1. School Daze

Michael swayed to the pop song and snapped his fingers in between giggles and badly croaked lyrics.

"I should sell tickets. I'm sure SOMEONE would pay good money to see you shake that cute ass of yours."

Michael turned to Brian and stuck his tongue out, stumbling only a little in his dance. "Screw you. It's a good song."

Brian leaned back and took a deep draw from his joint. He blew out a circle of blue smoke and watched it float like magic until it was gone. "Hate to break it to you, Mikey, but there's no music playing. You're so adorable when you're high."

Michael stopped dancing to the song that had been running through his mind since they had left the club. He threw himself on the narrow dorm bed and reached across Brian's supine form for the joint. He snagged it from willing fingers and took another puff before handing it back. The world drifted away on a cloud of smoke and euphoria while he leaned against Brian's chest and figured out the meaning of it all. As always, it was all about sex. "It was still a good song. And you have to admit it...that guy was hot." He'd been just as surprised as Brian when a particularly beautiful specimen of manhood had detached himself from the crowd and approached. Michael had almost turned aside to let the hunk get to Brian, but had been shocked to discover the real goal. "And he wanted ME."

"Who wouldn't?" Brian pulled them closer together and Michael was lost for a minute. Brian's lips were on his, his hard arm around Michael's shoulders, his scent filling Michael's head with a flurry of images that had never been: Brian licking his neck; Brian's hands mapping out his chest in a thorough exploration; Brian's hot breath surrounding him...

He heard the buzz, but it's significance didn't penetrate his hazy mind until Brian pulled back and said, "That must be the taxi." Michael shivered when Brian slipped out of the bed, leaving a cold vacancy. Traces of his warmth lingered on the rumpled sheets and Michael rubbed them and wondered if he could take it home with him. Brian was standing at the door, talking into the doorbell panel with whoever had rung the bell. He was only a few feet away, but the distance had never seemed so far. Michael clenched the sheets that had lost their Brian-warmth. "It's not the same without you, you know," he called out when Brian was done talking.

Brian strolled back to stand over the bed. "Same here, but it's only a couple of more years."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." Michael surveyed the room again through eyes that had trouble focusing on just one thing. It was different than his own that was still chockful of the memorabilia of childhood. It seemed foolish, but he was a little jealous of the four walls because they held Brian when he couldn't. They were a symbol of moving out, growing up, and moving on while his own four walls were a testament to standing still.

Story of his life.

"I wish you didn't live on campus. I hardly get to see you." He bit his lip when he saw Brian grimace in response to his declaration. He shouldn't have brought up the old complaint because Brian would mock him when he got too clingy. He closed his eyes and willed his sadness back to its dark corner.

Michael startled when a light weight touched his chest. When had Brian sat down next to him? Through drug-blurred vision, he saw that face coming towards him--the face that was almost as familiar as his own. His eyes closed again and he let himself fall into the kiss that lasted a lifetime, but was all too brief all the same. They parted and he looked into Brian's hazel eyes. The hot guy at the club was long forgotten because no had ever looked as beautiful as this, had they?

"Brian, I--" but the rest of his words remained locked in his mind and behind his lips because Brian was pressing a finger to his mouth and Brian was saying the words he hated most.

"Time for you to go back home."

Michael pulled the hand away and the loss was like a bandage ripped off a fresh wound. "But I--"

"Mikey, don't be such a girl. I'll call you." Another brief kiss and Brian was gone again and the other side of the room might as well have been the other side of the world.

Before Michael knew it, his shoes were on and he was being whisked through the dorm lobby, and loaded into the taxi. He waved at Brian's lone figure, standing on the sidewalk and wondered if his best friend would miss him too.

2. Barbed Wire

It was all gone. Every last bit of it, except for the bed where he was sitting.

Brian was amazed to find out that he didn't need much, but he knew that the ill-fitting sensation of humbleness wouldn't last long. This was way, way beyond his usual minimalist tastes. Soon enough, he would get hit with another bout of property withdrawal, but for now, the smooth taste of his last bottle of whiskey--the good stuff--was enough to dull the shakes.

"What are you going to do now?"

He was sick to death of that question and more than a little tired of Justin and everyone else asking it. "Get drunk. Get laid. Besides that, who gives a fuck?"

"You should. Living in poverty isn't your style."

