Ben felt something snap on the day Michael died.

It wasn't loud. In fact, it was all too quiet. The doctor was standing over him, facial features rearranged in an imitation of sadness, speaking in low tones as if that would soften the blow.

And then the doctor was saying things like "peace" and "goodbye" and "arrangements" and suddenly Ben's fists were tangled in the man's white lab coat, shaking those words away.

Someone pulled him off, held him back when he would have done more to stop the awful lies. Security eventually showed up, but by then Ben felt the small snap in his brain before everything faded--all muted tones and hushed sounds, as if someone had shrouded him with a blanket. As if he were the one who'd died and not Michael.

Of course, that's how he'd always expected it would go. Maybe some perverse part of him, that part that he didn't show anyone, not even Michael, could romanticize that last goodbye when he knew he wouldn't be present for the aftermath.

But here he was, hearing the last thing he would have expected and wondering how anyone could find romance in that.

When Ben got tired of the stares and whispers and unwanted run-ins at Woody's, he found another gay bar, in a neighboring town. Porter's was just a rundown, hole-in-the-wall that served watered down drinks and was populated by patrons who knew how to mind their own business.

He was on his third beer when he felt a funny prickle down the back of his neck. He lifted his glass to his lips, keeping his head down, but sneaking a peek in the mirror behind the bartender.

Same guy from the other night. He was watching Ben, not even trying to hide it. Their eyes met in the mirror and the other man smiled and raised his own glass in a silent toast.

Ben didn't toast back, but neither did he stop looking. This guy was nothing like...like memories that hurt when he thought about them. He added up the differences: tall, maybe six foot one, thin as a rail. His face was half-masked by floppy waves of strawberry blond hair. From that time they'd crossed paths in the john, Ben remembered light-colored eyes--maybe gray or light blue.

Different. Perfect.

He'd forgotten how much he missed this. Even the less desirable aspects made Ben nostalgic for simpler times. Or if those times weren't simpler, maybe he'd been more oblivious.

Strawberry blond lived in a walkup studio whose questionable aroma wasn't completely masked by the stale miasma of old incense and kitty litter. Ben only took distant notice of the dingy curtains, the Depression-era couch and chairs, and the scrawny cat cowering under a card table in the kitchenette. He only paid enough attention to note that though the mattress was on the floor, it had relatively clean sheets.

They didn't talk, really. Conversation would take too much time and energy. Once they were stripped to bare skin, Ben's memories returned, of other nights like this one before he'd found what he was looking for. Before he'd found himself. Before he'd lost himself all over again.

He forced that past away and focused on the present. Tonight, there was only musky sweat, hairy limbs, the sting of beard burn, and the fumes of alcohol-stained breath. Tonight, he didn't need to remember names or even faces. He didn't need to remember anything at all.

Afterwards, there was nothing to distract him from acknowledging that there was a reason he didn't this anymore. But the admission only made it hard to take a deep breath. In fact, it made it damn near impossible.

By the time he'd dressed and walked out the door, the pain in his chest had receded and he could tell himself that this was all right. It might not be ideal, but it helped and there was no reason to deny himself. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd done this this week and probably wouldn't be the last.

When Ben closed his eyes, he dreamed about light: flashes from a disco ball, spotlights from a stage.

Then the lights changed--became brighter, harsher: the bright white of a bomb, the twirling red and white of emergency vehicles, the unforgiving, blue-white neon of the ER waiting room. So many lights, he thought he'd go blind.

When he was awake, the lights wouldn't let him hide. He could have drawn a sketch of every line of pain on Michael's face--every bruise and burn, the streaks where the blood had streaked through soot and dust and left heat-seared skin shining through.

Everything else--panicked voices, the scent of hatred, the taste of pain and death--had been muffled, blanketed by Ben's deep-seated suspicion that the universe was about to deal him the hugest betrayal. And when the light had gone out of Michael's eyes, those suspicions congealed in his stomach like day old cement, leaving him sick and shaken.

But it all ended differently in his dream. There, the surgeons worked miracles and Michael's beautiful, brown eyes were open and he was smiling and alive and Ben was taking him home and loving him as if he'd never let go.

He hated to wake up on those days. Sometimes he didn't and he curled up under the covers, squeezed his eyes shut against and hid from the sun.

"Take care, Ben. See you at that meeting."

Ben watched the Department director wind his way across the campus mall and wished he'd never run into the man.

He should probably feel some shame about being called on the carpet like an errant child, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. Seeing the shining faces of his students--a cornucopia of curiosity, boredom, flirtation, and anxiety--only made him angry because, God, the fucking entitlement. They had their whole lives ahead of them and thought nothing of acting like that meant forever.

They didn't know you couldn't count on forever. Sometimes you could hardly count on today.

