. Anything else I can help you with?" Michael asked blandly.

"Michael...Please..." Ben started.

"If there's nothing else, I should get back to work," Michael turned to get back to his task.

"Could you stop please?" Ben asked in frustration. "I want to talk to you."

"There's no need. You made things perfectly clear this morning," Michael responded, turning back to face Ben.

"That's just the point. I didn't," Ben confessed. He walked past Michael and took a seat on the stool in front of Paul's drafting table.

"I made a mistake. I told you it won't happen again," Michael said, moving so that he could keep Ben in sight.

"Would you please shut up for a minute and just come here," Ben growled, holding out his hand for Michael to take.

Michael walked over to Ben, took the other man's hand, and moved until he was standing between Ben's legs. Ben reached up and traced the line of Michael's jaw with his finger, his brilliant blue eyes staring for what felt like forever. Then he moved in slowly and kissed Michael softly on the lips. So soft, in fact, that Michael almost thought it another dream, this time a waking one. That thought soon faded as Michael felt Ben's tongue tracing the lines of his lips. Michael opened his mouth to receive it and then felt himself melting into the larger man. He slowly brought his arms up and put them around Ben's neck.

Ben wrapped his arms around Michael's waist. He could feel Michael's erection rubbing against his stomach and repositioned himself slightly so that Michael could feel his erection against his leg. Michael moaned hungrily into Ben's mouth.

Suddenly there was a crash so loud that it brought them out of the spell being cast. Michael looked over in amazement at what had fallen. He was sure he had placed that box near the back of the shelf. There was no way it should have fallen. And yet, there it lay on the floor, its contents all over the place.

"Come have a drink with me little brother?" David offered, leading Brian to his car.

"Why?" Brian didn't look at David, but allowed himself to be led.

"Because I need one and I don't want to drink alone," David said, releasing his brother's arm.

"I don't want to talk about what just happened in there," Brian insisted after considering David for a minute.

"Good, because neither do I," David assured his brother while opening his car door.

Brian opened the passenger's door and asked, "So, are you looking to get buzzed or shit faced?"

David responded with a smile, "I think the occasion calls for getting knock down drunk, don't you?"

"Then let's go back to my place," Brian suggested.

"Why your place?" David asked.

"Less shit to break than in that museum you live in," Brian said with a laugh.

"Your place it is," David agreed, getting in.

Debbie looked spitefully at her brother. It was all his fault she'd said anything in the first fucking place. Now all of her sons were pissed at her and she could do nothing to fix it. She wanted to get up and strangle Vic, but she stayed where she was and glared at him.

"I told you," Debbie said through clenched teeth.

"So the choices you made are all suddenly my fault? How convenient," Vic said unwilling to play the scapegoat in this little drama.

"You told me to tell them," Debbie whined.

"I suggested you tell them...and, as I recall, you said you weren't going to. If I'm not mistaken, I'm also the one who suggested you tell them when Charles started calling, wanting to see them all those years ago. You didn't listen to me then, so don't blame me for this shit now." Vic got up and went into the kitchen.

"They hate me," Debbie cried, tearing up again.

"Didn't you listen to them at all? It's not about Charles. They're pissed about Michael...and they have a right to be," Vic said, taking a sip of the beer he grabbed from the fridge. "You made some hard choices when they were growing up. They get that and Michael would have too if you had given the kid half a chance. What they're all pissed about are the shitty choices you make now. You're still treating them like boys, but they're all men."

---

Chapter 13

"Maybe your house is haunted," joked Michael while he picked up the contents of the fallen box. He looked up at the bookshelf. It seemed to be leaning slightly forward. Fortunately, none of the spilled items were breakable. He repacked them, set the box aside, and examined the shelf a little more closely. "This could probably use some more bracing in the back." He turned to look at Ben for confirmation and was appalled to find the man looking a sickly shade of green.

"Michael, get away from the shelf," said Ben. His voice grated like sharp rocks rubbing against each other.

Michael looked at the shelf unit. "Really, it's not that bad. I can see where the bracket is a little loose. This shelf is a little shaky." Michael jiggled the wood to demonstrate. "When the shelf leaned forward, the box must have slid to the front until it fell. I don't know how I didn't notice before."

Ben closed the distance between them and took Michael by the arm. He seemed to be quivering with tension. "I'd really feel much better if you were a few feet away from there." He pulled on Michael a bit hastily.

Michael stumbled, but he made no attempt to free himself. "Why? The other shelves seem fine. Most of the books are small and light. They aren't likely to come flying--" Before he finished his prediction, Ben yanked his arm unceremoniously and their chests collided with a thud. Michael caught his breath and looked up into Ben's blue eyes. "If you wanted to get closer, all you had to do was ask..." He was confused when Ben pushed him away and turned him by the shoulders. Two heavy books lay on the floor where he'd just been standing. "What the--?" Michael stepped back, directly into Ben's chest. "Forget what I just said. I think it's time to clean one of the other rooms and start working there, instead."

Ben circled Michael's waist and leaned his face into Michael's hair. His heart was pounding like a racehorse and his hands were shaking. His voice, however, was clear and decisive. "I'll have to get a contractor to take a look at it to secure it."

Michael turned in Ben's arms. "You don't have to do that. If you have a ladder--"

"No way. With your luck, the ladder will split into three pieces."

"But if I fall, you can come rescue me," Michael said teasingly. His hand crept up Ben's chest in a hesitant caress when a faint smile creased the man's face. He would do anything to erase the look of concern from Ben's face--if only he knew what had caused it. A minor household accident hardly seemed enough to explain the level of Ben's anxiety. "You can sweep me up in your arms," Michael added, willing away the frown lines on Ben's brow.

"Not with my limp, I won't."

"How about if I sweep you up in MY arms?"

"I'd like that," Ben said, all joking aside. He bent his head to kiss Michael's lips when the shelf rattled and shook. "Not in here, though."

"Where?" asked Michael with eagerness. The pull towards Ben was growing stronger by the minute and he was starting to get impatient with all the interruptions.

"Later. Tonight. I'll fix up one of the bedrooms."

"Tonight?" Michael questioned. "What about right now? What's wrong with your room or the guest house? I'm not picky." Every instinct told him that this moment could be now or never.

Ben's lips tightened and he dug in his heels. "Tonight will be better. I promise. Meanwhile, why don't you leave?"

Michael thought he had misheard. "You're kicking me out of your house?"

Ben brushed Michael's cheek with gentle fingers. His hand slipped down Michael's back in one smooth movement. "Not a chance. Paul's store has more of his ledgers and more inventory there. You can sort through that. While you're in town, maybe you can call the contractor."

Michael was barely keeping track of the conversation because he was so wrapped up in the feel of Ben touching him. He leaned forward and quietly said, "I can call from here. I do have a cell phone, you know," as if he were whispering sweet nothings.

"Oh, sure. I almost forgot. Anyway, you can bring the stuff you finished with down to the store. It's been closed for a month, since the last manager quit. There are still open orders that need to be dealt with. Before he quit, the manager sent out letters informing the customers of the delay, but I'm sure that none of them expected it to be this long." Ben took Michael by the shoulders and set him back firmly. "You go and we'll continue this later on."

"But--"

"Tonight. I promise."

Michael's suspicions were still hovering in his mind. He couldn't let go of the notion that Ben was placating him. "How do I know you won't change your mind?"

Ben drank in Michael's big brown eyes, so open and filled with emotion that he could get lost in them. "There's no way I'm changing my mind." He kissed Michael again, keeping it brief and maintaining his resolve. "Now go."

"Okay," said Michael, all doubt tucked away. He hurried to change and run his errands. He wished the day away so that evening would come faster.

"To dear old Dad," said Brian. His tongue tripped over almost all of the words, but his meaning was as clear as muddied water. Luckily, his companion was just as drunk.

"To Dad," David agreed before clinking glasses with his brother. "You're a bad influence, Bri."

"Who me?" asked Brian while pouring another finger of scotch in each of their glasses.

"Getting drunk in the middle of the day is not my usual thing. Unlike you, I actually like to be sober and in control most of the time."

"Fucking boring," Brian pronounced.

"Fuck you," said David amiably.

"Besides, I'm capable of being perfectly sober when I need to and being sloshed at high noon isn't my style either."

David looked across the room at the window. "It's a little past noon."

"Really?" said Brian, while squinting at the sun and trying to measure its position to the sky. "I think that deserves a toast." He clinked glasses with David and took another swallow. "She's a pain in the ass, isn't she?"

David nodded. They needed no further words to know that they were talking about their mother. "Uncle Vic had a point, though."

"Please," Brian sneered. "You always take her side. Why don't you stop acting like a martyr, stop blaming yourself for everything and assuming that you're the only one who can fix it. Act like the rest of us and blame it on the other guy."

David shook his head in remembrance. "Did you see her face before we left? She looked awful."

Brian shrugged. "Everyone in this family likes to act like the world is caving in." He smirked. "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" he said in a mock falsetto. "Give me a fucking break. I wish the sky would fucking fall. Maybe people would stop bitching for a while. Ma will forgive and forget that we made her cry. Michael will forget that we disappointed him. I'll forget that you're a pompous ass."

David ignored Brian's usual volley of insults. "You don't really believe that she'll forget it." He poured himself a third drink. When some of it missed the glass, he decided to put a cap on his drinking. "No matter how much of a bad-ass you try to be, you know that you care if she's upset--just like me. You think the sky is falling, too. You just try to act like it doesn't hurt when it smacks you on your hard head. You're emotionally barred."

"So, what do you propose I do about these deep-seated emotional barriers, O Wise One?"

David leaned back against the sofa. "I don't give a shit. I plan on not thinking about anyone but myself for today. Then I'll go talk to Mom. You're free to come along if you'd like. For now, I'm going to enjoy being hammered out of my skull." His voice drifted off and he closed his eyes.

"What a cheap drunk," Brian said to his sleeping brother. He nursed the drink in his hand and thought about his brother's words. Maybe David was right about him caring. Talking about it didn't really solve anything, though. All those people out there who spilled their feelings were like the equivalent of crashed oil tankers. Their emotions tainted everything around them, complicating everything. After the spill, their load was lighter, but everyone else was left with the nasty job of cleaning up. And what happened to the one who did the spilling? They patched up the holes and collected even more of their messy emotions until the next disaster.

"What bullshit," Brian said out loud before finishing the rest of his drink.

Michael wrestled with the storeroom lock until it popped open. "Wow," he exclaimed when a flip of the light switch revealed the contents of the room. The storeroom was a total contrast to the one at Ben's house. Every item was placed carefully on broad shelves. They were sorted and tagged with relentless organization. "Not much for me to do here," Michael said to himself. He placed the first box of several that he had packed in the car and left to bring in the next.

A few hours later, long after Michael had figured out Paul's system, he had been able to store many of the items in their proper place. Ben would need to hire someone who was knowledgeable about restoring some of the pieces that were damaged, but at least they'd be able to figure out what was what and if anyone owned the item. He'd had a little experience doing the books for his mother's restaurant. From the information he had gathered from Paul's accounts, this had been a profitable business. It was a shame that it had been closed for so long. Once Michael had done everything he could do, he started wandering around the large shop. Here and there he found collectibles that interested him--a handmade train set from 19th century France, a wind-up, mechanical dog that barked and walked, several books about the art of drawing. Every topic that he could imagine was represented. He sat behind the counter and looked around. He could imagine what it was like when the store was open and bustling with customers. It would be a kid's dream to look at some of the antique toys that dotted the shelves.

As he had done several times before, Michael wondered what Paul was like. He knew that Paul had been attractive, from the few pictures around the house, but his curiosity wasn't nearly satisfied. Who was the man who found all these rare or old things and restored them to their former glory? Paul must have been wonderful to leave Ben so devastated by his death.

Rather than give himself a headache by dwelling on all these questions for which he had no answer, Michael grabbed his jacket and the accounting books and walked out of the store. He had just locked the door when a twittering voice spoke to him. Behind him stood a middle-aged woman accompanied by a down-trodden man. The woman did all the talking.

"Oh, I'm so glad that someone is taking this place over. The boarded up windows have been quite an eyesore on an otherwise lovely street. Welcome to the neighborhood, young man. My name is Livinia Price and this is my husband Donald Price."

"Hello," said Michael. He would have loved to just walk away, but Livinia seemed ready and willing to chatter for a while.

"The previous owner did run a wonderful business. Why, I did all the shopping for my grandchildren, right here! Isn't that right, Donald?"

The down-trodden Donald nodded and made a grunt of assent.

Livinia babbled on, oblivious to the fact that she was the sole participant in the conversation. "It was quite a scandal when the last owner met his demise. Have you heard?"

Michael shook his head and waited for Livinia's inevitable telling of the tale.

She leaned close to him and whispered, "They say it was murder." She looked at Michael and smiled with victory. "Ah, yes. I see I've surprised you." Her voice dropped even lower. "They say that his lover intentionally drove them off the side of the road in a fit of drunken jealousy. Not only that, but the murdering lover got away with it because he was so badly injured. They say that his face was burned off when the car caught on fire and that he's so grotesque, one can barely look at him. Isn't that right, Donald?"

Donald nodded and mumbled a word or two in support of his wife while he stared at the sidewalk.

Livinia plumped herself up. "I hope he rots in that old house of his. I say he only got what he deserved."

Michael attempted to choose his words carefully, but in the end, his temper took over. "I think you're a vicious gossip who shouldn't spread her shit when she knows nothing. Isn't that right, Donald?"

Donald murmured in agreement and looked away while Livinia turned a nice shade of pale.

Michael waited for her outraged response, but the woman seemed so angry that her bitter words were stuck in her craw. He walked to the car and got in. No wonder Ben doesn't want to come out. If this was what he had to deal with, the judgment of people who didn't even know him on top of his own self-judgment about whatever really happened, it was no surprise that he kept to himself.

Michael started the car. A thump on the hood made him look to the right. Livinia was purple-faced and yelling while waving around an umbrella. Donald stood behind her with a smile on his face. He gave Michael a thumbs up, which Michael returned with a wave. Livinia whipped around to face her husband, but by then Donald had resumed his humble pose.

Ben took one last look around the room. It was spotless and clean smelling. The sheets were fresh after having the musty odor laundered out with a hefty helping of detergent. He had set out a few candles. When they were lit, he started worrying that it looked like the inside of a vampire's crypt or a church, so he removed some of them. He changed the sheets because the first set looked too ordinary. By the time he was done with the room, he was ready to burn it down and go with Michael's suggestion of the guest house.

Then he paced and wished he hadn't been so quick to send Michael away. Who knew that job might take? What if Michael got sick again? All the other what if's vied for attention while his stress level and his blood pressure climbed. He busied himself by starting dinner even though it was a little early. In less time than it took for him to calm down, a roast chicken, sweet peas, baby carrots, and baked potatoes were ready and waiting. All he needed was Michael.

An hour later, Ben's worry was at a fever pitch. He considered walking into town to find Michael, but it was a six-mile hike. Despite not wanting to look overeager, he went out to the front porch and waited there. Paul followed.

"He probably left. He probably had enough of your emotional shit and went home."

Ben ignored the taunting, even when Paul got louder.

"What is there here for him? He'll never love you like I did. You should tell him to go."

Ben sighed with tiredness. When would it all end?

Paul gleefully answered Ben's unspoken question. "Never. I already told you but you won't listen."

Ben turned to Paul. "What is it that you want from me?"

Paul looked surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"What do you want? I was alone and miserable and that didn't make you happy. Now I'm not alone and you're even less happy. What the fuck do you want? What do I have to do to make you give me some peace?"

Paul's face transformed into something ugly with his fury. "You want peace? You want to be happy? Well, you know what? So do I! You know what else? You can't do a damn thing about it because I--am--dead. Fix that and then I'll be happy and leave you alone!"

Ben felt the cold that was freezing him fade. He watched the road and continued to wait.

Michael pulled up to the house and saw Ben sitting on the porch with a woebegone expression on his face. He hopped out of the car and walked up the steps. "Were you waiting for me?" He was startled when Ben grabbed him around the waist and leaned his head against Michael's stomach. Ben felt ice cold. "We better go inside before we both turn into ice cubes." He pulled away from Ben and tugged him up. "Come on."

Inside, they headed to the dining room. Michael longed to take a shower and wash away the dust and sweat, but he was reluctant to leave Ben in his withdrawn state. They had shared many a quiet moment, but tonight it lacked the feeling of peaceful comfort and felt more like a gaping hole. The smells wafting from the kitchen were delicious, but neither of them was in a rush to eat. Instead, Michael kept up a running monologue to fill the empty spaces while Ben sat at the dining room table in silence.

"Paul must have had two personalities. His store was super organized. I guess he liked to be a little loose at home."

Ben nodded. "Yeah, he always said that he liked to let his hair down here." He propped his head against his hand and fiddled with the table cloth.

It had only been a few minutes, but Michael couldn't take it anymore. "May I use your shower?"

"Sure. You know where it is."

"I don't remember. Maybe you could come with me."

Ben looked up at Michael and he seemed a bit dazed. "Come with you?"

"Yes." Michael took Ben by the hand and pulled him out of the chair. "Let's go."

Upstairs, Michael headed to the guest room. Ben stopped him. "No. Let's go in here." He led Michael into an empty room. Unlike some of the other rooms, this one smelled fresh and clean. A light breeze stirred the curtains.

"You've been busy," Michael said.

"I wanted somewhere...new, without any baggage."

"Okay," Michael said gently. "I have no problem with leaving baggage behind. Is that a bathroom through there?" he asked, pointing at a closed door.

"Yes."

Michael ran his hand up Ben's arm in a coaxing manner. "I could use someone to wash my back...and all those other hard to reach places."

Ben shook his head slowly. "I think I'll just wait for you in here."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Michael hid his disappointment rather well, he thought. He entered the bathroom, careful to leave the door partially open. If Ben wasn't going to come in, he would still get an eyeful as a preamble for later.

Paul stood in the corner, out of view of the bathroom door. "You're going to regret this. It's not too late to stop it."

"Go away Paul. I don't want to listen," Ben sat down after lighting the candles. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Michael through the open doorway. Each time a piece of clothing hit the floor, he renewed his efforts. The flashes of bare skin whet his appetite for more. He wanted desperately to join Michael in the shower, but he didn't want to see Michael's face when he realized how extensive the scarring was. The sun was almost gone and it was getting dark. Soon the worst would be hidden by the forgiving dark.

"He's hot, you know."

"Shut up."

Paul smirked and continued, "His cute little ass is practically perfect."

Ben scowled at Paul. "How would you know?"

Paul smile was crooked and thin. "I told you I visited him. He was moaning and groaning...and that body. You haven't seen him when he's hard. I was very impressed."

"You haven't seen him either. You're lying to upset me."

"Would I do that? Believe what you want to believe, Benny. I'll just stand here and think about how good he felt."

Ben sighed with relief. "Now I know you're lying. You can't touch him."

"Oh yeah?" Paul stalked across the room until he was standing directly in front of Ben. His eyebrows knit together and he bit his lip while he reached for Ben's face.

Ben felt a shock of ice and then a tingle. He jerked back with a shocked yelp.

Paul smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "I told you."

"What did you do to him?"

"A gentlemen doesn't tell all his secrets. I will tell you this, though. When he comes...whew. Watch out!" Paul was gone in the blink of an eye.

