I see the picture on my nightstand constantly. It's been there every morning and every night and every moment in between for as long as I can remember.

I imagine that it meant something to me once, this picture. After all, I did put forth the time and effort of framing it and setting it up in my bedroom. And although it's been there for years, eventually I stopped noticing it. I suppose that's how it is with everything, really. If it's part of your every day life for long enough, you'll soon stop thinking about it and begin taking it for granted. Usually you don't notice it again until it's gone. For me, I don't notice it again until I'm nodding, cruising the waves of the smack that I injected a short while ago.

I don't remember loving the picture, but it seems to me that I did. Right now, I hate it. It taunts me. It shows me something I once had that is now gone. Something I'll never have again. A thought briefly occurs to me that I should throw it away and forget all about it. Maybe later. Right now, my arms and legs are seemingly made of lead, and I'm not sure at all that I can move.

It was taken in North Carolina, I think. Maybe eight years ago, but I wouldn't swear to that. I never was real good with time, even when I'm straight. I don't know what steps we were sitting on, what building we were in front of. I don't even remember who snapped the damn picture. But I remember him sitting behind me with those big arms wrapped around my chest. I remember leaning backward into his heat and the scratch of his stubble against my face as he leaned in to kiss my cheek. I remember his hair loose and tickling against my earlobe and I remember laughing. It was maybe the last time I ever felt completely safe.

I'm a selfish person. All druggies are, right? Anyone will tell you that. But I look at that picture and see the genuine smile on his face and the gleam in those dark eyes and it sends more of a thrill through me than any shot of horse ever could. I love him; for all the right reasons, the wrong reasons.. it doesn't matter. I love him and he doesn't care. But he loves me too; I can feel it. Even though he tries to deny it, he loves me too.

Maybe we'll be together again, there's no way of ever knowing. But we'll still never have what the picture represents. We've been through too much and seen too much. Maybe we'll love each other again, but the innocence is long since dead and bloated.

I don't know who I am. How many people have lain in front of a thirty-dollar-an-hour shrink and said those very words? Billions, I'm sure. Difference is, I really mean it.

I don't know who I am or where I am or how I got there, but someone is screaming.

Someone is screaming and I really wish they'd shut the fuck up because my head feels like it'll explode any second. I don't know who's screaming, because I can't see. Everything is dark and all of a sudden I feel like I'm falling. I reach out to grab whatever I can, and it feels like I've grabbed on to something alive. Someone alive.

The Living Thing smacks me across the face with an open hand and I wake up a little. It's then that I realize I'm the one that's screaming. As soon as I stop, the pounding in my head ceases just a bit and I can think clearly enough to form one sentence.

"Where am I?!"

"Jeff. Open your eyes."

I do so. Oh. That's better.

I find myself in my own apartment, my own bedroom, and my own bed. Both my hands are full of fabric, and I slowly look up, finding that The Living Thing I'd grabbed is Chris. Chris Jericho, my so-called boyfriend, if you want to get into technical terms. He's looking at me through a curtain of mussed blonde hair and kohl-lined eyes; looking at me as if I've grown a second head.

Chris looks and acts like every 80's hair band singer known to man. His dream is to front a rock band and become rich and famous. He's already got a harem of slutty groupies and a taste for coke, so I guess that must mean he's on his way.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, man. I thought you were dead! You were hardly breathin'. What'd you do last night?"

I open my mouth to answer him, but I suddenly realize I have no idea. Instead, I absently rub at the track marks on my left forearm, and that seems to be answer enough.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and shakes the hair out of his eyes. "Man, you oughta lay off that shit. Quit it now before it's too late. You keep it up, and you'll never get off it."

I find myself nodding absently, trying to ignore his hypocrisy, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I know he's right. Heroin is not my drug of choice, and I like to tell myself that I'm not hooked. Maybe that's true, but I've been using it a little more lately, just to calm myself down. Just to get a better perspective on things for a while.

Chris is still talking, presumably to me, though I no longer hear what he's saying. I'm trying to remember exactly what I did last night, and the effort of doing so drags the memory of the picture to the surface of my mind. I look over at it, seeing it again for what feels like the first time. I guess I look at it a little longer than what would be deemed normal, because finally Chris is silent. When he speaks again, his voice is lower and I know he's watching me study the sliver of past that has been caught and bottled up in glass on my nightstand.

"Maybe you should call him, Jeff."

"Huh?"

"Matt. Call him."

"What for? I see him every goddamned day."

"Yeah. You see him, but you don't talk to him."

"He doesn't want to talk to me, Chris."

"Yes, he does."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because I know him."

"You love him?"

He pauses, glancing down. "I don't love anyone."

"When was the last time?"

I think that maybe I'm asking for trouble, posing questions like that. Maybe it'll make me angry, start a fight between Chris and I. Wouldn't be the first time. But suddenly, I have to know. For my own selfish reasons, of course.

"The last time what?"

"The last time you fucked my brother."

I'm still looking at the picture; I'm not watching Chris. But I know him like the back of my hand, and in my mind's eye I see him look down and close his eyes, trying to consider the answer he's going to give me. He breathes deep; in and out, and then finally answers.

"You really want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

"This morning."

