1. Decisions, Decisions

The phone felt cold and wet in his hand. Blake tried not to think about what fluid pasted his fingers to the molded black plastic. Then he remembered. Cold water. Ted had offered him a drink and he had gratefully accepted. In the warm room, condensation had quickly formed on the outside of the glass he'd gripped before he'd taken a sip of liquid happiness. He had watched with only vague concern while Ted had taken several large gulps of his own drink. Mental warning bells should have gone off in his head and prompted him to tell Ted to take it slow, but he'd already been so lost on a tide of warm happiness that he didn't care about anything or anyone else.

His routine was down pat: the shy smile, the compliments--never so much that they could see through the masquerade--just enough to turn their heads and make them think, "Maybe this is for real."

He had instantly recognized the moment of capitulation. It was in the flutter of Ted's incredibly long lashes, in the self-effacing shrug and rounding of the other man's shoulders. It was in the subtle nod of his head and, finally, in his voice--all at once wary and grateful.

The stroll to the car and the ride over earlier on were a blur, but Blake vaguely recalled the climb up the stairs and the entrance into the modest apartment. The couch had rasped against his jeans, unbearably loud in the quiet space. The lamp light seemed too bright. Even the air had been laden with a taste that he couldn't get rid of no matter how many times he swallowed.

He had needed something, anything to take away the ghastly pain of reality. The glass had trembled in his hold and some of it had sloshed over the edge onto his hand.

His hand...He looked at it--at both hands--and wondered at their ineptitude. It looked so easy on TV--one hand over the other, pushing on the chest to keep the heart pumping. One blow in the mouth to move air. He knew all about blowing, but not the life-giving kind. Now, far away from where they were needed, his hands pushed the sticky keys on the key pad.

"You've reached the 911 Emergency System. How may I help you?"

His lips were numb, but he didn't know if it was fear or the drugs racing through his system. His heart pounded painfully and it was hard to breathe, hard to get the words out.

He had sudden visions of men in blue, of steel bracelets and iron bars. The images were quickly replaced by those of Ted as he'd left him: the foam bubbling from his mouth, his body twitching like a puppet jerked by unseen strings in the hands of an angry master. Ted's lips had taken on a bluish tinge that reminded Blake of the sky on those cloudy autumn days back home. He would have given anything to be back home, lying on the cool grass with nothing better to do than star at the sky and all the hope it seemed to promise.

"911 Emergency. Is there anyone there?" said the androgynous voice.

Just a few words would get someone there, someone who would know how to stop the twitching and make Ted breathe again. And then Ted would recover and point fingers.

It had been easy to hide it from the people he knew. He had to get away, he'd said. He had needed to find himself, to get away from it all. The platitudes had poured out like water from a fountain--anything to hide those months when he'd been locked away. It hadn't been his fault, then either. Some people called it an itch or a craving, but it was much more than that. It was like someone turning him inside and out and scouring the soft exposed parts. He would have anything to rid himself of that feeling. He HAD done anything and he'd been caught.

He'd be unlikely to find any sympathy from the authorities this time around. Ted would wake and point fingers. They'd find him guilty and he'd go in that dark place where he'd sworn he'd never go--never.

Never again.

"Hello. Are you able to speak freely?"

Just a few words was all it would take, but that word echoed in his head. Freely. Free. He opened his numb lips, took a deep breathe, and held it. With agonizing slowness his hand touched cool metal, pressed gently, and disconnected the call.

2. A Woman's Worth

She steadied herself against the bundle of energy that tried to wrap itself around her knees and topple her to the ground. A flash of white and brown soon followed and the two chased each other in happy circles: one giggling with high-pitched glee; the other barking and yipping and wagging his tail.

Melanie shifted the infant on her hip and stepped out of the center of the hurricane. She entered the kitchen, talking as she wiped at the baby's drool. "Are you sure you'll be okay with her for the weekend? We don't want to trouble you. If Michael weren't away on the publicity junket with Justin..."

"Don't give it another thought, honey." Debbie reached up and gladly took the precious bundle into her arms. "Grandma is never too busy for her precious angel." The baby clapped her hands with abandon, all smiles and bubbling spit, and sparkling dark brown eyes that were so much like her father's. She latched onto one of Debbie's many bangles and jangled for dear life, the tinkling sound making the room more festive. "I told you that I would take both of them if you needed."

"No. That's okay. Gus is all taken care of. It was just the baby. As soon as he gets picked up, we're..." She stopped short and laughed when loving arms surrounded her from behind.

"As soon as he gets picked up, we're hitting the road and never looking back, right, babe?"

Melanie ducked her head and laughed with a brightness that had often been missing in the past. The tinge of anxiety was still there, but it had been softened by time, by love, by a full life. "I've been dying for this too."

Debbie smiled at the women. They seemed so connected as they always had--spiritual comrades. It was baffling to consider that they had almost broken apart for good. "You will keep us up to date so we don't have to send the FBI after you, right?"

"Yes, Grandma." Melanie hurried out when the doorbell rang.

"I'm way too young and vibrant to be your Grandma!" Debbie called out to the departing figure.

In the foyer, Melanie opened the door to admit a familiar figure. "Good. You're on time."

Lindsay brushed past Melanie. "Of course I am. Is he ready?"

Melanie pointed at the baby bag. All packed and ready to go." She turned and called over her shoulder, "Gus! It's time to go!"

"Yes, Mommy!" came the faint reply, followed by the pounding of sneaker-clad feet and the click, scratch, and slide of Ginger following her favorite playmate.

In the kitchen, Debbie was still talking to Leda. "Is this arrangement really working for you? It must be a little awkward."

Leda grinned and folded her arms. "I always thought staying in one place for more than a season would be the death of me, but for Mel, it's worth it."