"What the hell would you know about it?" He sighed inwardly when he saw Justin wince. Really, his--whatever he was, but fuck him if he used the word boyfriend again--was still too easy of a target. Granted, Justin had developed a slightly thicker skin since the Famous Fiddler had shown his true colors, but there were still chinks in the Taylor armor. Brian tried to soften the harshness of his words the only way he knew how. "Come over here." He held out his hand--his unsteady hand--and waited for Justin to take it. He pulled his lover down to the bed and immediately fastened his mouth to Justin's tender neck. A sniff made him think of cookies and baby powder and he almost pulled back because, really, wasn't he too old for this?

Then Justin's hand headed unerringly for his belt and the zipper of his fly and all Brian's thoughts about jailbait and NAMBLA and wrongness flew out of his head. He needed to forget and who the hell was he to turn away someone willing to help?--especially one who knew just what to do.

Stockwell, be damned. He could padlock, quarantine, and barricade every back room, bar, club, and alleyway, but he couldn't take this away. When it came down to the basics, life always found a way. And what could be more basic than losing yourself in soft flesh, heat, moisture, and all that other stuff that made getting out of bed fucking worth it? That's all that the things were good for anyway: like feathers on a peacock to draw in a mate.

Brian lost his hard-on at the thought of himself with feathers and Justin as a little pea hen. Damn it, the whiskey might be expensive, but it could make him just as maudlin as the cheapest crap. He pushed away from Justin, ignoring the mews of protest.

He needed more. If he was going to give up everything he'd worked for to clean up the mess that was the attempted "cleaning up" of Liberty Avenue, then he fucking deserved to be rewarded for it. This quiet interlude with Justin and his pride and admiration just wasn't cutting it because the hero hat didn't fit right. He looked in Justin's eyes and he saw himself going soft in more than one way. That would never do. Sanity (fuck him if he called it self-protection) prevailed and it was time to grab the reigns of control. "I'm going out. Coming?"

Justin frowned. "Wouldn't you rather stay home?" He smiled teasingly. "I'll make it worth your while. Besides, after all this, can you aff...?" He stopped and looked abashed at what he had been about to say.

Brian sat up abruptly. "What? Afford it? Don't make me laugh, Sunshine. I've been taking care of myself for a long time. I don't need anyone to pay my way...unlike some people." His voice had been quiet and he didn't think it held any anger, but it hit the mark just the same. Funny how the truth could slice its target like a laser through butter.

Justin's face froze at the unexpected attack and darkened with anger and then there was a flurry of tight tee-shirt being pulled over sun-bright hair and masking hurt blue eyes.

"Running again?" Brian asked, but this time his snideness was intentional because he was too drunk and too object-poor to deal with anyone's misery besides his own. It would be easy to fix this. Walk up to Justin and say he didn't mean it, that he appreciated Justin being there for him and trying to cheer him up.

It would be easy, but the easy way had never been the Brian Kinney way. He watched the loft door slide open and then closed. Then he was alone with all his nothingness. Big mistake because minimalists be damned, sitting in an empty apartment while getting drunk was beyond pathetic.

He reached for the bottle on the floor and poured a little more into his glass. Another sip and the liquid fire numbed any nerves that dared to feel. "He'll come back," he said aloud with confidence. He was never wrong. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if he were.

3. Balancing the Scales

They sat at the table in uncharacteristic silence for nearly a minute before Debbie started right in with a rant that had been dying to be aired. "Are you out of your fucking mind, Sunshine? I'm all for standing for what you believe in, but this ain't the way to go. You're ruining your life and I'll be damned if I stand by and let you do it!"

Justin looked away from Debbie's eyes. All the kohl eyeliner in the world didn't hide the puffiness under her eyes. She'd been crying and he felt guilty because it was over him, but she couldn't understand. Few could unless they'd been there. "I'm not backing down because THEY think I should. I know what I'm doing."

"The fuck you do! You think baiting some asshole and beating him up is going to get you anything besides a record? Think again because you can't erase what you've been doing."

Justin leaned forward and tried to make her understand a little. She'd been there when he'd almost died. Why couldn't she see a little? "He threatened us!"

"Way I heard it, you threatened him right back. I didn't want to believe it, but everyone who saw it happen says the same thing. Could've knocked me over with a fucking feather and that's no easy task."