Ben sat there feeling worse for the wear. Forget about him. Michael is so close you can touch him. Nothing and no one can take that away from you...nothing and no one but you.

Michael hopped out of the shower and peeked through the door. Good. Ben was still there. Michael picked up his clothes, but then tossed them aside in favor of a towel. Taking a bracing breath, he walked out to the bedroom. Ben had an odd look on his face. It was a mix of fear and desire. Michael only hoped that the desire would win out.

"I'm done," he said unnecessarily. When Ben didn't reply, Michael started to have last minute doubts. "Are you hungry? The dinner you made smelled great. We could go eat."

"Maybe later," said Ben. He stood and walked to Michael. "I think we both know what we want." He reached for the towel knotted around Michael's waist.

David opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. At some point, while he'd been sleeping, the light had turned to liquid acid that burned his eyes. The burning pain shot straight to his head, made a sharp turn downwards, and zoomed to toss the contents of his stomach. Though the world was spinning, he could tell that he was in a horizontal position. He had yet to figure out where he was.

"Drink this. You'll feel better."

Brian's loft. How could he have forgotten? David reached out a hand towards Brian's voice and accepted the remedy gladly. After one sip, he debated whether to thank Brian or dump the crap over his head. "What is this? It tastes like malted garbage."

Brian's voice came from farther away. "It's better that you don't know. Just be grateful that Uncle Vic gave me that recipe. It'll cure your hangover and put hair on your chest."

"Vic should have his chef's hat taken away if this is his recipe."

Brian chuckled. "You're too hung over to appreciate fine cuisine anyway."

David polished off the rest of the noxious-tasting brew. His stomach heaved in rebellion, but it stayed down. "Oh, shit. What time is it? I have to get back to the office! I had a few late patients," he said, doubting that he'd ever be able to make it through an evening at the office. "Why the hell didn't you wake me?"

"No worries, Doc. I called your office. They reshuffled your patients. Your partners will cover for anyone whose appointment couldn't be changed. You have the evening off."

"Terrific," said David with a groan. "To what do I owe this inexplicable act of kindness?" He opened his eyes to see Brian dressed in tight jeans and a silky burgundy shirt. He was freshly shaven and his hair was still wet. "You're going out to party?"

"Yes, dear brother. Our family may be fucked up, but we can't have all our lives coming to a grinding halt. Lock the door on the way out." He jingled his keys and started walking out. "Or you can sleep here...on the couch, not in my bed."

"Why are you being so nice?" Nice for Brian, anyway.

"Consider it my good deed for the day," Brian said before he slid the loft door closed.

What the fuck does Brian know about good deeds? thought David. He sat and tried to puzzle it out, but it was impossible to understand his brother. Brian's self-centered philosophy had served him well over the years. It tended to slip a little when it came to Michael, their mother, and their uncle--not usually with David though. How did we grow so far apart?

As children, they had been inseparable though it had never been an easy relationship. On the outside, it might have seemed that they were enemies--always competing and pushing each other's buttons. Michael had been a little different--head in the clouds, more likely to live in his imagination. David was a bit ashamed to remember how often he and Brian had ganged up on Michael. Where Brian was likely to respond to a challenge with his quick fists or quicker mouth, Michael would act hurt and would withdraw. To everyone else, they presented a united front, but at home it was each boy for himself and Michael was too often the weakest link.

Things hadn't changed drastically except that the united front wasn't quite so united. David had found himself pulling further and further from childish antics in his need to fill parental shoes. He didn't regret doing it--not if it meant that he made his family's life easier in any way. What he regretted was the distance between him and the other boys. Brother and father figure were two very different hats and it wasn't always possible to wear both at the same time.

Still, there had been the rewards. Every time Michael came home with a good grade on a school project or Brian had another good soccer season, or either of them came home with stories of how they had fought off this or that bully or the other million victories of adolescence, David had felt a small swell of pride. He wasn't so full of himself that he would take credit for their successes, but he knew that he helped contribute to an environment where they had flourished.

That's why this thing with Michael was all the more vexing. Try as he might, he couldn't find an easy fix. He had chastised his mother, but immediately understood the urge to slap a Band-Aid on the boo boo, kiss it, and make it feel better. The only problem was that he had to accept that there were some wounds that only time and inner resources could heal. All he could do was be there for Michael, Brian, or his mother if they needed him. For once, he was going to take Brian's advice and he wasn't going to push.

Michael's towel hit the floor with a dull, soft thump against the rug on the floor. He shivered when the air hit his wet skin. He looked up at Ben, expectation drawn across every feature. The clock ticking in the background struck like hammer blows while Ben looked and looked. Paul hadn't lied. Michael's body was delightful, from head to toe.

Michael's lowered lids shadowed his eyes. When he looked up, Ben held his breath at the welcome he found there. It was mixed with desire that reflected his own building need. With new courage, Ben took another step until he was standing so close to Michael that they nearly touched. "Are you sure?"

Michael smiled and the sun and stars seemed to enter his face and eyes. "I've been sure for a long time." He stepped backwards to lie on the bed. When Ben didn't move, he held out his hand. "Come closer."

Ben climbed onto the bed and covered Michael's smaller body with his own. When their bodies made contact, it was as if a flash of lightning had struck inside, so intense and sudden was the heat. Slowly, deliciously, he let his body sink onto Michael's until they were molded together from chest to feet. Michael wrestled with the remaining barriers between them, but Ben put a stop to the gentle assault on his clothing. His moment of courage had been fleeting. He couldn't expose himself until he had ensured Michael's pleasure. Apparently, Michael got the silent hint. He stopped trying to undress Ben and focused on caressing through Ben's thin, cotton shirt and linen pants.

Hands roamed and Ben hissed with pleasure. Over his back, down his hips, around his thighs--Michael's eager hands touched every part of him, stirring a growing need for more. He tasted Michael's lips and was instantly drunk on the fullness of his lips and the moistness of his mouth. Michael tasted of sweetness and freshness--like cool, autumn air tinged with a hint of mint. Even Michael's skin was delectable, like plush velvet against Ben's tongue, the slightly salty taste a pleasant counterpoint to the earlier sweetness. Ben laved that soft spot in the crook of Michael's neck until it was red and raised. He paid the same worshipful attention to Michael's nipples--tasting and sucking until Michael was writhing beneath him.

In the soft glow of candles, Michael's desire was beautiful. Eyes shut, nostrils flaring, the tip of his tongue sweeping over his plump, pink lips--even the hands that clutched and released the sheets so desperately spoke of his passion. When Michael was ready and panting, "Please, please," Ben slid down the bed, took Michael's brick hard erection into his mouth and swallowed deeply. When Michael groaned, Ben paused his actions and pulled away.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, while pleading with every god under the sun that the answer would be no.

A pained look crossed Michael's face. "Stop? Never." With both hands, he drew Ben back up for a kiss--a hot, wet, messy kiss that left Ben breathless. He whispered hoarsely, "I can't wait. Do it."

Ben closed his eyes, said his silent thanks, and captured Michael again. And then it struck--the awful goodness of this moment. Awful only because at some point it had to end. Good in too many ways to count. Ben listened to the wordless pleas of his lover, the cries that drove him to move his lips faster and to take Michael deeper into his throat, to slow down, to hold the smaller body tightly between his hands, lest Michael slip away like a dream.

That moment when it all crystallized burned into Ben's brain. The musky scent of Michael filled his nostrils. The flickering candles painted a dancing, golden wash over Michael's pale skin and made the blue-black highlights of his hair glisten. Ben felt topsy-turvy when Michael gasped and shuddered endlessly with the force of his climax. The hot, salty-sweet release filled his mouth and he swallowed it with a moan of satisfaction.

Later on, Ben was wide awake. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd done this--watched while his lover slept.

"Three months, two weeks, five days, and sixteen hours ago...not that I'm keeping track," said Paul as he sat on Michael's side of the bed.

"Go away!" whispered Ben, terrified that Michael would wake up.

"No. I don't think I will," said Paul with little attention to Ben. His eyes were fixed squarely on Michael's sleeping figure. "Did he taste good? I couldn't quite swing that part."

Ben felt a tic start to pulse in his cheek. "I want you to leave!"

"Nope. I was here first...with you and him. Then again, I might be willing to share, having enjoyed watching you both a great deal. Why are you still dressed, though? Don't tell me you're still being shy? Silly man." Paul reached for Michael.

Ben swatted at the apparition, but his hand passed through a cold nothingness and didn't halt Paul's progress.

Paul traced his hand over Michael's back and elicited a small shudder from his target. "I think he likes that."

"I want you to stop," said Ben. His anger grew beyond his ability to modulate his voice. Michael stirred at the noise. "Stop trying to hurt him. He did nothing to you."

"Who says it hurts? I think he liked it last time." Paul's ghostly arm seemed to disappear into Michael's back. "But if I squeeze like so..."

Michael's body arched into a tight bow of agony and his face turned blue and then pale. When Paul withdrew his arm, Michael's breath returned and he seemed to recover, though he didn't wake.

Paul looked at Ben. "I've been practicing and I'm getting pretty good at it. I changed my mind. I want him to stay. I haven't had this much fun in ages."

Ben pulled Michael towards him. He was helpless to stop the shivering that shook the smaller frame in his arms or the shivering that shook his own body. This time it wasn't the cold room or Paul's otherworldly touch to blame. It was fear in its purest form.

Michael burrowed under the blankets before he realized he was sweating under the heavy swaths of fleece and down. He pushed them off and reached out for Ben, but found empty air. He opened his eyes and, for a moment, wondered why his face was covered. When his sleepy mind caught up to him, he realized that he was looking at Ben's broad back as far from him as Ben could get without falling off the bed. It was still dark. All of the candles except one had burnt down to the bottom. He slid closer to Ben, puzzled at the ache he felt in his back and chest. It felt like someone had punched him on the inside. The first few breaths had felt like sandpaper scraped across his lungs, but the feeling was almost gone.

He ignored the newest ache along with all the other ones that he'd been waking to every morning for the last couple of weeks. Now, all he wanted to do was strip Ben naked and lick him all over. His hand snaked around the other man's waist and had done quick work on half the buttons of Ben's shirt before Ben's grip stopped him.

"I want to touch you," Michael murmured into Ben's back.

"I can't let you do that," said Ben. His voice was wearier than it had ever been.

"After what happened earlier tonight you must see that we're compatible." Michael pressed his forehead into Ben's warm back, trying to recapture Ben's warmth. "You were spectacular. I could return the favor or we could--"

"Earlier was probably not a good idea."

"Are you kidding?" Michael growled as he slipped his hand under Ben's shirt and stroked his side. "It was a great idea--so great that I think that we should continue it."

Ben pushed Michael's hand away and sat up. "I'm serious. I think you should leave."

"Do I get a nicer surprise when I come back? I've been hoping that you had a hot tub hidden somewhere in this place."

Ben gripped the edge of the bed with bloodless fingers, but he refused to face Michael. "Can you be serious for a minute? I want you to go. I don't want you to come back."

Michael stared, astounded, at Ben's back. He pulled roughly at Ben's shoulder, but the man wouldn't budge. He started swearing.

The string of colorful words got louder and more creative until Ben finally turned and glared at Michael. "What is your problem? I'm giving you a chance to get out now while you still can. Leave before this goes too far."

Now that Ben was facing him, Michael felt easier about screaming at him. "How far is too fucking far exactly? You sucking me off is okay, but fucking me is crossing the line? How about if I jerk you off? Is that on the line or over? Get out while I can? Do you realize how that sounds? I didn't ask you to fucking marry me! Just talk to me! Tell me what's going on! You're locked up in this damn house like you're under house arrest! Why?" After his brief tirade, Michael felt winded. He wished he could take it all back when he saw the shattered expression in Ben's eyes. He touched Ben's arm in solace. "Please say something," he whispered.

"You don't want to know."

"I do. Trust me."

"You might get hurt. Everything I touch..." Ben's eyes glazed over as if his soul had taken flight from his body, leaving behind an empty shell.

Michael clambered to his knees, took Ben by the shoulders, and shook gently. "I'm not leaving until you give me a good reason. So far, you've only given me reasons to stay. I never told you how stubborn I can be, did I?"

Ben shook his head no, the emptiness receding.

"Very."

Ben looked up at Michael with alarm. "You won't like what you hear. It was my fault."

"Believe me, I've had enough of blame being served like a dessert. Tell me and I'll listen. No matter what you say, it won't change how I feel. I care about you and I can handle it. I'm a lot tougher than I look."

There were only so many moments in his life that Michael could pinpoint and say, "Here, this was a turning point." He could never see them coming. He could only be bowled over when the moments hit him and knocked him for a loop. The first had been that moment when his mother said those awful words, "You're father isn't coming back." It had taken him years to wrap his mind around that. All the platitudes in the world couldn't convince him that it wasn't something about him that had driven Charles Novotny away. He could talk the talk and convince his mother and his brothers, his uncle, and even that therapist that they'd dragged him to before he refused to go anymore.

He had come to some sort of grudging acceptance until the world turned on its head and down was up, up was down, and all the truths he had clung to had been transformed into lies. That was the second moment. If there was a third moment, this was it. Ben reached up and took Michael's hands in his own. Michael winced at the tightness of Ben's hold, but he didn't complain while Ben spoke.

"We were invited to a garden party at Janet and Steve's house. There was no particular occasion--just a chance to get together with friends. Paul tried to convince me to stay home, but I guilted him into going..."

The confession went on long into the night until the early hours of the morning. So many times, Michael wanted to stop Ben from heaping more and more blame onto his head. That intermingled with the moments when he wished for Superman's ability to reverse the spin of the earth and turn back time to fix what should never have been broken. But even after Ben had laid out his pain and his inner demons for Michael to see, even when Michael knew that a sensible man would walk--no, run away from this barrage of darkness, it only made him want to cling to Ben more tightly.

---

Chapter 14

It was like a dam bursting from the enormous pressure forever building behind it, biding its time while waiting for one crack to form, one flaw to announce itself--the one flaw that spelled disaster. One crack led to another and another until the dam gave way, the force of nature warring eternally with the will of Man. Nature always won out in the end because Nature has always had the upper hand.

The story poured from Ben with such force that it frightened him and with such fluidity that it seemed effortless, which was far from the case. The words appeared to flow smoothly and yet they felt thick and tasted like ashes in his throat.

He was helpless against the deluge of emotion emanating from him. The expanse of his loss mixed with equal parts longing, anticipation, and fear: fear of what might happen once he was finished telling his tale; fear of Michael not being able to look at him in the same way; fear of what Paul might do in retaliation; longing because Ben wanted so very much to have Michael touch him in the way lovers do. He laid it all out for Michael and waited with the same horrified anticipation that a man on death row must feel. He'd been dreading telling anyone what happened that day, but to tell Michael was like knives reopening his scars.

He spoke with a finality in his voice that represented all the months of recriminations he'd heaped on himself: the guilt he felt for not being strong enough to save Paul; for not being conscious at the end when Paul took his last breath; of not being able to go to the funeral or to make himself go to the grave site; of still being alive; of waking up every morning and going to bed every night; of eating and sleeping, showering and breathing; of wanting Michael so desperately.

David lay on Brian's couch with his eyes closed and his stomach settling in fits and starts. Whatever Brian had given him earlier was doing its job. The room had mercifully stopped spinning about an hour after Brian left and his tongue didn't feel like carpet anymore. He was drifting off to sleep again when the intercom buzzer went off. David grabbed a pillow and put it over his head. Maybe if I ignore it they'll go away, he thought hopefully, but he was wrong. Whoever it was downstairs redoubled their efforts to get someone to buzz them in.

Finally, when he just couldn't take it any longer, David got up and staggered to the intercom, cursing the whole time. "Brian's not here!" he yelled into the small box.

"Buzz me in, David."

David's hazy mind started to clear. "Uncle Vic?"

"Don't make me tell you twice."

David buzzed Vic in and slid the loft door open. It only took a few minutes for Vic's head to appear in the elevator shaft. David stepped to the side to let his uncle walk past him. Vic didn't look pissed, but he was serious as hell and that couldn't be a good thing. David slid the door shut. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"This place look like shit," Vic said.

David replied, "I'll tell Brian you said so." He moved slowly towards the sofa.

Vic took a seat on one of the bar stools. "Where is Brian?"

"Out. You know Brian--any excuse to have a party." David leaned back and closed his eyes again.

Vic spoke slowly and deliberately. "I wanted to talk to both of you, but I think this is better. You've always had the most level head and that's what we're going to need now."

"Is it?" David asked, laughing softly to himself.

"Look, David, I know you boys are upset."

David opened his eyes and sat up. "You know that do you?"

"Don't be flip," Vic said, getting a little agitated.

"I'm not. I'm just sick of this conversation. It never ends. The context changes but not the content--not really. Something happens and you feel the need to come find me and tell me how level headed I am, which is code for 'go fix it.' Frankly, I'm tired of it."

"So, what? You're just going to let this family fall apart?" Vic asked sarcastically.

David laughed and placed his throbbing head in his hands. "Okay. This is the part of this evening entertainment when you try and make me feel guilty."

"Your mother is still crying and you think it's funny?"

"I think it's fucking hilarious. Ma's upset, so she's crying. Michael's mad, so he ran. Brian's...well...Brian is Brian, so he's probably out self-medicating and getting his dick sucked, lucky bastard. And me? Well, I can't even enjoy a hangover in peace." David leaned back into the plushness of the sofa again. "Look, Uncle Vic, Ma will get over it. So will Michael, so will Brian, and so will you...But this time you're all going to do it without me. Brian was right," David laughed again, this time in earnest. "The sky is not fucking falling. This isn't the end of the world."

"You have no idea what a parent goes through. You have no idea about the sacrifices she made for you boys. You have no right to judge her. None of you do. She did what she thought was right at the time," Vic said, his voice raised.

"I have some idea of what she went through, Uncle Vic--more so than you. Whether you believe it or not, we do appreciate what she gave up for us. I know she did what she thought was best at the time. But guess what? She was wrong. I'm not judging her, but I'm not going to just forgive her because you think I should. She lied to me, Vic, and it stings a little. I need a fucking minute to recover."

"She's your mother, for Christ's sake." Vic got up and moved towards the door.

"Yes, she's my mother. And they're my brothers, not my fucking sons. I want my brothers back. Can you give them back to me? Can she? You have no idea how much it's cost me with them to take her side in things--to always be the responsible one, to always have to make them do homework or do chores or come to fucking dinner because she wants us all there." David was yelling and paying for it with each word because his head felt as if it would burst.

"Grow up." Vic opened the door and stepped out, bumping into Brian.

David walked over to the door and shouted, "I did the day my father walked out!"

Brian walked inside. "What the fuck was that about?"

"Me not pushing," David said, closing the door behind his brother.

Ben sat with his back to Michael. He clutched the edge of the bed as if he'd fall off if he dared let go. He was sure Michael was going to go running for the hills and Ben couldn't really blame him if he did. Hell, he wanted to go running for the hills himself.

When it happened, he barely noticed it at first. Michael was kneeling behind him, the front of his well-defined body pressed gently against Ben's back, his arms draped loosely around Ben's neck. Then Ben felt the sweetest, softest kisses he'd ever felt in his life covering the side of his face and neck. The sensation they produced was like a breeze in summer, bringing with it the lilting scent of jasmine and magnolia and mixing delicately with the sensation of cool morning dew. So enthralled was he that it took him a moment to realize he was being kissed on the damaged side of his face. He was about to move when he was held in place--not by force, but by Michael's gentle coaxing.