3. Blinded by the Light

He didn't expect to be overwhelmed by the smell of flowers.

Even in the small room, away from the murmuring crowd and the light strands of string music, yards from the strands of blossoms that filled the main room, Emmett's head is only a little muzzy with the scent of gardenias. It's a florist's dream gone mad, but it's tolerable--barely so, but tolerable.

Not that he completely dislikes it. The candles cast an ethereal glow over the proceedings. The men and women squirming on wooden seats are dressed in their Sunday best. The children gravitate towards one another and are doing their best to scuff shoes and scrape knees as only children can do.

He had peeked earlier and there had been no sign of three particular sets of eyes: warm, brown, puppy-dog eyes with long curling lashes any drag queen would give her eye teeth for; another pair of darkest brown eyes sparkling with gentle humor; hazel eyes that seemed to mock the world with untold and coveted secrets. There were others that were missing, but those were the ones he'd never imagined wouldn't be there, drinking it all in.

Emmett turns back to the mirror and gives himself the pep talk that should have been given by a dear friend. "You go out there and you show 'em what you got, darling."

Not darling. That word is out of his vocabulary as are so many that he'd tossed about with ease: darling, honey, fabulous, divine. A lot of other things have changed besides the way he talks.

"You look fabulously divine, honey," he whispers to himself in a farewell act of defiance. He steps away from his reflection and walks to the door. With a deep breath and one last straightening of his clothes, he walks out to greet his audience.

The murmuring grows louder when they notice him. There are smiles and waves. A couple of the children run up and hug his legs until apologetic parents draw their overeager offspring away.

"Packed a full house," Emmett murmurs to himself. It's no less than he expects and wants, but the room feels empty without those familiar eyes. Sighing with resignation, he takes his place. He smiles at the man standing behind him and then looks the other way, down that long aisle.

The crowd stands, awaiting the other guest of honor. Music swells and doors open. The guests ooh and ah their surprise, their eyes drinking it all in.

Emmett waits with external patience. Inside, everything is topsy-turvy. His hands are cold and clammy and he suddenly has the urge to turn and run. It would cause a scandal, but Emmett is no stranger to that.

While he weighs the pros and cons, the moment comes upon him and it's too late. Before he realizes, his hand is locked in another hand that is equally cold and equally clammy. Perhaps the audience will think the sight of them together looks strange because they barely look at each other when they should be gazing into each other's eyes. Then again, people tend to see what they expect so they probably won't notice anything amiss.

Emmett forces himself to turn and look and is startled when the scent of flowers hit him like a freight train. For a moment, he thinks he's died until he remembers where he is and what they are doing. The sickening scent of flowers revive him and he spares a small smile at his companion. The smile he receives in return is weak and quavery, but it's enough to convince him that they are doing the right thing.

He turns to the man behind them and waits. The audience sits and waits quietly as well.

The minister begins to speak: "Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here to join together this man and this woman..."

4. Flashback

Ben followed Michael to the cluster of men leaning against the bar. His body was so alive with the energy of the thumping music that he couldn't seem to stand still--energized in a way that made him crave more. Their names rolled into his ears, one by one. The usual handshakes and polite greetings were exchanged. It was all uneventful until the last.

"...And this is Brian."

A simple handshake turned into an ordeal. Memory of sight, sound, and touch washed over him: the feel of the silken rope rubbing against his wrists, the slide of cool cotton sheets beneath him, the heat of lean muscular limbs pressing downwards, covering him, devouring him.

He heard banal words spill from his lips: barely a flicker of recognition...but the flicker was there. The conversation flowed around him and he even participated, but he was in another time and place. His body had moved from there to here, pressed against Michael's back, feeling the rounded buttocks pressing against him, enjoying it, but mixed with the memory of a taller figure that had dominated him.

Later on, he took an opportunity to separate from Michael, making some half-hearted excuse about needing a drink or needing to piss or both. His eyes swept over the crowd until he found the one. Hazel eyes drew him like an irresistible magnet and Ben took a step back in time to when this was what it was all about: the hunt and the capture.

He navigated the throbbing crowd with single-minded purpose until he came to a stop. Brian was swaying to the music with a half-smile on his lips as if the DJ spun the records only for him. His lids lifted lazily, scanning Ben from head to toe and he said with the coolness of winter in his voice, "I knew you couldn't stay away. Miami wasn't enough for you?"

Ben glided forward until their bodies moved in sync, barely touching. "Should I go?"

Brian's eyes glittered from the spinning disco lights and whatever cocktail he'd recently inhaled. His grin was easy with a hint of feral grace. He hooked one hand around Ben's neck and drew him in. "Don't even think it."

5. Since the First Day

"Since the first day I came around, you've wanted me gone!" Justin tossed the trash bag in the dumpster, pouring in every ounce of anger, every bit of frustration, and every moment of hating, loving, and missing Brian into the action. The metallic ring of the metal lid echoed in the back alley, punctuating his words.

A warm weight landed on his shoulder and he was confronting Michael's anger-reddened face.

"You don't get it," said Michael in a low, heavy voice. "Since the first day you came around..."

Justin shoved Michael's hand away with a flicker of disgust. "What?" he retorted with a sneer. He flinched from the look in Michael's eyes that seemed to sear him with anger...and with something else.

Michael's hand stretched forth, but instead of a shove or a punishing blow, gentle fingers brushed back a lock of the blonde hair that had grown past Justin's collar. The remnants of anger mixed with other unacknowledged emotions made his voice shake. "Since the first day you came around, I've wanted..."

The sentence went unfinished, but the unsaid hung between them like a thick cloud. Justin felt a rush of awareness. It was confusing, unexpected, impossible.

But, for a moment, it wasn't unwelcome.