"He could have walked away and nothing would have happened. But he showed his true colors and--"

"And what? You drag him into some alley and beat him up? You're walking a thin line, young man, between being fighting for your rights and being a thug just like Chris Hobbs. From where I stand, you've already crossed it."

"That was totally different!" Faces swung around to look at him and the guard standing by the doorway stood a bit straighter. Justin lowered his voice because visiting hours were short enough as it were. "I didn't do anything to 'provoke' Hobbs into bashing me with a baseball bat, did I? Did you go visit him and tell HIM that he didn't know what he was doing?" Her face paled, her lips pressed into a thin line, and Justin knew he'd gone too far.

"I can't ever take your pain away, baby, but I stood right by your side whenever you would let me." Neither of them had to say that sometimes she stood by his side even when he didn't want her or anyone there--that he cursed her for it on his blackest days. Now, he was grateful that she'd always been one of his biggest champions. Maybe that's why it hurt that she was against him in this. "I know I'm doing the right thing."

"He has two kids, you know."

Justin shrugged. He intentionally kept himself in the dark about his...what could he call him? Victim wasn't right because he WASN'T a victim. He was a homophobic asshole who deserved every kick and punch that Justin and his friends had landed on him. "I had an intact skull and a working right hand. No one gave a crap when they were gone."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"Correction. No one in the position to make sure justice was served. Pardon me if I don't shed a tear if Billy and Susan Q's dad has to drink his dinner through a straw." If he tried hard enough, he could stop himself from imaging what they might look like and how scared they might be about their father's damaged state.

"You call this doing the right thing?"

"No. I call it balancing the scales."

4. End Of An Era

Debbie picked up a sweater and unfolded and refolded it for the fourth time. Vic reached out to take it from her and it was all that she could do not to snatch it back and tuck it under her arm where he couldn't take it away. It was cold outside and he needed warm clothes. He wouldn't expose himself, make himself sick. Sweater stays and so does he.

Of course, it didn't work that way. The sweater passed from her hands to his and suddenly she was left empty and flailing. If only it were only about a sweater--a stupid one that she would have gladly chucked in a minute because it was old and worn and ugly as hell.

That's what she would have said a few weeks ago.

Today, she would hang it on a velvet padded hanger and display it over the mantle if it meant that its owner would stop packing his life into cardboard boxes.

"I don't see why you and Rodney can't stay here. There is PLENTY of room downstairs and all the privacy you could want.."

"You seem to be forgetting your introduction. Togetherness is great, but I'd rather not have you two catching each other with pants down."

"That only happened once!"

"Once was enough. Trust me. We want a place of our own."

"But if it doesn't work out--"

"Sis, we've been over this. Don't think I appreciate everything you've done, but I need this...WE need this because heck if I can figure out a way to put it off 'til later. If I had all the time in the world, this wouldn't be an issue, but I need to live my life today."

Debbie kicked a box in frustration, but not too hard because she'd packed a few dishes for Rodney and Vic's kitchen--colorful dishes with big purple daisies that Vic claimed to love when she'd offered them. She knew better, could see the smirk behind the smile, but if the gaudy dishware reminded him of her, then it was worth it.

Vic stowed a stack of paperbacks into a box and closed the top. He looked up and caught Debbie's eyes. "You'll be all right."

Debbie drew herself up. "Of course I will!"

"We'll still come and visit...and Michael, Ben, and Hunter will probably be over a lot."

Debbie snorted. "Please. Those boys have their own house to fix up. They don't have to come over to humor me. I'll be just fine."

Vic stepped around the box and wrapped his sister in a tight hug. "End of an era, huh?"

"You better be fucking happy or else Rodney is going to be seeing more stars than the Pittsburgh sky ever had."

"I'm already happy."

For Debbie, the days ahead, rambling around in the house, alone for the first time in years, it was worth seeing a smile on her brother's face.

5. The Message

Vic wanted to say something, but breathing and talking had become events in his life on which he had to concentrate and instruct himself, never mind trying to do both at the same time. And worst of all it hurt, but not more than seeing 'the look'.

It was on everyone's faces. It was in Debbie's when she sat by her brother's side feeding him hot chicken soup and gossip and all the love in her big heart. And it was there when she turned her face away to hid the tears she wouldn't shed until she was alone.

The look was on Michael's face when he held tight to his uncle's hand, trying to be strong while blinking those brown eyes that felt so much and couldn't hide it as well as his mother. He stood straight and bore the burden of all who leaned on him when he was just as scared as the rest of them.