Michael began slowly to unbutton Ben's shirt. When Ben moved his hand to stop him, Michael patiently and lovingly removed Ben's hand and continued. When he finished opening the shirt, he slid it off of Ben's broad shoulders. Dispensing light, wet kisses all over the newly exposed skin, Michael pulled Ben backward and lay him down on the bed.

Ben closed his eyes, unsure of what was going to happen. He found that he had to continually tell himself to breathe. He felt the bed shift as Michael got off the bed and stood in front of him. Ben opened his eyes and drank in the sight of Michael's flawless skin as it was kissed by the dying light of the flickering candles. His breath caught in the back of his throat, allowing nothing but a small moan to escape.

Ben watched as Michael knelt down in front of him and started taking off Ben's shoes and socks. Michael's fingers felt as light as feathers against Ben's increasingly sensitive skin and started to give Ben goose bumps. When Michael was done he moved to undo Ben's belt buckle, then slowly and gently undid the pants. Ben helped by lifting his hips as Michael reached up and began pulling down the pants and underwear until he finally got them off and discarded them. Ben's whole body shuddered violently when Michael parted his legs and kissed the tender flesh of Ben's inner thighs. Michael kissed, bit, and sucked on the skin until Ben's deep, quaking moans filled the room.

Ben felt Michael's hand reach up and take hold of his pulsing erection. His hips nearly jerked off the bed as Michael stroked him slowly, tightening his grip and adjusting where he applied pressure with every upward stroke to maximize and prolong Ben's delicious agony. As he was doing this, he continued to lavish kisses over Ben's thighs. Michael took time to kiss, lick and massage every scar on Ben's damaged thigh. It sent Ben into fits of uncontrollable spasms as pleasure overruled his mind's limited objections and lingering doubts about the functionality of his own body.

Ben heard himself moaning Michael's name, telling him not to stop, then begging Michael to take him in his mouth. Ben nearly screamed out in joy when he felt the soft wetness of Michael's mouth on the head of his throbbing cock. Michael played with the sensitive head the way a master conducts his orchestra. Ben trembled, shook, and thrashed his head from side to side. He looked down and watched as his penis disappeared into the welcoming warmth at the back of Michael's throat. Ben nearly cried out when Michael buried his face in Ben's lap and contracted the muscles in his throat so that it applied the most fantastic pressure. Michael slowly drew back, creating a delicious friction and nearly causing Ben to come flying off the bed as he exploded in Michael's mouth.

For a few minutes, Ben was deaf, dumb, and blind. His whole body was consumed by the orgasm. He couldn't move. He couldn't think. All he could do was feel. He felt Michael's mouth finally release him after he'd taken in every drop of Ben's cum. He felt shattering disappointment at being released. He felt the air as it hit his sweaty body and sent a marvelous chill up and down his spine. He felt Michael still in front of him, rubbing his thighs as he tried to quiet Ben's shuddering.

Ben looked up just in time to see Michael stand and look down at his naked body. Ben's chest was heaving and he felt the sudden urge to cover himself. He was about to when Michael spoke.

"You're beautiful," Michael whispered more to himself than to Ben.

"I'm damaged goods." Ben was shocked to hear his own voice and how hoarse and distant it sounded.

"We're all damaged goods...Anyway, I've got no complaints." Michael moved to lay next to Ben on the bed.

"I didn't want you to see me. The scars, they're so--" Ben stopped short when Michael kissed him.

Michael kissed Ben gently, deeply, and long. He penetrated Ben with his tongue. He tried his best to devour Ben's pain, shame, and guilt whole. "You didn't want me to see you, but now I have and I'm still here."

"I don't want you feeling sorry for me," Ben said, regretting it instantly.

"After what just happened you still have no idea, do you?" Michael asked gently, smiling as he stroked Ben's hair and gathered the larger man into his arms. "I could never feel sorry you. I'm falling in love with you."

David turned around a little too quickly and nearly fell into his brother's arms. He righted himself and walked haltingly to the couch to retrieve his shoes. He wanted to go home, take a long, hot shower, and go to bed. He was about to reach for the phone to call a cab when Brian grabbed him by the wrist.

"Where the hell do you thing you're going?" Brian asked, releasing his brother's wrist when he saw the surprised look on David's face.

"Home, little brother. You get too many unwelcome visitors for my taste."

Brian plopped down on the couch. "You gonna be all right?"

"You keep this up, Bri, and people are gonna think you have a heart."

"Yeah, and we wouldn't want, that would we?" Brian replied, actually smiling back.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Debbie shouted as her brother closed the front door.

"Taking care of some business." Vic headed for the stairs.

"And how are my boys?"

Vic stopped midway up the stairs. "I only saw one and, from what I could tell, he was hung over."

"They were drinking?"

"They were just letting off some steam."

"Did Brian make sure David got home all right?" Debbie asked, trying to conceal her worry.

Vic came back down the stairs. "David's the one I spoke to."

"I thought you said you heard them say they were going to back to Brian's place?" Debbie asked, her voice shaking a little.

Vic walked into the living room and sat down next to his sister on the couch. "They did, but when I got there Brian had gone out and David was trying to sleep off a hangover."

"Is he still angry?" Debbie asked with hesitation.

"I don't think either of them were ever really angry, I think they were more hurt than anything."

"Is that what David said?"

"That was the gist of it yeah." Vic took her hand as he stood up. "Time for you to get some sleep."

"How can I?" Debbie asked, allowing herself to be moved.

"Because you have to. We can't have you passing out from exhaustion. The boys will be fine. You just have to give then some time to get over the sting of it."

Debbie walked side by side with her brother up the stairs. "I could sleep forever."

"Or at least late afternoon." Vic said teasingly, trying to make his sister smile.

Ben looked up at Michael with his eyes misting. Michael had said it. Ben was deciding whether or not to acknowledge it. If he did, then he'd have to acknowledge that he felt the same way--that he was falling hopelessly in love with Michael Charles Novotny. It was something he never thought he'd hear said to him again, let alone something he'd ever feel again.

Michael could hardly believe the words had come out. He'd been feeling them for a while now but was unsure of how Ben felt about him. In fact, he was still unsure. He'd wanted to tell Ben so many times but something always stopped him. What if Ben didn't feel the same? What if Ben laughed at him? What if Ben only wanted to fuck him? All those questions kept looping themselves in his brain like a needle stuck in a groove.

Then he'd catch a glimmer of something in Ben's eyes or catch Ben watching him. He'd get this feeling that he could just open up and tell Ben anything, everything, the most important thing and it would be all right. Michael would take hold of himself and the feeling would recede into the dark place in his mind where all of his insecurities lay. He'd feel stupid for ever even thinking Ben could feel that way about him...especially so soon after having lost someone he loved as much as he obviously loved Paul. He'd start thinking about Paul and feel guilty for even being there, but he couldn't make himself leave. There was something about Ben that had captivated him. Maybe it was his sadness or the way his eyes danced a little at times, like he was remembering something wonderful. Maybe it was his loneliness--the way he shadowed himself, kept himself at a distance while sending out his magnetic energy that kept bringing Michael closer to him. Maybe it was the way he'd try to hide his face even though it had never bothered Michael.

No. While all of that was endearing, it was the way Ben said his name that sent orgasmic chills up and down Michael's body. The first time Ben said his name, Michael's dick twitched and he was going, going, gone...He'd been infatuated many times before. He'd even thought he'd been in love once, but nothing he'd ever felt before even remotely compared to this. While he still missed his father terribly, the dull ache that had been tightening up his chest was gone. He felt lighter when he was with Ben, as if nothing could touch him, as if nothing would dare.

"You don't have to say anything," Michael said softly.

"It's just that..." Ben stopped when he felt the cold, menacing presence of Paul a little too near Michael.

"I didn't say it to hear it back. I just thought you should know is all," Michael said, feeling a chill in the air that hadn't been there before.

Ben spoke to Michael while looking at Paul who was standing at the end of the bed. "I don't want to hurt you and I think if you stay you will get hurt."

"I'm not afraid of him," Michael said, staring down the bloody and angry apparition.

Ben turned his attention from Paul to Michael once more. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm not afraid of him."

"Of who?" Ben asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Paul," Michael replied, his eyes riveted to the apparition glaring at him.

Ben reeled in shock. "You see him?"

"Yes. I see him. He won't hurt me and I'm not going to let him hurt you anymore," Michael said directly to Paul.

"You think cause he's in bed with you he's yours?" Paul hissed, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. "You think I can't get rid of you because you love him?"

Michael held Ben closer to him. "Ben's his own man and you can't get rid of me."

"I'm losing my fucking mind," Ben muttered to himself.

"Make him go, Benny boy, before I do more then give him a hand job!"

"You thought that was you? It had nothing to do with you. I was dreaming about him. He was fucking me, kissing me, loving me."

Michael spoke so calmly that it scared the shit out of Ben and confused Paul enough so that he left. "How long have you been able to see him?" Ben asked, a little shell-shocked.

"I saw him last night with you after you kissed me. I felt him a few times--when I was sleeping a while ago and once in the shower. A few weeks ago, when I fell in the bathroom, I heard his voice. I thought I was losing my mind until I saw you talking to him."

The words almost stuck in Ben's throat. "He's going to hurt you, Michael. You have to go."

"He's not going to hurt me and I'm not going anywhere."

"But--"

"But nothing," Michael said, placing a soft kiss on Ben's forehead. "Go to sleep. Don't worry. I've got you. I promise..."

"Michael..." Ben whispered into Michael's chest, "I love you too."

Michael watched as Ben drifted off to sleep. Once he was reassured by Ben's deep, regular breathing and still form, Michael's heart started pounding in his chest and his breath froze in his chest. He didn't know how he'd stayed so fucking calm while talking to a ghost--an actual, honest-to-God ghost--one that wanted him gone--one that Ben thought was actually capable of hurting him.

Michael had seen the blood-soaked shirt, he had smelled the decay, and yet he hadn't been scared when Paul was standing there spewing his venom and wanting to scare him. Actually, Michael felt kind of sorry for Paul. He was lost and confused holding on to his only link to this world--Ben.

---

Chapter 15

Ben watched the madman laying a siege on his kitchen with caution and mild amusement. Fruit, beverages, leftovers--no container was safe from invasion and conquer. Already, the kitchen table was littered with the remnants of Michael's hyperactive snacking. However, it wasn't the binge eating that worried Ben. He figured Michael had the metabolism to take it and whatever was extra would be burned off by his ceaseless pacing and hand waving.

No. What worried Ben was the mumbling. Michael had been having a conversation with himself for quite some time now. It had started off as a joint brainstorming session to see what they could do to get rid of Paul. Hampered by the unbearably short list of options, they had retreated to the comfort of the kitchen. Their brainstorming/refueling period had since devolved into a long, one-person ramble, punctuated by Michael's need to chew on something while he thought out loud.

At some point, silence filled the room. Miraculously, Michael had stopped talking. Ben raised his eyes and gave thanks to the powers that be for that moment of respite. Michael was standing with a peach halfway to his mouth, looking as if he'd been pole-axed. "Michael?" asked Ben tentatively. When the response he received was a mute stare, he walked to Michael and touched his cheek to catch his attention. Michael gnawed on his lip and stared ahead with blank eyes. His expression cleared and he looked up, seemingly unaffected by the light caress of Ben's fingers.

"Is there a library nearby?"

"Yes, but it's closed."

Michael looked dismayed. "Closed? How can it be closed? It's the middle of the morning."

Ben rubbed gently at Michael's jaw, the pads of his fingers rasping against Michael's shadowy stubble. "It's Sunday." Putting a name to the day of the week surprised him and made time feel so much more tangible. Had yesterday really happened? Was he still standing here, touching Michael casually as if those words that had dropped like stealth bombs on his consciousness had been no more than a casual term of endearment--a throwaway statement? Ben recognized the danger of trusting too quickly, too deeply, but his heart was deaf to caution. The only words he could hear right now: I'm falling in love with you.

"Oh." Michael took a bite of his fruit and chewed with vigor, blissfully unaware of Ben's newest inner turmoil. He talked around a mouthful of peach. "How about a bookstore? There's got to be a bookstore somewhere around here."

"Sure. There's one in the shopping center in the closest town. It's only a few blocks from Paul's store." Ben wondered what Michael's plan might be, but it wasn't foremost in his thoughts. Standing so close to Michael, he was immobilized by his own disbelief. He's falling in love with me. What an inconceivable revelation--impossible in the way that mortal men treading on water without sinking was impossible. He'd slept in Michael's arms and dreamed of those fairy tale words and of the look in Michael's eyes when he'd shared them. In the morning, Ben convinced himself that the entire thing had been a fantasy--a cruel lucid dream meant to add to his torment. He had woken up, ready to greet his tiny world with his practiced solitude, only to find that he wasn't alone. Michael's warm body had been pressed against him. Not only had he not run away from all that had been revealed, he seemed to desire more closeness than before.

It had to be a dream. Even now, Ben wasn't quite sure if he was awake or not.

Michael's mouth glistened with juice from his half-eaten peach. Ben was helplessly drawn to the plump, pink flesh. He leaned down and licked at the moisture, drawing an indistinct sound of surprise from Michael. Moans of satisfaction formed in Ben's throat at the taste of sweetness and something nameless and indescribably delicious. Perhaps it was the taste of Michael himself. Perhaps it was something else. Before he could retreat, Michael returned the kiss with passion. He felt Michael's hands slide up his chest and around his neck. One advantage to being so much taller than his lover was that when they stood like this, Ben had the perfect excuse to hold Michael. On the surface, it was to bring them level with each other, but really it was so that he could hug Michael tightly to him and lose himself in the press of their bodies and the shared warmth that reached to the chilled corners of Ben's soul.

Ben growled with regret when Michael pushed away and spoke with a fierce light in his eye and resolve in his voice. "How do I get to the bookstore?"

Ben wanted to swear. He wanted to shout, "Who gives a fuck about a damn bookstore?" but he was tired of the negative emotions that had been consuming him for so long. The earnestness in Michael's big, brown eyes sucked all his anger out, leaving him weak at the knees. With his answer, his hope for daytime seduction was thwarted.

Michael pulled away and hurried from the kitchen, shouting behind him, "I'll be back as soon as I can!" before he swept outside with the force of a spring storm.

To break up the quiet left in the vacuum of Michael's departure, Ben turned on the television. It had been days since he'd sat, eyes firmly fixed on the mindless flickering of the screen. He only used it now because he no longer liked the emptiness around him. The sound of self-important talking heads discussing the latest political hot topic played in the background while he cleaned up after Michael's feast. The pundits had moved on to a heated debate about some environmental issue when Ben started smiling. By the time the closing music was playing, Ben felt the new bounce in his step. He flicked the TV off because he wanted to concentrate on his own thoughts and not someone else's. He was glad that he was alone and Paul seemed to be hiding. It gave him the chance to repeat the words, to say them out loud, to examine how they made him feel--so good that he wasn't sure he'd ever known what feeling good meant before today. He's falling in love with me.

The items with which Michael had returned were scattered on the floor of the studio--various books, candles, incense wands, crystals...even a Ouija board, of all things. The last had been the first item attempted and tossed aside after being deemed a useless game board. The crystals quickly followed as they seemed to do nothing to realign the spiritual forces in the room. Now, incense was burning and filling the studio with its blue-white smoke and the strong scent of sandalwood. Every door, window, and drawer was open. The room was lit by enough candles to compete with the afternoon sun. Ben watched with bemusement while Michael walked around the room, chanting weighty words from one of the books. It was difficult to keep his skepticism under wraps and he gave up trying. "This is supposed to do what, exactly?"

Michael frowned at the careless interruption, but paused to answer. "It cleanses the room and..." He referred to the book in his hand. "...invokes protection. Then this room will be a safe haven."

"He's not even in here."

"Maybe it's working already?" The nuances of Michael's expression revealed even more doubt than the unsure timbre of his voice.

"What about the rest of the house?" Not that being locked in a room with Michael would be a bad thing. In fact, the idea was very alluring to Ben. His mind catalogued the many things they could do while alone to keep each other occupied. Each possibility he devised was more outrageously erotic than the next. "Do we stay in this room forever?" Hope battled with bitter sarcasm in his question.

"We'd have to do this in every room. Then the house will be clean."

Ben rubbed his arms when a cold draft blew across him and raised the tiny hairs on his body. It's only the breeze through the open window, he told himself. No matter that the sunlight filling the room should have made the space as warm as fresh toast. No matter that the curtains at the open windows had not stirred one iota. Frigid dampness tiptoed up Ben's spine and across the nape of his neck and he had to admit the truth. "It's not working, Michael. I can still feel Paul in the house."

Michael stubbed out the incense stick he'd been waving in an ashtray. "I don't know what else to try." He tossed the book on the floor, pouring a considerable amount of frustration into the action. "Do you know a good priest?"

"I'm not Catholic. Are you?"

"No, but it shouldn't matter, should it? Maybe we should call an exorcist. Paul needs to go. He's starting to piss me off." Michael ran his hands through his hair, making the thick, inky black waves stand on end. The frazzled look was a perfect accompaniment to his inner tension. "This is going to take longer than I thought. You want some coffee? I need some coffee. I'll be right back." He left the room with a nervous, heavy step and a slouch in his shoulders.

Alone again, Ben started to feel a little bereft. How had everything come to this? The outside world had become his enemy and the one haven he'd always treasured, this home that had once been filled with love, was little more than a trap--and a deadly one at that. He should walk out and leave it all behind, but some core of stubbornness hidden in the recesses of his personality refused to cave in to the pressure. He walked to the loveseat and sat down.

It never used to be like this. It used to be so easy. He closed his eyes and immediately lost himself in a time just a few years ago...

Paul's eyes were alive with excitement. "Isn't your family going to have a fit when they find out that you tore up the family legacy and dared to add a room to it?" There were wood scraps, power tools, and burly workmen everywhere the eye could see. The contractors were busy placing the frame for the large picture window while Ben and Paul enjoyed the view.

Ben pulled Paul into his arms. "It's just a house and this was just some extra sitting room that no one ever sat in. I want you to have somewhere to work--a place to collect all your projects and work on them to your heart's content."

Paul smiled happily while still protesting. "I could do that at the store. I don't need a room for that."

"What about your painting?"

"Oh, that? That's just a hobby," Paul said, ducking his head to hide reddening cheeks.

"Baloney. You're really good. One of these days, you're going to stop fixing up other people's creations and concentrate on your own. When you do, I want you to have a place to do it."

Paul's smile had disappeared, but he didn't look unhappy. His solemn expression was lightened by the warm spark in his eyes. He circled Ben's waist and leaned his head against Ben's shoulder. "You're such a good catch that I'm never going to give you up. You're stuck with me forever."

Ben smiled and pressed a kiss into Paul's hair. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Paul's hands stroked lazily up and down Ben's back. "You're going to be my first portrait--as a thank you for all this."

"The only thanks I need is you being here."