In comparison to that, nitpicking about symbolism in some over-hyped intellectual's literary ramblings seemed increasingly pointless. These days, it hardly seemed worth the time of coming in to work, a feeling Ben didn't fight very strenuously.

So, he wasn't surprised when the director cornered him on the way to the bike lot, shook his hand, and wanted to talk while they walked. No one was more gifted in serving backhanded chastisement with all the fake joviality and empathy of the best politicians.

It made Ben's head ache, which only made his bike ride home seem three times longer than usual. A list of 'to-be-dones' awaited him: help Hunter with homework, grade a batch of essays, run all the other errands that made life tedious. And there would be phone messages to return and people all around...well-meaning people who wouldn't let him be, wouldn't let him stay numb.

At the last fork in the road, he turned left instead of right and headed towards Porter's and the only refuge he had left.

Snow crunched under Ben's shoes as he walked up the steps to his front door. After a few minutes of fumbling with his key, he swung the door open and fell into darkness. His eyes soon adjusted and he noticed the small glow coming from the kitchen.

Hunter huddled at the kitchen table, swathed in a thick afghan that he clutched with gloved fingers. His knit cap sat low over his brow, so the only skin showing was the tip of his nose.

"Are you sick?" Ben asked, mentally re-planning his day to take Hunter to the doctor. That would mean canceling another class, but so be it.

"I'm fine," Hunter muttered under the blanket. He released the edge of the blanket long enough to flip the page of his textbook.

"What's with the mummy routine, then?"

Hunter raised his face until his lips just skated over the edge of the blanket. "It's fucking freezing in here and I like my fingers and toes attached, man. Not to mention a few other parts."

"It's not that cold," Ben said as he strode over to the thermostat. The pointer hovered right around the 50 mark. He finally noticed that his breath was puffing out in curly, white plumes of condensation. "Why didn't you just turn the heat on?"

"Right. I would have never thought of that," Hunter replied before burrowing a little more deeply under his blanket.

Ben fiddled with the dial and the switches, but didn't hear the telltale hiss and clanking of the central heat turning on. "Why didn't you call me? Or call the heating company so they could fix it?"

"I did call them."

"And?"

Hunter shrugged. "They don't give service unless they get paid upfront. Can't argue with that, can I, especially since it's a philosophy I pretty much lived by for a while."

Ben scowled and walked out of the kitchen and to study, calling over his shoulder as he left, "That's crap. I paid that bill on time." He rifled through the top desk drawer where he kept all the utility bills, until he found the one he wanted. One call should clear up this mess.

He had to blink and hold it up to his face and even put on his glasses to ensure to himself that he held the right bill in his hand--still sealed in the original envelope, along with a stack of other bills that he'd tossed aside. He held it a bit tighter in his hand, but it didn't vanish or become any less real. He picked up the other envelopes in the drawer and looked at them, one by one. There were other bills left unopened, junk mail he didn't care about, letters from his mother that he just couldn't answer yet.

The last of the stack was the only one open and now he could see that day in all its ignominious detail. He had stared at the life insurance company's logo and had been stricken with the most paralyzing sort of fear. He'd fallen into the chair, heart knocking against his ribs and the bitter bile rising in his throat.

The tear of the thick white envelope grated on his mind and the scent of the paper and ink had slammed into him, but it was the words that had made him insane for a little while--the stark black and white pronouncing Michael all over again and assigning his life a dollar value.

It was the last time Ben had opened the mail.

Ben used the poker to nudge a log onto the fire before he returned the screen to its place. He stood, stretched his back, then turned away from the fireplace.

Behind him, Hunter was curled up on the couch, fast asleep, with his hands tucked under his head and his knees pulled up to his chest. It had been forever since Ben had seen Hunter sleep like that. Usually, he or Michael found him sprawled across the bed, arms and legs flung at crazy angles.

This return to the fetal position made Ben feel sad and a little guilty. He sat on the edge of the couch and stared at Hunter's sleeping face, wondering if it was too late to make up for everything. He watched the blond lashes flutter and open.

"What?" Hunter said with drowsy belligerence.

"Nothing, kiddo. Just thinking."

Silence cropped up between them and stretched on and on until Ben finally asked, "Why are you still here? I haven't been doing a very good job of taking care of you. You might even say that I've been totally screwing up for a while." As he asked the question, he wondered if Hunter might take that as a hint, but his need to know superseded that risk because maybe his screw-ups were unforgivable and maybe Hunter would be better off in a different home and with a different father.

Hunter folded his arms behind his head and appeared to chew over his answer for a few minutes. When he spoke, his voice was so low that Ben had to lean closer to hear.

"We're family, right? That means we watch each other's backs and we don't run out on each other. Even though Michael's gone and we miss him, we're still family."

Ben nodded slowly and tried to think of a response that was profound or even coherent. He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to tell Hunter that things would be all right from now on.

In the end, all he could do was hug Hunter and cry.