Vic tried to wish away the look on Rodney's face because being in the same boat didn't make a damned bit of difference when one of you is sinking and the other one's got a life jacket. Even worse when that life jacket has a slow leak.

There were other looks as well: Brian, the lost sheep masquerading in wolf's clothing, trying desperately not to need anyone when it was clear he needed more than anyone, even a beat down man who had been a little more than just his best friend's uncle; Emmett, filled with sympathy and a cup of tea if that's what you wanted or a few minutes of silliness that made you forget what you couldn't change; Justin, who one might think might be caught up in the immortality that belongs to many boys who still count their ages in teens, has his own look because he's been there and back and doesn't envy Vic the trip. There were others and each had his or her own face.

In all his thoughts and predictions, Vic hadn't really considered Ben. Well, he did, seeing as how they shared the same blood, the same disease, but he didn't because Ben always seemed all right. Even at the height of rage fueled by grief, fear, and steroids, Ben seemed all right--or like he could be all right if he put his mind to it. And then he really was and all the rage was forgotten--gone as if it had never happened.

But could he really forget and could it ever be ALL right? Didn't seem so. If it could, then he and Ben had gotten short shrift and someone owed them big time. Had he ever had this conversation with Ben? He should have, but now. when it mattered most, he couldn't remember any conversations at all, couldn't recall if he passed on the little he had learned in this fickle life. Was there something he could say to wipe away the fear behind blue eyes that were too serene to be true?

Vic was too tired to talk, but he still had his eyes, and so he used them and everything was said that needed to be said because some things like Be strong and Live your life sound weak when you say them out loud and can only be expressed without words. By the tumultuous look in Ben's eyes--a mix of fear and anger and sympathy and at least a dozen other emotions, overridden by determination and hope. the message had been received loud and clear.

6. Safety

The door slams and Ben is left alone with angry words echoing in the room. Michael will say that he's being too sensitive, that he's letting Hunter have the upper hand. Debbie will say that all the kid needs is a slap upside the head, one that no one will dole out, not even her, because the memory of what Hunter's suffered is almost two-years fresh in their minds.

Ben walks to the window just in time to see Hunter run down the street, sneakers flashing white, blond hair waving, arms pumping, legs carrying him as far as he can get.

At least he's coming back, Ben thinks, which is more than could be said a year ago when the pieces of this family hadn't started to fit yet.

They make an odd trio, but it works for them and that's more important than appearances and outside opinions. There is even room for more: for all the mothers and best friends and babies that three hearts could fit.

All that love and solidarity can't smooth out all the rough spots, though.

It was a stupid thing as are the starts of the best and worst arguments. If Ben had to think about it (and he could because with Hunter gone, he had some unexpected free time) it wasn't worth the breath they had spent disagreeing about it. But in the heat of the moment, that kind of perspective was hard to gain and even harder to hold on to.

He calls Michael to let him know Hunter is on his way because that is the one certainty--the one promise that Hunter has kept without fail: if you run, go somewhere safe. That usually meant Michael's store or the apartment. Once it had meant the University when Hunter and Michael had one of their blowouts. Debbie's house or the diner could always do in a pinch.

It still hadn't been easy learning not to run after him every single time. Those minutes and hours pacing the apartment, wondering if Hunter was coming back, had been some of the worst minutes and hours this past two years.

Ben had assumed that Michael would be the one who would pace and chew his fingernails and worry aloud. In the end, Michael had been the solid bedrock and Ben had been the one with sore feet and raggedy fingernails. But that pregnant moment had arrived when the door creaked open and admitted the returned prodigal son--all mumbled apologies and skittish eyes. That first time, when Ben wanted to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, he'd found himself grabbing hold and hugging him with relief. The recriminations waited until the next day, but for that moment, on that night, he was grateful that something that could have been irretrievably lost had been found again.

And that something lost hadn't just been Hunter. It had been Ben's ability to trust that he could touch something and leave a mark. Life and all its inherent vagaries and injustices had conspired to take away Ben's ability to create a life, would most likely shorten his own life, but he could still save THIS one life before it self-destructed.

Ben doesn't go to the window again. He doesn't have to stand guard or make a dozen phone calls. Hunter may be gone, but something always draws him back and Ben will be waiting until he's needed.