Ben turned to Paul who had joined him on the loveseat. This was a different Paul than the others he'd seen. There were no wounds, no blood...nothing off-putting at all. The dark, angry aura that usually shrouded Paul was now a subtle halo. Paul looked more as he had appeared on any one of many days before the accident--younger, more carefree...alive. It didn't seem possible that a shadow was all that was left--that and all Ben's fading memories. Mixed with sweet recollection was the bitterness of regret. "You never got a chance to do any of the painting you wanted to do," Ben whispered. This final regret seemed the worst of all--that he had robbed Paul of any type of legacy other than his own diminishing recollections. The memories had faded despite his best efforts to cling to them and with that was the growing fear that there would be nothing left of Paul but a few old clothes and books tucked in a box in a musty attic. He hadn't even been able to say it to Michael because it seemed so ridiculous. Paul's life was lost and here Ben sat, missing globs of color on a piece of cloth that had never existed. Nevertheless, it had grown in importance until he had to say it out loud. Though the words had burst forth like fluid from a ruptured blister, Ben had no sense of relief.

Paul looked down at his hands. They were covered with paint stains and in one was a brush dotted and dabbled with dried splotches of green and yellow. "I did. I just never told you."

"You did?" Paul's words sunk in and Ben repeated, "You did? When?"

Paul rubbed at the paint on his hands. It flaked off and vanished in mid air. None of his angry urgency was there to color his words and actions. If he hadn't known better, Ben would have said that it really was Paul and not just an unearthly likeness.

Paul shook his head, "That's where you're wrong. It's not me. It never was."

Ben's throat tightened until he thought he might pass out from lack of air. The pressure eased, allowing his words to grate out. "Of course it was you. It's not my imagination. Even Michael saw you." He clung to that sense of relief he'd felt in discovering that this manifestation wasn't all in his head. There was no way he was giving up that small victory over his inner demons.

"I never said it was your imagination. It's real enough, all right. It just wasn't me."

"Well, who then?" Ben felt hysteria waiting just around the corner, but he held it at bay with an inner reserve he thought he had depleted long ago. "I need to know how to fix it." His voice broke and he waited in hope for any answer that he could rescue him from his growing nightmare.

"Didn't you know? It's always been you."

Ben jumped out of the chair, shaking with rage. "Me? That's bullshit. It's always been you! You hurt Michael and made him sick, not me! You made him have an asthma attack!"

"Are you certain? Didn't he tell you he had asthma before?"

"Which hadn't bothered him in years!"

"How often does he suck in enough dust to cover the Sahara? That was more likely to be the trigger than little old me. I'm only surprised that he didn't have more of those attacks than he did."

"And the head bump?"

"He slipped. You really should put a rug in that bathroom. We were always saying that those tiles were far too slippery."

"And when he got sick again?"

"Like he said himself, he was tired and spent too much time in the rain. It was probably one of those twenty-four hour bugs brought on by stress and a weakened condition."

Ben sneered at Paul. "You've got an answer for everything, don't you? What about what you did when he was sleeping?"

Paul shrugged. "Michael and I seem to have a difference of opinion on that whole incident. Let's just say the jury's still out on what happened that night."

"And all the rest?"

"Does it matter?"

Ben lost all patience. "It matters if you were trying to hurt him, goddamn it! I lo--" His mouth snapped shut and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Paul raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. "You what?"

"Forget it!"

Paul stood and brushed the imaginary wrinkles out of his pants. "If you're going to get all close-mouthed with me, do you want to see the portrait instead? I don't know about you, but I have loads of time to kill."

Ben stepped away, unaccountably nervous by what the ghost might show him. "I'm not sure."

Paul snorted. "Don't be such a wuss. This won't hurt a bit." He took Ben's arm and tried to drag him to the bookshelf in the corner.

Ben shook off the icy grip and gave Paul a baleful look. "Are you going to drop a box on my head too?"

"That wasn't my fault--well, not intentionally. Look behind it."

"Behind what?"

Paul rolled his eyes and pushed Ben towards the shelf.

After Ben recovered from the ice-hot patches on his back where Paul had touched him, he looked behind the shelving unit. There was a wrapped object tucked between the wall and the back of the shelf.

"I didn't want you to see it before I was done. I must have loosened the support bracket when I moved the shelf to hide the canvas. I'm sorry. Friends again?" Paul smiled hopefully.

Ben squinted at Paul's blithe apology. He wasn't ready to forgive and forget yet. He reached behind the shelf and pulled out the object. Now, with it in his hand, he couldn't bring himself to look. This could be one more accusation against him, another finger pointing at him for what he'd taken from the world.

"Stop analyzing. Just unwrap the fucking thing and look," said Paul. He had begun to pace and kick at Michael's books on the floor. The books didn't shift, but their pages fluttered and flipped as if a light breeze blew over them.

Ben brought the canvas to an empty easel and set it down. He reached for the wrapping but an invisible force field stayed his hand. Paul swiped at the wrapping, but was only able to stir the wrapper, not pull it off.

"Damn it, Ben! Just open it!"

Ben snagged a corner of the sheet and drew it off slowly. When he saw the portrait underneath, he was both surprised and not surprised. It was good, of that there was no doubt. It was also unfinished. Paul had only painted half of Ben's face. He smiled and touched the scars on his cheek. "It's as if you knew that it shouldn't ever be finished." His face twitched with unaccustomed sensation when Paul touched him lightly.

"I didn't know how to finish it. I didn't think I could capture how beautiful you are."

Ben laughed. "Even then I was no pretty boy...and now..." Now, pretty was the last word anyone would use to describe him.

Paul continued to stroke Ben's face with one fingertip. "Not pretty, no, but beautiful--inside and out. I didn't have the talent to capture that on a piece of canvas."

Ben's head was pounding. It had to be Paul's touch and not the emotional walls that were disintegrating inside him like soft, dry clay. It had to be guilt making his body tremble. "It's my fault that you'll never finish it."

"An unfinished painting by an amateur is not the end of the world, not even yours."

Ben felt the familiar ache in his side, running from the top of his head to his leg. It had been days since he'd last felt it. It could last for seconds or, on the bad days, for long, bitter hours. It could be a faint twinge or a suite of wrenching cramps that made him feel like he was dying or wish that he was. Paul touched him again. This time, the iciness had a comforting, numbing effect.

"It's not the end unless you choose to wrap it up, hide it, and act like it doesn't belong where people can see it and love it."

Ben stared sightlessly at the painting. "I never got the chance to say goodbye."

"I know," said Paul.

"I never--" Ben choked on the tears that mixed with his words. "I never got to say I'm sorry."

"If it'll make you feel better, say it now."

"I'm sorry." When once wasn't enough, Ben repeated in a toneless litany, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He didn't stop until his voice was gone and then he still didn't stop, but mouthed the words until he was too tired to continue. Defeated by exhaustion, he stopped and put his head down on the drafting table. "It doesn't change anything," he croaked.

"You don't feel any better?"

"How can I? You haven't forgiven me."

"You know I can't do that, Ben. I'm already gone."

"Then what do I do?"

"Forgive yourself."

"I don't have the right."

Paul swore with impatience. His hand swept across the drafting table and pushed an exact-o knife in Ben's direction. "Here, then! Just do it and get it the fuck over with!"

Ben turned his head and looked at the glistening, tiny metal blade. There had been a time when this option might have been attractive, but right now it seemed abhorrent.

"Ask yourself why," Paul insisted. "Ask yourself why you don't just end it all. Stop torturing yourself and stop torturing me."

Ben's vision honed in on the point of the blade. It glistened and begged to cut something, waiting to fulfill its purpose with infinite patience. With only his fingertips and with exaggerated care, Ben pushed the knife away from him. "I don't want to die."

"You're quite sure about that?"

"Yes," Ben replied.

"Then what the fuck have you been doing for the last few months? It sure as shit hasn't been living. I was ready to get you a place right next to mine." Paul patted his pockets. "Unfortunately, I seemed to have misplaced my wallet and credit cards. It's a little difficult to pay for a cemetery plot with invisible money."

Ben barked out a bitter laugh. "You always did have an odd sense of humor. I miss that." His laughter died and the remaining smile dimmed. "I miss you and I really am sorry."

Paul didn't let up for a minute. "Yes, you are sorry if this is how you show how you felt about me. Damn it, I don't want to be here! I want to go the light and to the Pearly gates and all that crap you see on the talk shows and tell-all books and movies of the week. The other night, you asked me what I wanted. Did you ever think that maybe you were asking the wrong person?"

Ben lifted his head from the table. It felt light enough to spin off his shoulders and heavy enough to drag him to the ground. He asked himself the question. "I want--"

"Yes," Paul said with barely leashed eagerness.

"I want..." Ben couldn't believe how hard the words were to say. It was all within reach. Somewhere out there were the friends he'd pushed away. The most faithful ones would forgive his obstinate rejection in time. Out there was the life from which he'd barred himself. Out there had been someone waiting for him--someone who completed him.

No, that wasn't it exactly. Michael wasn't a puzzle piece to complete a picture. Instead, he was the one sitting by his side, pointing out the pieces for him, clapping and cheering when the picture came together, but who wouldn't leave even if it the pieces didn't fit exactly or if it all fell apart. Someone who could see and appreciate him...and love him when he was struggling to remember how to love himself.

Paul waited patiently. "Remember, I've got my whole afterlife ahead of me and no desire to spend it here."

Ben touched his painted image. He didn't see the empty spaces on the canvas. He saw himself, both sides of himself, the good and bad, light and dark, the imperfections that made the whole--as complete as he remembered. He longed to make that a reality. According to Michael, it already was, but Ben had had such a hard time believing it that every doubt and every moment of guilt had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. He didn't deserve a life, so he refused to let himself have one. Before he knew it, he had forgotten how he'd ever lived in the first place. Michael reminded him why he wanted to remember. The numbness, like the feeling you get when a hard edge presses against the back of your leg, had been what he needed for a time--had been all he could tolerate. Standing up and letting the blood circulate and letting the nerves revive themselves hurt like a bitch, but the pins and needles of reawakening only reminded him that it wasn't over yet and he had a long way to travel on these legs of his before it was. His voice was decisive when he made his next statement. "I want to be whole again and I want...I want you gone."

Paul nodded his head courteously. "That wasn't so hard, was it? And it's about time. As you wish," he said and vanished in a wink.

Ben dropped his head to the desk, feeling as tossed and battered as he had after the accident.

Michael reentered the studio a minute after he'd left. He'd only been halfway to the kitchen when he realized that coffee was the last thing his nerves needed. A good sedative would be more in order. He entered the studio and found Ben sleeping at the drafting table. He approached on tip-toe so as not to startle him. "Ben," he said quietly, laying a hand softly on Ben's shoulders. The blue eyes opened too quickly to have truly been asleep. Oddly, Ben seemed relieved and happy.

"Where have you been for so long?" Ben's voice rasped as if he'd been shouting down the rafters.

"So long? I just walked out. You must have fallen asleep."

Ben sat up, bristling with new energy despite the fatigue in his eyes. "I wasn't asleep. It's done."

"What's done?"

"Paul. We had a long talk and--"

"It couldn't have been that long. I didn't even make it to the kitchen before I came back. Are you sure you weren't dreaming?"

"Look, I even have proof..." Ben turned to gesture behind him, but the only thing there was an empty easel. "It was right here. I swear."

"What was right here?" Michael asked gently.

Ben was looking at the table, on the floor, and everywhere, his face a portrait of bewilderment. "It was right here!"

"Look, we're both tired and this doesn't seem to be working. Why don't we take a break? We can go for a swim or for a walk or something. Maybe this kind of thing is better done at night."

"But that's what I'm trying to tell you, baby. It IS done."

"Okay, Ben." Michael was too tired to argue. He had run the full gamut of emotions and was in no shape to try and make sense of Ben's nonsensical pronouncement. "I'm too tired to take a walk and I've been dying to try that pool."

"Sure." Ben walked out with Michael, throwing glances behind him as if he expected his "proof" to appear out of thin air.

Debbie rolled out of bed and squinted against the sunlight pouring through the window. It was late--very late in the afternoon, but she thought it might be nice to stay here for a little while. As getaway spots go, her bedroom wasn't much, but at least it was quiet. Those thoughts had just settled in her mind when her body disobeyed and dragged her out of bed. She simply wasn't designed to roll around in her worries like a pig in a wallow. The last couple of weeks had proven that, if nothing else could.

She walked to the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth, all along ignoring her reflection. That puffy faced, down in the mouth, beaten woman wasn't her. By the time she was done and some of the ravages of her latest crying jag had been repaired or masked by artfully applied makeup, she felt like a new woman, ready to face the day and whatever it might bring.

It was easy enough to think, but stepping out of her room had become a daily expedition fraught with the perils of family tension. If it hadn't been for her brother's support, she felt sure she'd be curled up under the covers, wishing for another life.

After a refreshing cup of coffee, she felt armed and ready to face the day. She had left the restaurant in the hands of the temporary manager for far too long. It was time to get back in the swing of things. She slipped on her coat and grabbed her purse. She threw upon the front door and took a step back. "What the hell do you want?" Nothing else could have soured her mood more than the man standing in the doorway--except maybe his father.

Her pride and joy, her youngest son, stood in the doorway, grinning. "I had some time to think about this and that and I think it's time we had a little chat."

"Just the other day you were ready to rake me over the coals and now you want a heart-to-heart?"

"What can I say, Mom? I'm a fast healer. Got a minute?"

"We can talk while you give me a ride to the restaurant."

"After you." Brian walked his mother to his car and helped her in. "Watch your head," he said kindly.

When Brian climbed into the driver's seat, Debbie grabbed him by the chin and stared into his eyes. Brian pulled away. "What the--"

"Watch it," Debbie cautioned with a glint in her eyes. She released Brian's chin and sat back.

"What's wrong with you?"

Debbie looked Brian over. His eyes seemed clear, he didn't reek of alcohol, but she couldn't be sure. "Are you sober?"

"Yes. Why?"

Debbie made herself comfortable and pulled on her seat belt. "Just checking. You're acting a little strangely."

"Shit. Between you and David, you have me pegged as some kind of crack head or crystal freak. Gimmee a fucking break already."

Debbie smiled with relief. "That's more like it. You were starting to worry me."

"Geez, Ma. How'd you get to be so warped?"

"Lots of practice...and raising the three of you. Get going. I don't have all day."

---

Chapter 16

Michael couldn't figure out what was going on. He wanted so much to believe that Ben was right--that it was over, but he couldn't help himself. The worry genes swam too strongly in the family pool. "How do you know--?"

"I just know. I can feel it." Ben rolled onto his back and floated in the water.

"What if--?"

"There is no 'what if'. He's gone. What's it going to take to make you believe?"

"Some closing credits and a rousing rendition of 'Tubular Bells' would be a good start," Michael mumbled under his breath. "With a nice fat 'The End' sign to boot."

"What was that?" called Ben from across the pool.

"Never mind. I was talking to myself."

Ben swam over to where Michael was treading water. "You've been doing a lot of that today."

"Well, excuse me. I'm under a lot of stress in case you didn't notice all the paranormal activity around here." Michael clung to the sides of the pool and kicked at the water. The warm water wasn't having the relaxing effect that he thought it would. He felt like a loose, partially cooked noodle in a bowl of soup--all out of sorts, no signs of inner support, and rapidly melting.

"You seem tense."

"Give the man a prize. Right on the first try." He kicked himself mentally when Ben winced at the snide remark. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to take it out on you. You've had way too many troubles to deal with lately."

"So have you--because of me."

Michael felt a knot pull tighter across his shoulders. It was amazing how much stress a wet noodle could feel. "Are we going to start this again?"

"No." Ben swam a little closer. "I was just thinking that since my problem became your problem and you helped me solve it--"

"But I didn't do anything! I'm not even convinced...mmph!" Michael gladly let his complaints be absorbed into Ben's kiss. Their mouths met, at first softly, then with growing ardor. He never knew when he lost his grip on the side of the pool. He only knew when his hands were gliding across the slippery contours of Ben's body. The ridges of scar tissue along Ben's hip played against his fingers. Underneath, Ben's muscle moved with a smoothness belied by the outward appearance of his uneven skin.

Ben kicked at the water, bringing him closer than Michael would have thought possible. He was immersed in Ben as much as his body was immersed in the pool. Michael's head dropped back, giving access to Ben's talented mouth and tongue. Ben proceeded to lick and suck his way down Michael's neck, pausing only to suck tender flesh between his smooth teeth and worry it until he left a bright red patch. Ben's mouth moved downwards to capture Michael's nipple. He teased and licked the sensitive nub of flesh until Michael was as taut as a bowstring.

While Ben played deftly with his body, Michael's hands wandered over Ben's back and he purposefully tangled their legs together. With a slight shift, his thigh pressed against Ben's thick cock. He gripped Ben's arms for leverage and moved his thigh side to side with deliberate intent.

Ben's devouring of Michael's chest became slower and slower until his head came to rest on Michael's shoulder and he was breathing heavily. Michael stroked downwards until he came to Ben's ass. He gripped the firm cheeks and pulled himself closer.

"Michael!" Ben cried out, his arms tightening reflexively in a bear hug. Michael slipped his hand between them and under Ben's swim trunks. He stroked the thick, warm flesh until Ben was rock hard and grunting with every breath. He suffered a moment of surprise when Ben grabbed both of his hands in one of his own and pulled them over his head. Surprise gave way to intense pleasure when he felt his swim trunks being pulled off by a sure hand. The wet spandex landed with a wet thud by the poolside, followed shortly thereafter by Ben's own trunks. With no barriers between them, Ben threaded his hands into Michael's and pulled him in for a soul-searing kiss. There was no gentleness about it--nothing but tongues twisting around each other in a battle for dominance, five o'clock shadow abrading pale skin and turning it ruddy, and the groans of two men who couldn't get enough of each other.

Below the water, the battle was replicated. Michael shifted his leg more assertively and he nearly died when Ben's well-developed thigh, rubbed against his erection. The sting of erotic sensation shot straight through him, leaving him dizzy. He circled Ben's waist and rubbed himself wantonly and unashamedly against Ben. The cacophony of feelings swirled around him until they created a thundering crescendo in his head. The pleasure of release pounded through him so hard that he might have blacked out for a second. Luckily, Ben was supporting him.

They were both panting for breath and speechless about the intensity of the encounter. Michael wasn't often at a total loss for words, having been raised at the knee of a championship talker and side by side with two brothers who could use words as weapons of destruction or tools of enticement like veritable masters. But for now, all Michael could do was breathe.

Ben basked in the warmth of the fireplace while Michael knelt behind him and dried his hair. The fire would have done just as well on its own, but he enjoyed being touched. It was as if, having denied himself the pleasure of human contact for so long, his desire for the simple pleasure of skin against skin had grown exponentially. When Michael dropped the towel, Ben bit back a tisk of disappointment. He regained his sense of comfort and security when Michael pulled him back and he was essentially lying in Michael's lap, looking up at him. "Your face looks funny from this position," he said dreamily.

Michael leaned over and placed an upside down kiss on Ben's mouth. "Yours looks just right to me."

Ben looked forward, into the flames licking at the logs in the fireplace. The dancing gold and orange tongues were mesmerizing. He followed them as they bobbed and crackled and wondered how something that looked so beautiful could hurt so much when it got close. His voice was just as dreamy as before when he started to share another tale. "I didn't expect it to hurt as much as it did." He sighed and closed his eyes when Michael started stroking his face, taking away the lingering pain of past wounds. He knew he probably shouldn't bore Michael with ancient history, but the words needed to be said beyond his strength to keep them to himself.

"I remember looking out the window and trying to figure out where the fire was coming from. Stupid, right? I should have been trying to get us out."

Michael's voice was low and steady. "You were probably too injured to help yourself. That's why you couldn't move."

"Maybe," Ben said idly. "I remember getting angry that it was so hot. The flames hadn't reached the inside of the car yet. The vinyl on the seats was melting. I just had to be wearing light linen pants. The vinyl melted right through and it took them days to pick out all the pieces." He paused, wondering if now was a good time to stop, but Michael's hand rubbing in small circles over his heart urged him on. "I tried to move when the windshield broke, but I was stuck, I thought. Later on, they told me that the steering wheel had bent and pinned my leg to the seat. I couldn't feel it then. All I could feel was the heat pouring in. I wasn't even thinking about Paul anymore. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't cry for him. There wasn't time." He jumped when a one of the logs twisted and slipped, sending a flurry of sparks and smoke up the chimney flue. "It was like the windshield exploded in slow motion--like those movies when a car falls under water and the windshields starts to crack under the pressure." He lifted his hand and drew invisible lines in the air. "Or like a drunken spider got a little loose and crazy. It would have made a great picture if I'd had a camera and my arm hadn't been broken in three places."

He settled more comfortably into Michael's lap and exhaled with pleasure when Michael's gentle massage moved from his face to his neck. With his eroding tension, his story became easier to tell, the warm relaxation drawing out memories that he had suppressed or forgotten. "It caved in...the windshield that is. Then there was this popping noise, like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. I gather that it was little pieces of broken glass popping and flying around. They told me I was lucky I didn't lose an eye in all that. At the time, lucky was not a word I would have applied to myself, but they're right aren't they? I was lucky." He stared at the fire in quiet thought. "It took me a long time to accept that."

Michael skimmed his hand under the edge of Ben's terry cloth robe and splayed his fingers across Ben's chest. "I feel like the lucky one."

Ben looked up at Michael's upside down face. He reached up and cupped Michael's face. "Where did you come from I wonder?"

"Pittsburgh."

"Do they make a lot of heroes and angels in Pittsburgh?"

"You can't walk down the street without tripping over one or the other."

Ben sat up and pulled Michael to sit in his lap. "I may have to pay Pittsburgh a visit and see for myself."

Michael pulled at the tie of Ben's robe. "Good. You can go with me when I return my brother's car."

Ben felt his heart trip over those words. "You're going home?" He held Michael by the shoulders, fearing the response that might put an end to this thing they had started.

Michael leaned in and started kissing the base of Ben's throat. He pulled the robe down Ben's shoulders and began a sensual assault on Ben's exposed body. "I have to go home sometime."

Ben clenched his teeth to stop his desired retort: "No, no, no." He didn't own Michael. In the scheme of things, they had only just met. Despite whatever words might have been spoken out of sympathy or in the heat of passion, it would be unreasonable to expect Michael to change his whole life on a whim. "When do you think you're leaving?"

Michael lay back on the thick rug and pulled Ben over him. "I have no set plans. I still have to figure out what I'd use for transportation when I come back. I'd buy David's car if I had a fat bank account or a winning lottery ticket."

Ben almost collapsed with relief at Michael's words: when I come back. Only then did he realize that Michael was looking up at him, eyes blazing with desire, his nude body undulating with welcome. Ben pushed the wet tendrils of black hair away from Michael's face and kissed him. With one kiss, heat swept through him. His open robe draped over both of them.

Michael smiled. "I had a dream like this--except you were wearing a lot less." Ben moved to shrug off the robe, but Michael stopped him. "No, don't. I like it like this. It's like we're in a cocoon, just the two of us."

"What did I say in your dream?"

Michael bit his lip in thought. "You didn't say anything...I don't think. Neither did I. We were otherwise occupied." Michael arched an eyebrow flirtatiously.

Ben leaned down, careful to bear his weight on his good arm. He nuzzled Michael's neck, inhaling the faint scent of soap from the shower they had shared after their swim. "What were we doing?"

Michael's blush started on his chest and crept charmingly up his neck until his cheeks were two flags of red. "Oh, you can probably guess."

"I have a limited imagination. Indulge me."

Michael his face against Ben's chest and spoke in an embarrassed rush. "You were kissing me all over."

Ben stomach flipped pleasantly at that image. After his first taste of Michael, he was hopelessly addicted to the man's flavor. He helped himself now, starting in the region of Michael's navel. The tip of his tongue fit perfectly into the dip and the little trail of hair below brushed his lower lip and chin. He licked his way downward, stopping to run his tongue across Michael's pubic bone. Under his chest, the effect of his teasing became apparent as Michael's cock stirred to life. Ben moved away from that temptation, wanting only to prolong their foreplay. "What else did we do?" he asked between the kisses with which he was dotting Michael's stomach and thighs.

Michael shook his head restlessly. "I don't remember anything except..."

"Except what?" Ben took one of Michael's hands and sucked two of Michael's fingers deep within his mouth. Michael's pupils had dilated so that only a rim of brown was visible in his eyes. The heat of the fire, both outside and in, had created a deep flush across his snowy skin. Ben paused. "Michael?"

"Yes?" Michael's voice was husky and tremulous. He cleared his throat and asked, "What was I saying?"

"You were trying to remember how many ways I made love to you."

Michael's eyes clouded with distracted confusion. "I was?"

"Yes, you were."

"What did I tell you?"

Ben pulled Michael's hand down and around himself, "Touch me and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Michael followed Ben's lead. With moistened fingers, he explored the crease between Ben's buttocks. Ben obediently spread his legs and pressed downwards, hungering for the feeling of penetration. Michael didn't keep him waiting long. He circled Ben's puckered opening and pressed inwards, with sure movements. Sweat broke out

Michael hooked his legs around Ben's waist and pulled him closer. Ben gripped one of Michael's hair-roughened legs and propped it on his shoulder. He spared a second to kiss Michael's leg before preparing himself. With fingers moistened in his own mouth, he entered Michael's body, fingers flexing when Michael tightened around him. He pulled his fingers out and placed his erection at Michael's entrance. With a blink and a slight nod of acceptance, Ben flexed his hips and pushed his way home.

He would have liked to have given Michael a few seconds to adjust, but his instincts kicked in and he began moving in and out, the pull of Michael's body too much to resist. In the dark or with his eyes closed, he might have been able to convince himself that anyone would do, but it would have been a lie of monumental proportions. Michael's name rang in his head. Michael's musky, soapy, sweet scent surrounded him. When he opened his eyes, the caring and desire on Michael's face hit him with the speed and force of a runaway train. His muscles burned with the effort of his movement and that ache spread to the tips of his fingers and toes. Climax approached and he slowed, wanting it to last forever. When he could no longer prevent the inevitable fall, he tumbled head long into a maelstrom of pulsing sensation. It ripped through him leaving him drained of energy. He fell boneless at Michael's side, gasping for air. When he'd recovered his breath and his senses, he pulled Michael's back to his front and leisurely explored Michael's body.

Michael writhed under Ben's attentions, making breathless sounds of encouragement every so often. His own climax having taken the edge off, Ben could afford to take his time. He stroked Michael's cock slowly and, when Michael would have pushed him to go faster, he ignored the impassioned pleas, keeping his own, steady pace. Michael became a bundle of impatience and demand, moving his hips in a failed attempt to achieve the release he craved. His breathing became more harsh and his cries became whispers. Ben waited until the very last moment, when Michael's responses were fully under his control. He stopped stroking to roll Michael's balls between careful fingers. Michael cried out an agonized, "No!" though he seemed to respond just as strongly to the new direction of love play.

When Michael seemed to have calmed down, Ben started all over again, strumming his lover's body like a fine instrument until he hit that perfect note. With his free hand, he circled Michael's hole, pressing the tight ring of flesh without entering until Michael's body tightened and his hands clenched, fingers digging into Ben's thigh. His body jerked and as a stream of creamy white jetted from his cock. Ben continued to stroke Michael's softening flesh, milking the last few drops of Michael's release.

Michael curled in on himself, twitching and heaving in big breaths. Ben tried to touch him again, but Michael drew away with alacrity.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Ben hadn't been anywhere near rough with Michael, so he was at a loss to figure out the reason for this withdrawal. "Michael?"

Michael shook his head and curled up more. Eventually, he turned and lay on his back, his hands over his chest as if he was trying to hold his heart in. "A minute," he said on a breathless note. "Give me a minute."

Ben waited until Michael reached for his hand. Michael kissed Ben's knuckles and held Ben's hand against his chest. Ben curled his body around Michael's side and stared at their joined hands. Michael's pale, smooth skin was such a contrast to his own. For a moment, the scars seemed almost invisible. There was only the tanned skin of yesteryear. Underneath his palm, he could feel the steady thump of Michael's heartbeat. "They told me that I probably wouldn't be able to feel anything on the parts where the burns were worse." Until now, the only true sensation had been the muscle aches and Paul's bone chilling touch.

Michael turned to face Ben. He stroked up Ben's wrist, following the line of his arm to the elbow and continuing up to his shoulder. "Do you feel that?"

Ben nodded. "Yes. Not as much as on the other side, but yes."

"I guess that shows how much they know. Everything else seems to be working just fine."

"Fine?"

Michael grinned. "I'm sorry. I meant fantastically."

"I thought I lost you at the end."

"You didn't lose me. I was only trying to memorize how it felt before the feeling went away."

Ben pressed his hand a little harder against Michael's chest, holding him in place. "Why would you need to do that? If you forget, I'd be happy to remind you in a repeat demonstration." Beneath his joking manner, there was a layer of distress. He sought Michael's eyes. "It's not like you're going to run off and leave forever." He closed his eyes against the flash of emotion in Michael's eyes. He told himself, I imagined it. "You could stay here for as long as you want." Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Ben planted a kiss to prevent any possible rejection. Michael moaned when the kiss became prolonged. They separated to catch their breath and Ben said quickly, "You don't have to make any promises yet...except for one."

"What's that?"

"Promise me you won't disappear on me."

After careful consideration, Michael clenched Ben's hand tighter. "I promise."

---

Chapter 17

It had been raining all night, but Ben and Michael didn't know it until they finally emerged from the bedroom and went rummaging for food. They had spent the entire preceding afternoon and most of the night in bed, making love, talking, making love, sleeping, and making love some more. Now they lounged together on the sofa, lazing the day away as the rain came down on what should have been a dreary Monday morning.

They talked about everything. They laughed themselves hoarse when Ben told Michael about the time he and Paul had gotten themselves trapped in an elevator on their way to their own anniversary party. It turned out to be the best anniversary they'd ever had because it was just the two of them alone in an elevator for hours. Ben described in great detail the things he and Paul did to each other to pass the time.

Ben found that talking about Paul came with an ease that surprised him. It felt so natural to be in bed with Michael in his arms, talking about Paul, referring to him as if the agony of losing him were a distant memory--as if he had been years removed from Paul's death and had made his peace with it. He knew Michael was still a little skeptical about Paul really being gone; he'd thought it was a dream. But since that day in the studio there hadn't been any further incidents, no outbursts. There was actual calm in the house. There wasn't the fear of something untoward happening.

It made Ben feel good to share Paul with someone else, to have someone else see Paul the way he saw Paul, to have Paul live not only in his memory, but in the memory of someone else Ben loved. He wasn't free of Paul. He'd never be completely free of him and he didn't want to be. But he had made peace with Paul and his memory and he'd reconciled himself with his guilt concerning Paul's death...and that was in large part due to Michael.

Michael had this way of making Ben feel tranquil--a feeling he thought would never be his to call his own ever again. He thought he hadn't deserved it, didn't want it. If Paul were gone then there should be no more light in the world and Ben deserved to dwell in its dark recesses with no hope of respite from its torments. But then there was Michael, who brought the sun cascading back into the dark, damp places. Michael brought life, hope, and love back into the house and to Ben's life. Michael had stood up against the rage, guilt, and shame which had laid siege to Ben's soul, and shrouded the house and its sole, living occupant in its Edwardian myopia. Within Michael rested the heart of a thousand lions, yet there was another side of him that was surreptitious in its delicacy and the combination intoxicated Ben with its contrast.

Michael described his family life in great detail for Ben. He told Ben about his mother, Uncle Vic, and his brothers. He even spoke of his father. He was sure it would send his new lover running for the hills, but Ben only pulled him closer, kissing him deeply and tenderly while rubbing small circles in the center of Michael's back. Michael felt loved and protected in a way that didn't make him feel self-conscious or small, didn't make him feel as though he owed someone for their kindness to him. He could talk about his father without the dull thud in his chest or the struggle for breath.

As the tale of the Novotny's unfolded in all of its graphic details, Michael found himself laughing almost the entire way through it--not that it was even remotely funny at the time, but now, listening to himself retell it and watching as Ben took it all in, it was funny as hell. Even the deception of his mother and the deathbed confession of his father through those damned letter took on a whole new connotation because if none of it had happened, he would never have met and fallen in love with Ben. It was almost as if it was meant to be--not that he believed in that kind of shit, but the coincidence had been astounding. It was as if the universe, in its infinite wisdom, had seen two wounded and desperate people, each punishing themselves for a variety of reasons, and had decided to take pity on them. It had placed them in close proximity to one another and allowed nature to take it course.

It was a perfect day to spend in bed, listening to the rain falling--sometimes softly, at other times in torrents. The bedroom was heated by the two naked bodies intertwined on the bed: their skin glistened in the glow of the fireplace, just like in Michael's dream; their mouths traversed each other's bodies as they retraced familiar territory; their hands moved slowly over their sweat-slicked skin; their cocks danced an excruciatingly slow tango with each other as they lay pressed together. The air was filled with the sometimes muffled, but often times loud sounds of Michael and Ben's love making as they created new and fantastic ways to please each other.

Ben found Michael to be amazingly limber and capable of the most astounding things: the deep arch of his back as he positioned himself to take more of Ben's cock inside of him--so deeply Ben thought, at times, that he would completely dissolve into Michael; the way Michael ran his fingers along Ben's spine, making the hairs all over his body stand on end; or the way Michael took Ben into his mouth, like he was devouring him whole. Ben was lulled and rocked simultaneously as their bodies thundered and quaked under the massive onslaught of their orgasms.

It had been a perfect day to stay in bed and explore each other's bodies. They could have stayed there all day, and on into the next night. They had wanted to, but their stomachs had other ideas. They'd worked up a murderous appetites that could not be ignored any longer, so finally they got out of bed on unsteady legs and went in search of something to eat. They sat naked on the kitchen floor a la "9� Weeks," feeding each other and then taking it to the next level by eating off each other--licking, sucking, biting, laughing and teasing each other--playfully adoring one another as they drank and ate their fill.

Once they were content, they headed back to the bedroom but could only make it to the living room sofa before desire took control and they found themselves making love again with Michael on all fours and Ben pressing into him from behind. Ben's hands were on either side of Michael's hips guiding him. His thighs and balls slapped Michael's ass, causing Ben to moan with delight. Ben leaned forward and licked up and down Michael's spine and blew on the wet trail, causing Michael to shiver and the already tight walls of his ass to clutch Ben even tighter. Ben's breath caught in his throat and he drove himself deep into Michael. He reached around and took hold of Michael's throbbing, hard cock and started stroking slowly.

Michael raised himself until he was sitting on Ben's cock, impaling himself as deeply as he could. He rested his head on Ben's shoulder as Ben lavished kisses on his neck and face. With his other hand, Ben reached up and started pinching and twisting Michael's achingly hard nipples. It only took a few moments more for both men to cum together. It was so strong that they held on tightly to one another so as not to fly apart from the force of it.

They collapsed together, exhausted. Even though they wanted to move, their legs refused to function. They dozed but found it impossible to sleep deeply because of the constant need to touch and to be touched, to kiss and be kissed. They needed to feel one another, to be connected in a way that was unfamiliar to either of them and yet somehow missed.

Ben, who had been reluctant to show his body to Michael, was now reluctant to put clothes on. He found he wanted, needed to have Michael see him, to have Michael touch him, to have Michael tell him he was beautiful. Michael had told him he loved to watch his body move. They hadn't been dressed all weekend. As a matter of fact, they used any and every excuse they could find to remove their clothes.

Ben couldn't remember a time when he'd felt this free--like there was truly nothing he couldn't do, nothing he couldn't bear as long as Michael was there with him. This is what scared him now that Michael was going home. Michael was going to face his family to deal with things that hadn't been dealt with for years. Michael was going to leave him here in this house. For the first time in a long time, Ben was actually going to be totally alone here and he didn't know if he could stand that.

Michael was lying, wrapped in Ben's arms. His head rested lazily on Ben's chest, as the steady breathing beneath him lulled him to sleep. He cleared his throat and started with hesitation. "I'll be back in a few days."

Ben shifted a little behind Michael. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Michael turned so that he could see Ben's face. "I'm not."

"Look, Michael--" Ben started before Michael quieted him by placing a finger on his lips.

"I'm coming back and nothing and no one is going to stop me."

"Baby, I know how family can pull at you."

"You're part of that family now...a part I can't--I won't live without. Why don't you come with me?" Michael asked before placing a sweet kiss on Ben's cheek.

Ben smiled, exhilarated by the invitation and giving it serious consideration before answering. "You need to deal with them on your own. I'm not going anywhere."

"You promise?" Michael asked playfully.

"I promise."

"You promise to be here and I promise to be back. See how easy that was?"

"Watching you go isn't going to be easy."

Michael eyes misted over a little before he spoke. "Leaving you isn't going to be easy for me either, but it's only for a little while. I wouldn't do it if it weren't necessary."

"I know, but I don't have to like it," Ben said, pulling Michael closer to him.

"I don't like it either, but once it's done, I'm yours completely, without the sword of my family hanging over our heads."

Brian drove in silence while replaying the conversation with Michael in his head. He felt differentl this morning--not exactly happy, but not as dark as he usually felt--like there was something to actually look forward to: the proverbial light at the end of the goddamn tunnel sort of thing. The mere thought of it almost made him burst out laughing. Had he been alone, he might have. As it was, it took all of his will not to so that his mother wouldn't think she'd climbed into a moving vehicle with a madman.

There had been times over the years when the only person he could bear to look at, let alone talk to, had been Mikey. Brian had thought it was because Michael didn't judge him or try and get him to change his wicked ways. He thought it was because he could get Michael to do mostly anything he wanted him to do. But hearing Michael say he was coming home soon let Brian know that none of this was true and yet somehow all of it was true.

It was Michael himself, his very presence, that brought about the calmness that stilled Brian's conflicting emotions and quieted his ever-warring demons. It was the way Michael looked at him, the way he listened to Brian. Michael listened with an attentiveness that was eerie sometimes, because it meant that sometimes Brian had to be careful of what he said. But he found this wasn't a bad thing. It meant he couldn't just run off at the mouth knowing that the other person was only half listening to him rant and rave. Michael actually listened and absorbed his tantrums. Michael absorbed his anguish, at times not even knowing he was doing it. He took it all in and never held it over Brian's head, never made him feel like there was another shoe waiting to be dropped.

Brian had spoken to Michael the night before. Hearing his brother's voice sent unfamiliar shivers up and down Brian's spine. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, Brian heard lightness in his brother's voice. It was almost as if Brian had never heard his Michael speak before. Several times during the conversation, he had to check himself, to keep himself from asking if it really were indeed his brother. Then Michael would say something, something that only he'd say and Brian knew it was his Mikey.

Brian's heart had leapt at the news of Mikey's impending return--not that he'd ever let on. It was only then that he realized just how much he missed Michael, how much Michael's being within shouting distance made up for so much shit he had to deal with during the course of his day.

As they had gotten older, Brian had come to appreciate Michael's silent strength. He'd also come to rely on the caretaker in his older brother. When he got drunk, Brian would always find his way to Michael even when he couldn't remember anything else, including his own name. He'd pour himself into a cab and blurt out Michael's address. He'd stumble to Michael's apartment building and somehow get up the stairs to Michael's apartment door. No matter how late it was or who Michael was with, he'd let Brian in and take care of him. If Michael had company, he'd undress Brian and lay him out in the small, extra bedroom in the apartment. If Michael were alone then he'd put Brian in bed with him. These were the times Brian remembered most and appreciated the best, simply because they reminded him of when they were kids and he'd go to Michael when he was scared.

Several times during this separation, he had somehow ended up in front of Michael's apartment building after getting off work. He'd just sit there in his jeep and stare up at the dark windows for about fifteen, twenty minutes, then he'd drive away, somehow feeling better, feeling closer to Michael in a way he couldn't describe, in a way he didn't want to describe, in a way that no one save him and Michael understood but could never put into words. Brian knew if they could describe it, it would go away, and so it was better to leave it as it was.

He had always known how Michael felt about him, had always known that their relationship was vastly different than any other relationship he had with anyone. Michael had a way of saying things that made Brian think about what he was doing in an entirely different light. Maybe it was because Michael was the only person he knew who didn't preach to him about his moral shortcomings.

Sitting in the car with his mother now reminded him of what Michael would do. Michael would know the right thing to do, the right thing to say, like he did when they found out their father died, when all of this shit started. Brian knew what he wanted to say, had mapped it out in his head, but wasn't sure where to begin now that he was sitting here with his mother. He knew what to say, just not how to say it. Talking about feelings was Michael's department.

Brian didn't like being unsure of himself because it made him nervous. However, there were several things that had come up lately that made him nervous: the act of him and David spending time together for more than five minutes and actually being rather civil to each other; walking out of his mother's house after she dropped another little bomb shell on them and being unsure if he'd ever be back.

After he'd hung up the phone with Michael, Brian decided to go see his mother the next morning. He'd put to rest at least one demon before his brother got home.

Debbie cleared her throat before talking to her son. "So you're not pissed anymore?"

Brian glanced over at her while choosing his words carefully. "I wasn't really pissed. I was more disappointed...and worried about Michael."

Glancing out the window Debbie replied, "You sure give one hell of an imitation of being pissed."

"I told you I was worried about Michael." Brian looked in the side view mirror before changing lanes.

"And you think I'm not?" Debbie snapped defensively.

"I know you are. But you created a situation here, Ma. You really don't get to play the injured party."

"You came by today to give me shit?"

Brian looked at his mother for a minute before replying. "I came over because my father isn't worth all the shit that's coming down around our heads."

Debbie turned her head and looked out the window, trying to hide her tears. This was as close to an apology as Brian could get. She felt his hand cover hers and the tears that had been threatening to fall now poured from her eyes in oceanic waves.

David had been working out for about an hour when the door bell started ringing. He thought seriously about not answering, but something inside him told him to.

When he got to the door and opened, it his mouth nearly hit the floor. "Michael?"

Michael looked at his brother and took a deep breath. "Hey, big brother--" was all he got out before he was engulfed in David's sweaty embrace.

"Come in, come in," David stuttered excitedly.

"Are you sure?"

David smiled and kissed his brother on the cheek. "Get your ass in here."

Walking inside, Michael felt relief wash over him. "How have you been?"

David walked a short distance behind his little brother, happier than he'd been in along time. "You know me."

"Yeah, that's why I asked."

"I'm fine. You want something to drink? "

"No, I...Can we just sit and talk a minute?" Michael asked, heading for the couch.

David took a seat beside his brother, unwilling to let Michael out of his sight for fear his he'd vanish into thin air. "We can do anything you want. You look great."

"Thanks. I feel great."

"So, whatever you were doing helped you?"

"Yeah, I exorcised some ghosts...and came to some realizations about Dad, you and myself."

"Sounds heavy. You sure you don't want a drink first?"

"I'm sure. I...I..."

"Take your time."

"This is harder than I thought. I'm sorry."

"I don't care about the car."

"I'm not talking about the car. I'm talking about everything else. I've been a first-rate ass. I was missing something that was never really there--holding onto memories instead of appreciating what was right in front of me. For a long time I was so pissed at you for stepping in and taking Dad's place. Being gone this time made me realize I wasn't pissed at you, but at him because he never could have done what you did. He never was the man you are. He ran when things got a little hard for him. Even when everyone would have understood you wanting to be on your own, when you were offered the partnership in Detroit, you stayed. I'm sorry I gave you so much shit for it. I know I can't ever make up for how I acted. I know I can't ever give back to you what you had to give up for Ma, Brian, and me, but I'm sorry and I love you for it..." Michael couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

David reached over and embraced his brother. "Shh, Michael. It's all right. It's all right. I never wanted you to thank me. I only wanted you be happy. You have nothing to be sorry about. Not now, not ever. You're my little brother. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you. There's nothing I wouldn't gladly give up for you--nothing...As long as you're happy and safe, I'm okay with what I did."

---

Chapter 18

"Argh!" said Michael when his head hit the keyboard with a dull thud. When something tapped his shoulder, he jumped and succeeded in whacking his forehead on the edge of the laptop screen and banging his knee on the table leg in an ironically coordinated demonstration of startled clumsiness.

"Sorry, Michael. I was trying to catch your attention, but you seemed so far away. How's it coming along?" Vic looked over his nephew's shoulder at the last paragraph on the screen. "Not so good, I see."

"It could be better." Michael stretched his knee, rubbed at his forehead with one hand, and used the other hand to click a key and save what he had been typing--minus the last two lines. This interruption was a blessing. He'd thought to write something down to kill time while he waited for his mother to come home, but after every few paragraphs his mind would hit a wall--a big, brick one with slippery sides and no alternate route in sight. The ideas born in his imagination begged to be made real, but once he started, they seemed to retreat into some far away hiding place. Instead of story ideas, thoughts of his mother, Ben, and his whole life had been swirling in his head and ruining his tenuous concentration. "Is she coming home soon?"

Vic sat nearby and took his time answering. "She knows that you're here," he said as if that answered all. Unfortunately it did.

"Of course she knows. I called to tell her that I would be waiting for her after work."

"She decided to go out to with one of her friends--dinner and a movie, I believe."

Michael processed the tiny stab of pain in his heart. He knew that his mother had been avoiding him, but this latest rejection finally got to him.

"Payback's a bitch, ain't it?" Vic's joke was told without a trace of a smile.

"Yes, Uncle Vic it is." Michael knew that he'd needed to get away, but doing it in such a melodramatic manner had probably made a bad situation worse. "I just...needed to go, you know? It was more about me than about her."

Vic nodded sagely. "Charles used to be the same way."

"I'm not my father," Michael said, but his protest sounded hollow to his own ears. He'd never thought he was his father, no matter how much he looked like Charles Novotny--not in the way Uncle Vic was suggesting. If anything, Brian was the one most likely to think of himself and fuck anyone else. He, Michael, had always been the one to go along with everyone else. It had become his whole way of living, of coping. When he needed another way, one step off his usual path had disrupted the delicate balance of what everyone expected from him. He hadn't cared much until he appreciated the hurt that he'd left behind. Luckily, Brian and David had been relatively easy. Their mother, despite appearances to the contrary was the farthest thing from easy. Michael snapped out of his daydream when Vic spoke.

"Did you find what you were looking for while you were gone?"

"I feel like I can deal with things better now. That was the most important thing."

"I heard that something else important happened...or should I say someone else?"

Michael grinned ruefully. "And Brian swears he never gossips.

"Don't be upset with him. He told me because I harassed him, since you didn't deign to talk to me yourself," said Vic pointedly.

Michael had the grace to look away with a hint of embarrassment. "I'm not upset. I think that part of me was worried that I might jinx it by telling too many people."

"The real thing?"

"If it's not, it's the closest I've ever been."

"Good. You could use something of your own."

Something of his own? It had a nice ring to it. Michael closed his eyes and was immediately assailed by visions of Ben's face before they had parted. The longing glances, heartfelt embraces, and the words left unsaid had bordered on being unbearable, given the knowledge that it was all that they would have to tide them over for several days. It wasn't nearly enough although, when he was alone, Michael could imagine that he could feel Ben somewhere out there.

"It's been a while since I've seen you smile like that."

"It's been a while since I've had a reason."

"Then, it was worth it?"

Michael nodded. "It was."

Vic stood up with finality. "Then tell your mother that. She only wants the best for you."

"How am I going to tell her if she keeps avoiding me?"

Vic shook his head. "Come on. You've got Grassi blood running through those veins. We never have a problem getting in someone's face when the occasion calls for it. Sometimes we don't even need an occasion."

Michael laughed...perhaps for the first time since he'd come home. "All right, Uncle Vic. I can take a hint."

"Good. The rest of us can talk to her until we're blue in the face, but it's you two who need to sit down and have it out. Come help me. I'm about to make a spinach quiche for dinner and I need someone to taste it."

Michael made a moue of disgust. "I hate spinach."

"Nonsense. You're going to need all the strength you can get."

Debbie watched Michael from across the room. She'd avoided him last night and now he had shown up at the restaurant as if nothing had happened. He'd been here for half an hour, happily greeting the other staff who seemed just as happy to see him. Many of the regular customers called him over and engaged him in animated conversations. He seemed better than he had in quite some time. It was a startling contrast to his previous demeanor. Her son had never been depressed, but he had seemed to float through life without much direction and without much joy in the living. She kept asking herself why she couldn't just be happy for his newfound peace and talk to her son. A customer caught her attention and she stored away those thoughts for later.

Michael introduced himself to the new busboy. The restaurant had been busier than usual and it had been easy to miss the teen who'd been working like a fiend. Things had died down and most of the other staff had already left for the night. "Hi. I'm Michael. How long have you been working here?"

The busboy looked at Michael in confusion. "Uh, two weeks?"

"And you are...?"

The boy reddened. "Uh. My name is Justin. Look, I don't want to get into trouble. Mrs. Novotny might get upset if I don't clean up this table right now."

"Don't worry. I'm friends with the management. Why don't you take off? I'll take care of it."

"Oh no! I couldn't do that."

"Don't worry about it."

Sam ducked his head, letting his blonde bangs cover his face. "Actually, I really need the money and I can't afford to lose this job."

"You're not going to lose this job."

Sam looked up with wide eyes. "The owner just fired someone for breaking a dish the other night--didn't even let him finish his shift. I don't want to test Mrs. Novotny's patience. There aren't many jobs around these days."

"The owner is my mother. I'll make sure that she knows that I sent you home...and you'll still be paid for your full shift."

Sam's face brightened with happiness. "Thanks! I was supposed to meet my girlfriend, Daphne. She'll be glad that we have a little more time."

"No problem, Sam."

Michael took Sam's apron and bucket of dirty dishes. He was puzzled about the boss that Sam feared. To give credit to his mother, she had always had a knack for bringing the staff together into one happy family. Anger and snap decisions had never been her style. While he'd been greeting everyone, he had kept an eye on her. She had changed and it went beyond avoiding him. The lightness in her step was gone as was her usual cheer and vivacity. The unsmiling impostor who remained barely shared a resemblance to the real Debbie Novotny. Talking to her might be more difficult than he had imagined.

After Michael had cleaned up the last table and unloaded the last dishwasher load, he went in search of his mother with two cups of tea in hand. He found her sitting at a corner table, head in hand, nodding off. By now, they were the only two people left in the restaurant. He walked to her side and said softly, "Mom?"

Debbie started and looked up. Fatigue ringed her eyes and made her lids droop and her mouth draw down. "What is it?"

Michael offered her one of the cups of tea and sat across from her. "I was hoping you'd talk to me."

Debbie pinched her lips, emphasizing the creases of tension that bracketed her mouth. "Why bother? You didn't want to hear anything I had to say before. I'm not sure that I don't feel the same about you now."

Michael flinched at the words, but didn't retreat. "I know I deserved that."

"Damn straight you did."

"But I found out that sometimes when you care about someone, you should take the time to let them know because none of us have forever. I don't want to ever let you think that I don't love you, because I do."

Debbie brought rubbed at her temples as if the motion would wipe away the pain etched on her face. "This has been hell, you know."

"Yes, I do."

"I knew that someday I'd have to deal with it, but I didn't expect things to happen the way they did."

"None of us did. That's the funny thing about life. Just when you have it all figured out, someone changes all the rules. If we don't work as a team, we all lose."

Debbie laughed through the tears that pooled in her eyes. "Since when did you start memorizing fortune cookies?"

Michael reached out and took his mother's hand in his own. "I've had a lot of time to think and realize what was important."

"And?"

"And, as much as I miss him, the memory of my father and all that he could have been to me can never overshadow what you mean to me now--what you were to all of us."

Debbie let out a choked sound. "I thought you'd never speak to me again...that you'd hate me for taking your father away from you."

"I was angry. I admit that. I wasn't ready to hear excuses or explanations or reasons. My father warned me in his letter not to be angry with you, but I didn't listen because I needed to blame someone and he wasn't here. You were. You've always been..." He smiled a little. "Even when I didn't want you to be."

Debbie snorted. "You little asshole."

Michael heart lifted when his mother started sounding a little more like herself. "I realized something else while I was thinking about all this."

"What?"

"I...I met someone who lost his partner not too long ago. I want to tell you about him later. Seeing him and how he suffered and was haunted by the person he lost, made me think of you. All these years, you've never talked much about Dad leaving other than how it affected us. I was so busy...we were all so busy thinking about ourselves that we forgot."

"Forgot what, honey?"

"We forgot about you. You always seemed so strong. I knew you were angry, but it never occurred to me how much it must have hurt when he left...and when he died. I should have asked you this a long time ago...Do you still miss Dad?"

Debbie gripped Michael's hand more tightly and said in a rough whisper. "You don't know how much."

Vic paid little attention to his surroundings as he hurried to the restaurant. It had to have been hours since it had closed, but his sister hadn't come home yet. They had made plans to go out for drinks earlier on and it wasn't like her to ditch without calling. Various possibilities for her absence tripped through his mind, each one worse than the last. His worry abated when he saw that the lights were still on. The pool of light was too far from the front window to reveal the identity of whoever she was talking to, but she seemed okay. He went around back and let himself in. He made his way in the dark and pushed the door into the front room. The two occupants failed to notice him and continued their conversation. Up closer, he recognized Michael's figure seated across from his mother's. They were laughing and talking.

"Do you remember that time he tried to help us build that fort in the backyard? What a mess!"

"Your father was never good with a hammer and nails, God bless him. I don't know how many days I spent tearing down what you guys did the night before and rebuilding it while you were at school and Charles was at work."

"You did that?" said Michael with shock. "I always wondered why it looked so much better the next day! Brian told us that someone was rebuilding it, but David and I didn't believe him. If you put so much work into it, why did you ask Dad to tear it down?"

"Stupid, motherly fears. After it was done, I was always afraid that one of you boys would fall out and break his arm. I hated the thought that I could make something that might hurt you."

"We would have climbed the tree anyway. That's why Dad suggested the fort in the first place--so we'd have somewhere to sit once we got up there."

"I know. I don't think I really would have made him tear it down. I knew he loved it as much as you boys did. Besides, he always kept an eye on you while you were up there. He loved you boys a lot."

"He loved you too."

"You don't have to say that to make me feel better, Michael. I came to terms with your father a long time ago."

Michael leaned forward. "I don't think you have--at least not completely. He did love you. It's not your fault that he didn't stay. It's a lot easier to run away than it is to stick around and face things."

"It's okay. You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. I don't know what Dad wrote to you, but it's not your fault and I want you to know that I know. The truth is, if he really wanted to, he wouldn't have needed your permission to come back and see us. If he had really wanted to or been able to, you wouldn't have been able to stop him. If--" Michael stopped and took a deep breath. "No one can really understand what was going on with Dad except Dad himself. That's okay. I still have the good memories of him and that will have to do."

Debbie sniffed loudly and started searching her pockets. "Why do I never have a freaking handkerchief when I need one?"

"Mom."

"What Michael?" asked Debbie, yanking a scrap of white linen out of her pocket.

"Those memories are nice, but reality was much better. Having you stick around and look out for us...I wouldn't trade that...not for anything."

From his vantage point, Vic smiled. Mother and son both stood and gave each other clumsy hugs. Debbie's arms seemed a bit tight and after a minute, Michael started waving his arms and making squeaking noises. Before Vic had to step in and pry them apart, she let go and stepped back. She patted Michael firmly on the cheek and said something in a low voice that made them both laugh.

"Finally," Vic whispered to himself. All the refereeing he'd been doing lately had begun to wear on him. Maybe things could finally get back to normal. He let the door close quietly and left them to their own devices.

Michael tossed and turned in bed. It had never felt so empty before. He almost wished for one of Brian's drunken visits just so he wouldn't be alone. For the past couple of days, he had been hanging out with some of his friends. Earlier tonight, after Michael had gotten off work, they had gone out to drink and play pool while catching up on the last few weeks. Ordinarily, a trip to the clubs for dancing and other forms of stress relief would have been next on the agenda. Michael had gone so far as to stand in line at Babylon. As soon as he had crossed the threshold, the urge to leave had hit him strongly. Beautiful as the hordes of guys were, there seemed to be no point to it. Even the hottest stud in tight black leather shorts, black boots, and nothing else had failed to excite.

Well, that might be an exaggeration, thought Michael. He wasn't immune--just not as interested. He kept wishing that Ben were there. They had never danced, but Michael would have bet that being wrapped in Ben's broad, muscular arms would be heaven.

At the club, he'd danced with a few people, had a few drinks, and had finally conceded that his mind was in a totally different place than the rest of him. He bid his friends goodbye and took a cab home.

Two hours after hitting the sack and he still couldn't sleep. The hapless pillow had surrendered its will to his fist. Punching the bag of down and scrunching into a comfortable shape hadn't done a thing to tame his restlessness. He gave up and stared sightlessly into the dark. His hand crept up to his neck and fingered the spot on the left, just over his pulse. If he focused, he could still tell where the hickey had been. When he had run to Ben's guest house to pack his bag, he'd passed a mirror and had been simultaneously embarrassed and pleased to see the bright red mark on his neck. Only a turtle neck would cover the darned thing up, but he didn't mind carrying physical evidence of Ben's touch on his body. It made him feel like a kid again but it also made him feel desired. He had been disappointed when it had faded because it was his only tangible reminder.

Ben. How was it possible to miss someone so much when they'd known each other for so short a time? He had probably driven everyone crazy talking about the new love in his life. He could see it in their amused smiles when he'd been going on too long about it. They indulged him and he was glad because he wasn't sure that he could stop--not until the last couple of days.

Now, it made it worse to talk about Ben. Michael had been busy tidying up his life so that he could go back. His apartment was available for sublet. Any belongings that he wanted were packed up. David had tried to give him the car, but Michael would have none of it. With some of the money he had put away, he'd purchased a used economy car. It was no stunner, but Ben had a garage and it could always be hidden there.

Everything had been set for him to leave when an unforeseeable delay had occurred. Michael flipped over in the bed for the hundredth time that night and cursed the fates that had let two of the best waiters choose this week to run off together. Everyone at the restaurant knew that Bridget and Gabriel were smitten. It was common knowledge that the two would likely get married and have a few dozen babies together.

No one had expected that they would leave town in the middle of the week, with farewell notes that said little more than: "We're off to Paradise. Nice to know you."

According to one of the waiters who was close friends with Bridget, "paradise" was a small town in Las Vegas where a wedding chapel, an economy apartment, and new jobs in a nearby casino awaited the happy couple. Why they had decided to do it as a surprise was anyone's guess. After Debbie regaled Michael and her brother with the story, Vic had commented acerbically that leaving town at the drop of a hat seemed to be a city-wide epidemic. Michael had no defense to that, so he had said nothing.

All that should have been a semi-interesting anecdote except that it was the reason he was still here, alone in bed, instead of back with Ben. He would have called...if Ben had a phone. Before Michael had left, he had made his lover promise to get the phones turned on. He had received no messages or calls from Ben so he assumed it still wasn't done. Just a few more days, he chanted to himself. Just a few more days and the replacements would be starting and he could leave without guilt.

Until Michael had gone, Ben had forgotten just how many hours there were in the day. How he used to fill them, before Michael, bewildered him because the hours stretched before him like a vast wasteland.

'Before Michael' was a phrase that had popped up more than once in the last few days. It had taken on the importance of a geological age: the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, Before Michael, After Michael. Even when Ben told himself he was acting crazier than he had before, when he should have been putting it all into perspective, he was helpless to stop the dizzying idea that he'd found true happiness.

The days slipped by and he counted them, awaiting Michael's return. To occupy himself, he decided to restore the house to it former glory. He'd quickly realized that it was too big a job for him, so he'd hired cleaners to clean and polish everything from the rafters to the cellar. Having strangers around him hadn't been as big of an ordeal as he'd thought. Granted there were one or two whispers. He was sure that they had heard of the hideously disfigured professor who had become a veritable hermit after a fiery car crash of epic proportions. Ben was happy to be able to say to himself that the truth was far less exciting than the stories and that their few whispers couldn't touch the sphere of happiness that enveloped him.

After a week had gone by, Ben began to worry. The phone company would be turning on the phones within the next day and then he would be able to call. He had been chagrined to realized that he'd put off that task when it should have been first. He might have called Michael while he was using his neighbor's phone, but he wanted to be alone when he talked to Michael. What he was feeling was too fresh to be made public, so he waited until he could have talk in the privacy of his own house.

There had been a delay because the storm of a few weeks ago had left some previously undetected damage to the outside lines. One more day and he would be able to hear Michael's voice and reassure himself that it had all been real.

Meanwhile, he roamed the house, looking for something with which to occupy his mind. When television and the radio failed to do the trick, he wandered to the library for something to read.

Ben rolled the ladder into a place. Of course the book he was seeking would have to be on the top shelf. He tested his weight on the first rung. When it seemed secure, he carefully ascended to the top. He located the book and reached for it. Unfortunately, it was just beyond his fingertips. A glance at the floor below showed it to be miles away. To climb all the way down, roll the ladder over all of five inches and to climb again seemed like such a waste of time. He reached again. He balanced precariously and was able to touch the spine. He had just coaxed the book out of its place, firmly wedged between its neighbors, when his foot slipped and the world rushed by and ended with a thud.

The house was completely quiet, now. Dark shadows crept across the room as sunlight faded below the horizon. The unconscious man was as still as stone except for a brief rustling of his hair in a breeze that came from nowhere.

Michael sat up sharply when his cell phone disturbed his hard won sleep. He scrambled out of the bed and stumbled to where the phone beeped noisily and flipped it open.

"Hello. Hello?"

There was no answer except for the crackle of static.

Michael shook the phone as if doing so would clear the connection. "Hello?"

The call disconnected abruptly. Michael stared at the phone. The caller's number was unidentified, but somehow he knew that it was Ben...and that it wasn't good. There was no sense to it--no earthly reason to accept those feelings except that they were there and would not be denied. A cold feeling froze him from the inside and sent him into flurried action. If he could get his hands to stop shaking, he could call his mother from the road, but he had to leave and he had to leave now.

---

Chapter 19

Now is the time for all ghost stories to end, for the dead to return to their graves, for the dreamers to awaken, and for the rest to get on with the work a day business of living.

Sometimes a dream is just a dream. Sometimes it's a premonition. Sometimes it's misdirection. Sometimes it's a paradox. Sometimes it's an ending. Sometimes a beginning. And sometime, on those rarest of occasions, it's a way to say goodbye and set the soul free. The trick is recognizing that occasion when it arises--to differentiate what you want to happen, from what is actually happening.

Ben felt himself being lifted and cradled in someone's arms; it was calming, soothing, and familiar. He wanted to call out to Michael, to reassure his lover that he was all right, but the words were thick as molasses in his throat. His head ached and he couldn't move, but somehow he could feel himself being touched. He could hear the wind entering the room, swirling around a little and then making its exit. He could smell the dampness of the air as it hit his face. He wished he could see Michael, could return the touch, but then suddenly he knew, with a certainty that made his heart thunder in fear, that he wasn't being held by Michael. He was being held by Paul.

Had Michael been right? Had Paul waited for an opportunity to present itself so that he could attack? Had Paul waited for Michael to leave? Had he lain in wait for Ben? Had Paul just been biding his time? Well, really, what else was there for him to do? Paul had all the time in the world. Ben's mind raced, as he tried to move his wooden limbs, but escape wasn't possible. He was alone, he was immobile, and Michael was miles away.

Just as this realization sunk in, Ben heard Paul whisper softly to him, "It's all right, baby. I'm here."

Ben's blood ran so cold he felt it freezing in his veins. He wasn't at all that sure he wasn't dead or close to it, but if he were dead, why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he see Paul?

Then Ben heard a voice. It came from a place so distant in him it took him a moment to recognize the voice as his. "I thought you left." His voice sounded stale, flat, and small--not quite human.

"Did you think it was that easy? That I'd disappear just like that? Silly boy."

"I was hoping."

Paul rocked Ben slowly back and forth and considered carefully before continuing. "I never left. I just stopped being seen, heard, felt."

"Why?" This time Ben's own voice actually started sounding more familiar to him.

"I wanted to watch." Paul's voice faded a little. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Then why are you here?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe I'm stuck here. Or maybe I'm here to make sure." Paul's voice quivered a little as if it were filled with tears.

"Make sure of what?" Ben asked, his voice finally taking on its normal tone.

Paul stopped rocking for a second, pondered, and then started rocking again. "That you'll be all right now. That I'm not exactly the past, but not entirely the present either. And I sure as hell don't want to be the future, not like this."

Ben's voice grew stronger with each passing second, as his anger and fear rose in him completing for dominance. "That doesn't make sense."

Paul put his mouth close to Ben's ear before speaking again. "Think about it for a minute and it will."

Ben shivered as Paul's icy cold breath hit the side of his face. "My head hurts. I can't. What're you talking about?"

"It's not that you can't. You don't want to," Paul whispered against Ben's ear once more.

"Fine I don't want to," Ben replied, anger winning for the time being.

"You have to, Benny. If you don't, we can't get started, and if we don't finish before he comes then I very well may be stuck here forever.

Ben suddenly shivered violently. "Where is Michael? What have you done?"

"Don't worry. I haven't touched a hair on his pretty little head. He'll be here soon. I made sure of that."

"You keep saying he. He has a name."

"I know. Pardon me if it stings a little to say it, to really acknowledge it."

Ben felt remorseful; Paul had said he'd been watching since the studio incident. "I wasn't thinking. It had to have been hard watching me with Michael."

"Not as hard as being dead. But yeah, it hurts like hell. It's hard watching in silence as you move on with him...with Michael." Paul stopped rocking.

"So what was that before in the studio?" Ben asked stiffly.

"What you needed hear at the time."

"And this?"

"This is about what I need."

"What do you need?" Ben asked cautiously.

"For you to acknowledge and accept it."

"Acknowledge and accept what?"

"My death. Your life without me."

"I have."

"No, you've wallowed in it. You've made excuses for it. You let it nearly drive you crazy. You've even convinced yourself that you've come to terms with it, but I know you, Benny and you haven't, not by a fucking long shot." Paul cradled Ben closer to him and started rocking again.

"Shut up," Ben whispered through clenched teeth.

"You never did like being confronted with shit you already know." Paul's voice was soft almost lilting.

"That's not true," Ben protested.

"Yeah, it is. Always has been. Sometimes you live in a sort of self-righteous denial of certain things. You can't afford to this time, baby."

"Maybe I'm not ready to let you go."

"If you weren't ready, you'd have never allowed yourself to love him. You'd never have indulged in his love for you."

"What you do want from me?"

"For you to go to my grave. Until you do, you'll never be free and neither will I...and I'm so fucking tired of this shit," Paul said, sounding weary.

"I can't. I won't."

"How many times have I told you, Benny? There's no difference between can't and won't. Both are refusals. You can and you will go because you've never been a selfish man. You're the one keeping me here. Your guilt, your remorse, and those fucking scars are keeping me here."

"My scars? What the hell to they have to do with anything?"

"Everything. Because you keep them around as a reminder. You got rid of all most of the mirrors, but you look at them every time you look in his eyes. You see them reflected back at you through him." Paul's voice was soft--not condemning or condescending--just matter-of-fact . "You have to bury them with me and really move on...so that I can move on."

Ben tried to hide the anxiety in his voice. "I don't even know where it is."

"Yeah, ya do. You always have."

"I can't do it."

"Do you love Michael?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Then for both of us, you have to. If you don't, what you feel for me will destroy what you feel for him. In the end you'll end up hating me for it because you've lost him. And worse, you'll end up alone and hating yourself."

Suddenly they were in a clearing. It was a beautiful autumn day. The leaves had formed a multi--colored blanket on the grown, a harmonious mixture of oranges, browns, and yellows. Paul looked absolutely beautiful; he was wearing blue linen pants with a matching shirt. His long hair was pulled back from his face as the wind played teasingly with the stray wisps it found. Ben was dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose fitting cashmere sweater that Paul had bought it for him only a week after they had met. He said he saw it in a store window and it cried out to him, so he bought it.

To Ben, it had been a lavish gift because it was something he would have never thought to buy for himself. Paul said that was precisely why he had bought and why Ben should have it. He said he knew Ben would appreciate the beauty of it without being vainglorious about it. It was then that Ben realized how Paul had a way of putting things that made them sound more elegant than they really were. But he also made them sound infinitely more interesting and eloquent in their simplicity. Paul had away of making Ben think about the splendor and unbelievable grandeur of the simple: things he'd overlook if not for Paul's being there to point them out; of things he'd taken for granted until Paul made them seem like the some of the most important things in the universe; as if Ben would never understand the world or his place in it until he understood that beauty, honesty, and the varying shades of truth were to be found in the small, seemingly insignificant complexities of the details.

Ben looked around a little bewildered until he got his bearings. Then he knew where it was and when he was.

He had picked Paul up earlier in the day and whisked him away for a little escape in the middle of the week. They'd both decided to take the day off work because they hadn't been able to spend that much time with each other during the previous weeks. Plus, it was hard at the beginning of a new relationship not to spend as much time as you can with the object of your desire. They'd only been going out for about three months and any spare time they could find was spent together, but lately, work, family, and life seemed to be getting in the way. Talking on the phone three or four times a day wasn't exactly the same thing as touching, kissing, or just holding one another as they fell asleep.

Ben had packed a picnic, consisting of pouched salmon with almandine sauce, an arugula and spinach salad with cherry tomatoes, goat cheese and a light balsamic and lemon vinaigrette dressing, accompanied by a lovely bottle of 1972 Zinfandel.

It was only a little past one and the sun was peeking coquettishly through the clouds. Even though it was a slightly overcast day, it wasn't foreboding. It was cool enough to be nice, but not too cool as to make it a problem. Even so, Ben had brought a blanket in case things worked out the way he planned.

He remembered being nervous as hell. His heart had been racing in fit and starts as he'd prepared the lunch. All the way on the drive out of the city to this secluded spot, he had found completely by accident, Ben could only communicate in grunts and fragmented sentences.

It was a divine little clearing that time seemed to have forgotten. It had tall, majestic oak and cedar trees. Their regal stature made the place look like a piece of God's own heaven. Ben had been stunned by its beauty the first time he'd seen it and he came back over and over again to think or just to get away from the rest of the world and its muddled confusion.

But never until he'd met Paul had he ever considered taking someone there, of sharing that part of himself with anyone else. Never had he wanted someone else to know about his little slice of tranquility or to disturb its quiet stillness with meaningless chatter and otherwise dangerous proclamations of reality. Paul was different, because anyone could see the beauty, but not everyone could appreciate it or absorb its vast silence and still come away with a sense of awe.

Ben's voice came to him through salty tears of remembrance as he began. "You remembered this place."

Paul looked at Ben lovingly and smiled. "You don't forget the first time the man of your dreams tells you he loves you. I remember every detail of that day. I've played it over and over in my mind. I remember how serious you looked."

"I remember how nervous I was. I knew I loved you. I knew I wanted to be with you, but I didn't if you were ready."

Paul reached over and touched Ben's face. "I was ready the day I gave you that sweater. I was waiting for you."

Ben melted into the warm touch of Paul's hand. "Why'd you bring me back here?"

"On the day of the crash, when we were trapped in the car and I kept going in and out, I was recreating this place, detail by detail, in my mind. I knew as soon as we hit that, of the two of us, I wasn't coming out of it. I felt something snap. It was a sick, acid feeling and it brought the taste of blood and iron in my mouth. I remembered hearing a college lecture on spirituality and about being able to create our own heaven. So I started building mine, here--in this place where I'd been the most loved I'd ever been in my life, on the day when the dream of you became an overwhelmingly gorgeous reality of you. I wanted you to see this because it's the place you're keeping me from." A single tear glided down Paul's face.

Ben took a step back breaking the connection. "I don't want to do this. I don't know if I can do this."

"Your life is out there waiting for you...with Michael. I'll admit I was angry as hell about it. At the end, that wasn't you. It was me. I tried to scare the shit outta him, but he wouldn't be moved. Just as I had to accept that, you have to accept this so that we can both move on." Paul closed the distance between them and hugged Ben.

Ben's arms moved reluctantly to embrace Paul. "How can I forgive myself?"

"Because it was an accident. Because I have. Because he heard it and didn't run away. Because at some point, baby, 'What if?' is just a fucking question, not a way to live the rest of your life. The scars on your body and your face are just ways of you flogging yourself. They're ways of keeping him at a distance. Even if you won't want to admit it to him, admit it to yourself. I mean really, Benny, how long did it take after he left for you get the phone service turned on? You haven't even talked to him since he left. What do you think that's about? It's time for us to let each other go. You have him and another life to build. I have this. It's not what we planned, but it's what we've got to work with."

Michael hurriedly threw some things in a bag and was rifling through the apartment in search of his keys when someone knocked on the door. The sound made him almost jump out of his skin. He caught his breath and raced for the door. He opened it to find Brian standing there. Before Brian could say anything, Michael had spun around on his heels and was back to savaging the remains of his apartment for his keys.

Brian entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. He watched Michael's frantic activities for a moment. "What the fuck's going on Mikey?"

Michael didn't miss a beat in his search while he responded to his little brother. "I'm leaving. I was going to call you once I got on the road."

Brian reached out, grabbed his brother, and turned him around. "Slow down. Tell me what's going on."

"That's just the point. I'm not sure, but something's happened to Ben."

Brian looked into his brother's eyes for a moment before speaking. "You're scared."

Michael tried to pull way from Brian. "I don't have time for this shit. I have to go."

Brian held on tightly to his brother and wouldn't let him go. "I'm not trying to stop you, Michael. I just want to understand."

"I can't explain it. All I know is that something's happened and I have to go."

Brian finally let Michael go. "What're you looking for?"

"My fucking keys," Michael responded, turning around to get back to his search.

"Where was the last place you saw them?" Brian asked as he tossed his things aside.

"I just tossed 'em when I came in. I don't know where."

"Michael, calm down. Focus."

"I think I tossed 'em in the bedroom."

Brian went into the bedroom and came back a few minutes later with the keys dangling from his forefinger. He held them in front of Michael about an inch or two from his face and shook them. Michael reached up to grab them, but Brian pulled them back, clutching them tightly in his fist. "I'm coming with."

Michael stopped in mid--motion as he reached for the keys. "What?"

"You might need some help. Anyway, with the state you're in, you shouldn't be driving.

"I know you wanna help but --" Michael started.

Before Michael could finish his thought, Brian interrupted him. "Look, either I go or I'll call Ma and David and we all come down.

Michael thought about it for a minute. "Fine. Can we go now?"

"We'll stop by my place and grab a bag. Then we're outta here."

"Brian."

"What?"

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me just yet. I'm doing it for purely selfish reasons. I wanna see the guy that's turned my brother's life up-side down."

---

Chapter 20

Brian rubbed at his eyes in an effort to keep them open. The white lines of the road were lulling him into a hypnotic state that was not alleviated by the quiet in the jeep. Volunteering to drive had seemed like the right thing to do since Michael wasn't in the right frame of mind, but after twenty minutes, Brian needed some sort of distraction. So did his brother, judging from the tense lines carved around Michael's mouth. He had tried to talk to his older brother as soon as they had gotten in the car, but Michael's monosyllabic answers had discouraged any lengthy or meaningful conversation. Still, it was worth another try to figure out WHY they were traveling at this ungodly hour of the morning.

"Michael--"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Michael tersely, turning his head to stare into the blackness outside the passenger window.

It was more than he'd said since four exits ago when he'd ordered Brian to pull over. At that time, Michael had hurtled out of the car and given in to the dry heaves while Brian had sat helplessly in the car, torn between giving his brother a moment of semi-privacy and demanding to know what the fuck was going on. A few minutes later, after the spasms had stopped, Michael had climbed back into the car, composed but silent. Brian had opted for the privacy, but his patience, of which he'd never had much, had worn thin.

"I'm all for the spur of the moment, but I think I deserve an explanation for this joyride."

"Why? I didn't invite you. It was just easier than arguing with you."

"And you always like to take the easy way, huh, Mikey?" Brian didn't really believe that little jab, but it got the result he wanted: Michael turned to him with mouth agape and eyes blazing, but at least he was responsive.

"You've got some fucking nerve talking about me taking the easy way! I'm not the one who spends all his free time, buzzed to the gills and fucking anything with a pulse because it's easier than making real friends, am I? I'm not the one who--" Michael reigned in his burst of temper, clamped his lips tight, and dragged in several deep, shaky breaths. "I'm sorry. I promised myself that I wouldn't do this again. This isn't about you or me. I just want to make sure that Ben is all right."

Brian magnanimously attributed Michael's outburst to stress and let it slide. Right now, there were other matters on his mind. "Why don't you just call him?"

"No phone. He was supposed to call me when he got it hooked up, but he didn't yet."

"No phone? And you said he doesn't leave the house--"

"I told you before that he does, just not often."

"Mikey, this guy sounds like the fucking Unabomber. What are you getting yourself into?"

"I know how it sounds, but you'd understand if you knew him."

"What aren't you telling me?" Brian swore when Michael's chin jutted with stubbornness. "Well, why not call the fucking police if you think he's in trouble? It would be a hell of a lot faster and a good use of our tax dollars, wouldn't it?"

"What would I tell them? That I have a feeling? That phone static and what probably was a bad dream has got me driving over a hundred miles in the middle of the night? It doesn't even make sense to me!"

"Morning, actually." It was still pitch black outside, but it wouldn't be fore long.

"Whatever. There's no logical reason for me to be worried...except that I am and I can't rest until I'm sure."

"Must be some guy if he's worth all this."

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. "I couldn't even begin to tell you."

Brian hesitated for a moment. He might be asking for it because once his brother started talking, there was no stopping him. But if Mikey needed it..."At home you were running around with everyone or working, but we've got plenty of time now and I need something to keep me awake. Try me."

Michael looked at Brian as if gauging the sincerity of his words. Time and another quarter mile had passed before he leaned against the headrest, eyes hazy with memory while he told the story in a quiet voice. "Mom and I had been driving for a couple of hours when it got dark and cloudy and the wind started blowing..."

"What if something really happened to him?" Michael had said. His eyes had been wide with worry and he'd had that wounded puppy dog look on his face that would be sort of funny as long as his fears weren't realized. For a change, Brian had no chemical party favors and no witty response to take the edge off.

By the time they had arrived at the house, the first creeping of dawn's light was starting to chase away the darkness. When there was no answer to their furious knocks, they had fumbled to the back of the house and broken a window to get in. Brian had expected his brother to protest, but Michael was only focused on getting in the house and checking on Ben. They had run from room to room, finding each one devoid of life. Brian had quickly scanned the library and had been about to leave when he saw the shoe sticking out from behind the couch. With panic making his heart race, he rushed over, calling Michael's name. It must be Ben, but a still, pale Ben who seemed as lifeless as...He couldn't even think the words. His first instinct had been to shelter Michael, to stand in front of the body and shield his brother from the worst, but Michael had surprised him by shoving him aside as soon as he had skidded into the room.

While Brian stood by, at loose ends, Michael knelt at Ben's side. He pressed his fingers to Ben's neck and found a pulse that he said was slow but strong and he made sure Ben was breathing. The panic that he'd expressed in the car seemed to have disappeared and in its place was urgency that was focused and had an unlikely air of calm about it. If he hadn't known better, Brian would have thought that Michael found unconscious boyfriends on a daily basis.

Brian would have placed Ben on the couch or somewhere more comfortable than the cold, wooden floor, but it was Michael who insisted that moving the fallen man might do more harm than good, especially if anything was broken like his neck. He said the words with more aplomb than Brian would ever have thought that Michael could muster when hinting about broken necks and possible paralysis.

The unconscious Ben had groaned and stirred, prompting them to call an ambulance on Brian's cell phone. While Brian gave them directions to the house, Michael had checked Ben's arms, legs, and ribs for fractures. Finding none, he took Ben's hand in his own and began whispering in his ear.

Despite Michael's warning, Brian was surprised that this new boyfriend looked worse for wear. A few scars, my ass, thought Brian. Then again, it all depended on one's perspective. Ben's face was covered with a spider web of pink scars. His features weren't distorted and, at the right angle, everything seemed normal. He fit just the type of man that his brother usually went for: tall, handsome, strong looking. However, from what Michael had described, he fit the other type that also drew Michael, though he didn't seem to be aware of it--the ones who needed that a little extra caring. Brian, himself, had been on the receiving end of his brother's big-hearted natures, so now he wondered how much of this was Michael's need to rescue everyone around him. Unfortunately, it seemed that it would be a while before he could feel Ben out.

The paramedics arrived quickly and set about their tasks with efficiency. They rapidly assessed Ben's injuries and loaded him onto a stretcher. When they tried to tell Michael that it would be better if he followed in the car with Brian, they faced a formidable opponent who, through sheer stubbornness and a sharp look in his eye that would not be refused, scored a seat in the ambulance next to their patient.

Brian followed them out of the library, looking back for a moment at the spot where Ben had lain. On the floor was a splash of reddish black that he knew would be sticky if he touched it and would have the faintest copper scent if he stood too close. He hurried out the door to follow the ambulance.

Paul and Ben perched on an overturned tree listening to the stirrings of the wooded haven surrounding them. Ben was amazed by the details that he had forgotten: how the shadows of the tree branches criss-crossed in a lace-like pattern when the sun hung in the sky just so; how the fallen leaves rustled across the ground with each passing breeze and created a soothing melody; how the smell of moss and pine cone and damp grass mixed in the air like Nature's own perfume.

He let out an unsteady laugh that was lacking in humor. "Maybe I should stay here." What could be better than this place that had nothing but the happiest memories? There would be no questions or doubts here--no risk of losing anything because what he'd lost was already here.

Paul shook his head no. "Haven't you heard what I've been saying? This place is mine, not yours. Much as I'd love to spend forever with you, you don't belong in my world and I don't belong in yours. Listen. Don't you hear it?"

Ben listened, but only heard the wind whistling through the trees. "Hear what? I don't hear anything."

"Listen more closely. Maybe if you stop letting your fear deafen you, it'll come. When you can hear the truth, you'll know what to do."

They sat together as the sun crawled across the sky, towards the horizon. Ben listened to the wind-borne jumbled sounds through the forest clearing until his ears ached. The sounds became whispers that tickled his ears and awoke long lost memory. And when he listened closer still, as Paul had demanded, he thought that the sounds weren't random, and that the wind was speaking to him.

Ben peeled his eyes open and blinked in pain when fluorescent white lights blinded him. His heart tripped over a few beats in memory of the last time he'd woken like this and he and Paul had started their strange duet. History seemed to be repeating itself, judging by the man sitting at his bedside. Then Ben's eyes adjusted and a second look assured him that his companion was a complete stranger. He struggled to sit up and the noise made the stranger look and up stare at him with drowsy, hazel eyes. Ben cleared his throat and steadied himself against the pain that made his head throb with every heartbeat. "Where am I?" he asked with raspy voice. "And who are you?"

"I thought you'd never ask," said the stranger with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're in the hospital. I'm just here to Ben-sit until my brother gets back. He didn't want to leave you alone, though I don't know why." He swept a cursory glance across Ben's body, which was tucked, tight into the bed and hooked up to numerous monitors and an intravenous line. "It's not as if you're going to hop out of the bed and run helter skelter into the night."

Ben's head felt fuzzy as he attempted to process the string of words. He latched onto one that had stood out from the others. "Brother?"

The stranger leaned forward, his jaw set with determination. "Brian Novotny at your service. I know you're probably tired, but Mikey won't be gone long and you and I have a little talking to do."

Michael balanced the two cups of hot soup in one hand and coffee in the other while he nudged open the hospital room door with his shoulder. Inside, Ben was up and awake, though he looked a little pale and shaken. Michael hurried to the bedside and shoved the cups at Brian who yelped when the cups tipped and dripped onto his hand. "You're awake!" Michael exclaimed happily.

"Brilliant deduction, Mikey. Neither of us noticed," said Brian sourly while he set the cups down and dabbed at his hand with a tissue. "I may need some first aid for this."

Michael glanced at the slightly red patch on his brother's hand. "Stop being a baby and go run some cold water over it if it's bothering you that much."

"Yes, mother," Brian said in a falsetto voice. He stood and walked into the bathroom.

Michael turned to Ben and ran his hands over his lover's face and arm until he reached his hand. He gripped it tightly and whispered, "Are you okay? You scared the bejesus out of me."

Ben nodded. "I don't remember what happened except that I was climbing a ladder and then I had a weird dream."

"The past few hours have been a nightmare for me." Michael brought Ben's hand to his face and rubbed the knuckles over his cheek. "I missed you. It was weird not talking to you for so long. And then I came back and...Why didn't you call me? And what the fuck were you doing climbing ladders?" The last was said lightly, but Michael could feel the worry gnawing at his stomach as if the gruesome discovery were happening all over again.

"Jesus, Michael. The man practically split his head open and you want to lay a guilt trip on him?" Brian leaned against the bathroom doorway and shook his head in disbelief.

"Do you mind, Brian?" asked Michael with impatience.

Brian shrugged and walked to a chair. "I don't mind at all. Go on."

"Get out!"

Brian raised his eyebrows at Michael's forcefulness. "I get the hint, Mikey. I'll be outside, in front of the building."

"Try not to smoke anything illegal while you're gone, " Michael called out to his brother's departing figure.

Brian turned back at the doorway and said to Ben, "You remember what I told you, okay?"

Michael looked at Ben. "What were you all talking about before I came in?"

"Nothing special."

"Come on. You can tell me."

"It's nothing, really. He told me that if I didn't shape up or if I did anything to hurt you, he'd give me a matching scar on the other side of my face."

Michael jumped up and could feel his blood starting to simmer and boil. "What the hell? I'll kill that little shit! I--"

Ben grabbed Michael's hands and pulled him back down. "It's okay."

"How can you say that? He had no right! He just--"

"Calm down. It's really okay."

Michael frowned. Ben really didn't seem to be bothered and he didn't seem to be putting up a brave front or nursing hidden anger. "You should be mad. I'm mad. Why aren't you?"

"All this time, I've been hiding from everyone. Someone told me recently that I was using my scars as a shield to push you and push everyone away. He was right. I didn't want anyone to look too closely because they'd see what was beneath those scars and they'd hate it. I liked having something that kept people at a distance, but that kind of loneliness and isolation isn't me. It was sort of a relief to have someone look at me and not faint or cringe or act like they don't see them--to have someone just talk as if there were still a human behind the face. You do that...and so did your brother. He must take after you."

"I don't know about the last bit." Michael sat back down, melted into Ben's arms, and said quietly, "And here I thought you were beyond all that. I keep telling you that you're making too big a deal about them."

"Brian said the same thing. He told me that if I used them as an excuse to run away from you, I was being a chicken shit."

"I really have to talk to him about his people skills. I don't know how he made it in the advertising business with that mouth of his."

Ben pushed Michael back to look into his eyes. "He was right, though. And so was my other friend. While you were gone, I was preparing for you to return, but deep down, I was preparing for you to change your mind and never come back."

"Don't you trust me?" asked Michael. He regretted the little boy lost quality of his voice when he said it, but damn it, Ben's lack of faith cut to the quick.

"He told me to listen and I did."

"Who told you? Told you what? What did you hear?"

"Come closer."

Michael leaned forward.

"Closer than that."

Michael smiled and looked towards the door. "There's a nurse out there who makes Nurse Ratchett look like Florence Nightingale. If she finds us, she'll try to kick my ass out of here."

Ben chuckled and held his breath to stop. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

Michael sobered instantly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly. Just come here."

Michael slipped off his shoes and climbed onto the bed carefully avoiding jostling it as much as he could. He settled himself against Ben's side and twined their hands together. "Happy?"

Ben sighed and pressed his face against Michael's head. "Immensely."

"So, talk. I'm all ears."

"I talked with Paul again."

Michael's body became taut with fear. He would have sat up if Ben's arm didn't keep him right where he was. "I thought you said he was gone?"

Ben rubbed Michael's arm in unconscious comfort. "It wasn't like before. We just...talked."

"And?"

"And he's the one who told me to listen, so I did and what I heard surprised me."

"What did you hear?"

Ben tipped Michael's face up by the chin. "You. I heard everything you've said with words and without and it reminded me of all the reasons I need to say goodbye and all the reasons that going back into the world would be worth it. I've never been one to hide from what hurts and I hated that I had become that. I hated that I had hurt someone I loved--even if it was an accident. I hated that I was letting the past rule my life and ruin it. That's not me. I was more like a ghost than Paul was, but I still had a heartbeat supposedly."

"And now?"

"Now, I need to do a few things to put it all behind me...and..."

"What?"

"And I want you by my side when I do it."

Michael was silent for a long time, digesting everything that Ben said. He swallowed the thick feeling in his throat and asked, "Are you sure?"

"I'm more sure than I've ever been in my life."

Years later, there would be many who would ask Michael when he first fell in love. They always looked confused when he replied that there were too many times to name them all, that their had been the moment when their eyes first met, the first time they touched, the first time they made love. And then there the most precious moments--some of them when they were together and some of them when they were separated physically, but united in spirit, when the other was first in their thoughts, when pain and fear were put aside for the chance at something new and wonderful.

Brian peeked into the crack of the doorway. He wasn't surprised to see Michael in the bed with Ben, wrapped around him as if he'd never let go. In fact, he'd venture to say that Michael had never looked more as if he belonged. Brian made a U-turn and left the lovers alone while he went to find that nurse who'd been giving him the eye. He had a feeling that Ben and Michael would want a little more time alone.

A month later...

Scott Holton looked up at the house's facade and wondered if he had made a wrong turn. Icicle lights twinkled around the windows and candles and wreaths decorated the windows. The house felt alive in a way that it hadn't for a long time. He smiled at the stranger who opened Ben's front door.

"Come in! Party's just getting started," said the older man. His face was lined with the creases of time, but his smile was bright and welcoming.

Scott stomped the snow off his feet and entered the house. The changes were not only on the exterior, he quickly observed. The foyer was sparkling with multi-colored lights. The festive reds, greens, and blues bounced off every reflective surface, including the missing mirrors that had graced their respective positions again. Inside, the air was filled with the fragrance of fresh pine boughs mixed with a hint of cinnamon. The laughter that echoed from the large reception room and the warmth in the air seemed to envelop him in a loving embrace.

"I'm sorry I'm late. Those students are relentless when it comes to collecting their grades. I still have ink stains from marking papers and final exams." Scott held up his hands as evidence.

"Not to worry. Everyone has been drifting in one at a time. I'm Vic Grassi, by the way--Michael's uncle." Vic offered his hand.

"Scott Holton." They shook hands and then Vic took Scott's coat and ushered him into the room where the holiday party was in full sway. Cheerful music wafted from well-hidden speakers. A large Christmas tree fully loaded with tinsel, lights, and silvery bows, dominated one corner of the room. Scott looked around for Ben, but his eyes passed over him twice before he realized that the smiling, laughing figure standing in a knot of party guests was indeed his friend. The house wasn't the only thing that had been transformed.

Scott turned to the buffet table and selected a cup of eggnog. He sipped at it while he awaited the opportune moment to make his presence known. As he watched Ben talking happily, he wondered at the change. It was a few minutes before he realized that the scars on Ben's face seemed to have disappeared. He'd only seen Ben from a distance since the surgery but even from across the room, the results, once the swelling was gone, were remarkable. "Holy shit," he muttered under his breath. "What a miracle."

"The miracle of plastic surgery," said a new voice at his side.

Scott didn't take his eyes off Ben. "It hardly seems possible that they could be gone so easily."

"They're not gone. They actually cut them again and put them back together so they don't show as much. It was anything but easy and all I had to do was watch them heal. Seems pretty barbaric if you ask me, but he wanted it and he's happy with how it turned out."

Scott turned to the speaker and was struck by the light of fondness sparkling in those dark brown eyes that were fixed steadily on Ben. "You must be Michael."

Michael turned and smiled broadly. "I am. Nice to meet you...Scott, right? I recognize you from some of Ben's pictures. I'm glad you came. Ben's been looking forward to you being here."

"I missed talking to him. We all did, but he wasn't ready to accept anything from anyone for so long."

Michael nodded. "He's a lot better now." As proof of Michael's words, Ben's deep laugh rumbled across the room. "Come say hello."

"No. I'll give him a minute."

Michael shrugged. "Well, then, help yourself. There are lots of hors d'oeuvres and Ben and my uncle have been cooking up a storm since yesterday. " Something drew his attention to a corner of the room. "Oh, God. There she goes again. I keep telling her that there's enough mistletoe in here to choke a horse, but she keeps hanging more and more of the stuff. It was nice to meet you. I'm sure we'll get a chance to talk again. I'm taking one of your classes next semester."

Michael put his cup down and rushed over to a redheaded woman who was perched precariously on a chair with the holiday contraband in her hands. While Scott watched, the woman swatted at Michael's hands and hung the mistletoe with a clap of gleeful satisfaction. Vic helped her down from the chair while Michael frowned and tapped his foot impatiently. Ben took Michael by the arm and pulled him away.

Just then, one of the guests used a spoon to clink his mug of eggnog for attention. The small crowd quieted and listened.

"Thank you. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Emmett Honeycutt. Michael has been a dear friend of mine for many years. Ever since the hooker who lived in my building...What?" He leaned over to listen to Michael's whispered comment. "Oh, honey, I wasn't going to give them THAT many details. Strictly a G rating, I promise. Wouldn't want the little ones ears to burn," Emmett said with a smile and a cheery wave at the few children who had accompanied their parents. "As I was saying, Michael has been a dear friend ever since he rescued me from the cold, lonely streets of Pittsburgh. If not for him, I'd be sitting on some porch in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, drowning my sorrows in my Aunt Mabel's homemade peach wine."

"Is this story going to be as long as his other ones? I already have plans for New Year's Eve. I wasn't planning on being here that long." said a tall, slim, slightly bored looking man who stood a few feet away from Scott. The air left the man's lungs in a small rush when the red-headed mistletoe woman elbowed him in the stomach.

Emmett continued, unaware of the disturbance. "When Michael told us that he was leaving, I was devastated. It was an emotional time, but I've never been one to give in to tears and drama." Next to him, a dark-haired man snorted and hid a grin behind a sip of champagne. The glass was nearly to his lips when Emmett said, "Wait until I'm done, Teddy!" Teddy's cheeks flamed with with self-conscious embarrassment when all eyes fell on him. He paused to await the rest of Emmett's speech.

"When Michael told us WHY he was leaving, I was happy that he was happy, but worried. It all seemed so fast. It was just like that movie..."

"If he mentions Barbra Streisand or Elizabeth Taylor, I swear I'm going to be sick," muttered the bored man, only loud enough for Scott to hear.

"...with Audrey Hepburn where she plays a beautiful princess who falls in love after spending a day with the handsome reporter. Of course, they had to go their separate ways because no princess was about to marry some middle class American reporter no matter how gorgeous Gregory Peck is. But if that princess had been me--" Emmett turned when Teddy tugged on his sleeve and raised his eyebrows pointedly.

"Oh, I'm sorry that I'm rambling. I just wanted to say that Ben is marvelous and I'm very happy that the two of them found each other." Emmett raised his glass high. "A wise man once said: 'Love doesn't make the world go round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.' Here's to you, Michael and Ben. May you and everyone else in the room get all the love they deserve and more."

There was the clinking of glass against glass, a round of applause, and cries of, "Here, here" throughout the room. When Teddy asked who the wise man was, Emmett freely admitted, "Oh, sweetie, I don't know. I read it on a place mat at that new French cafe where we had lunch last week." There was more laughter, vibrant conversation, and the pouring of more eggnog and champagne while Ben pulled Michael more firmly into his arms and nuzzled his neck, making the smaller man laugh. The red-head, who Scott later found out was Michael's mother, managed to hang another strategic pieces of mistletoe while her son was distracted.

"Ain't love grand?" said the bored man. "Mikey thrives on the stuff. So does the Professor, apparently."

In a doorway near the Christmas tree, Ben turned Michael to face him. The crowd swirled around them, unnoticed. Some of the guests continued chatting. A few of them politely turned away with smiles thrown at the two men. Most of the guests watched with love as the couple whispered quiet words to each other. Ben reached up and tapped the newest strand of mistletoe while he spoke and Michael groaned and hid his face against Ben's chest, shaking his head no. After a few moments, Ben seemed to have won whatever minor disagreement they were having. He cupped Michael's face with tenderness and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Scott smiled at the cynical man's pronouncement. "Truer words were never spoken."