I'm not altogether there to begin with, and the answer startles me. I have no clue in the world what time it is, but daylight is streaming in through the windows, and so my lazy brain decides that "this morning" couldn't have been that long ago. Slowly, I turn back to face him and he meets my eyes without the least bit of shame lingering in them. He knows I'm in love with my brother. He fucks us both regularly, and doesn't care who knows about it. Chris does as he pleases without any guilt. I honestly don't know why it doesn't make me mad, but it doesn't. It makes me respect him a little more, in some odd way.

Maybe it's my imagination, or maybe the traces of Matt's cologne really do linger on Chris' skin. Either way, I can almost taste Matt as I lick my way up the side of Chris' neck. He shudders against my tongue and reaches up to grab a fistful of hair, crushing our lips together.

Chris tastes fucking amazing on his own, but when I'm caught up in the fact that various parts of my brother's anatomy had been in that mouth just hours (minutes?) before, it's almost overwhelming. I'm moaning and thrusting my tongue repeatedly against Chris', pushing him backward onto the bed and following him down. I'm already naked and his clothes come off without any hassle, until we're pressed naked and hard against one another.

From the neck down, Chris and Matt almost feel alike. Well-muscled arms and chest, a little bit of extra baby fat around the middle. Rounded hipbones and thick, corded thighs. My hand follows every inch of skin down Chris' body, exploring and weighing the similarities and differences. He finally thrusts his hips up toward me, making me realize I'd been neglecting the most important part.

When my fingers wrap around his throbbing cock is when the similarities end. Chris is long and slender, curving ever so slightly to the right, while my Matt is thick and perfectly straight. It doesn't matter now, though. Even though this isn't Matt lying next to me, it's the closest thing I've got. And it's not half bad at all.

Stroking my hand steadily along Chris' hard on, I pull from his lips and look down at him. He really is beautiful; skin flushed with pleasure, eyes rolling behind the lids. He's slowly rocking upward toward my hand and clutching the sheets and I wonder how he can possibly be so horny if he just had sex with someone else. I dare to think that maybe it's just me that has this effect on him, and then laugh off the possibility. Like Chris just said, he doesn't love anyone. That would just make things more complicated, anyway.

"Chris?"

"Mmmhmm?"

"Who fucked who?"

He knows what I mean right away and a ghost of a smile crosses his face. For some reason, he seems to actually enjoy being the middle man between Matt and I.

"I fucked him."

"How?"

We've played this game before and he knows what I want to hear. Talking about it turns him on, too, and I can feel him throb in my hand a few times as he recalls his earlier activities.

"Me on top, first. I threw his legs over my shoulders and pounded him into the mattress like that for a while. Then before he came, I flipped him over onto his hands and knees and fucked him from behind. He likes it like that the most."

"Yeah. I know."

"I don't think he wanted to see my face, Jeff. I think he wanted to pretend I was you."

I'm not sure if he's only saying that to make me feel good, but the sheer thought of it sends all the air out from my chest in a giant rush. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it throbbing in my ears. The flush of excitement that flows through me causes my hand to jerk a little faster and Chris' breath hitches, too.

"God, Jeff, that's it. You know he loves you and he wants you back. Just.. mm.. just think about the last time you had him. The last time he was inside you."

Truth be told, I can't remember the last time I'd slept with Matt. I have millions of stray excerpts floating around in my head but I can't glue them together to make a coherent scene. Not that it matters. All I need is one memory of Matt with his head tossed back and his mouth open to bring me to instant aching hardness.

I'm breathing like I'm the one getting jerked off, and just as I start to recognize the dull ache beginning in my arm, Chris arches up off the bed and comes white hot all over my clinched fist. He doesn't make any noise aside from his labored breathing, but his body trembles and he bites down into his lower lip and its all almost perfect. Almost, because it's not Matt.

Just because Matt and I aren't fucking anymore doesn't mean we don't see each other at all. Although it would probably be easier that way, it would be next to impossible. We have the same friends and the same hangouts and we usually end up thrown into the mix together sooner or later.

The Corner Pocket is where said "mixing" generally happens. If you're looking for someone that we chum around with, The Pocket is where you start. It's really owned by this guy Shawn that we're on pretty good terms with, but on Friday and Saturday nights, it belongs to us. We sort of have a deal going with Shawn. We keep his bar in tact and don't take anything we haven't paid for, and he looks the other way while we do our lines in the bathroom stalls. Not a bad setup, really.

Shawn's head bartender is this smug asshole called Adam, and even though none of us really like him, he's got one hell of a hookup. Anything you want, you can get through this guy, so we all put up with him and try not to piss him off too much.

All of us, that is, except Matt.

Matt is not the friendliest of people to begin with, and when you infringe on something that he considers his property, that grudge is not something that will easily go away.

Did I mention that Matt, my brother whom I'm in love with, who is fucking my boyfriend, also has a girlfriend? Well, he does. A girlfriend who is fucking Adam the bartender, and that really gets under Matt's skin.

I've never really understood how Matt can get so upset about Amy's infidelity when he's nowhere close to being faithful himself. Sometimes I think he just looks for things to be angry about. If he's angry all the time, the world is somewhat easier for him to deal with.
It's Friday night and the place is packed with bodies from wall to wall. I know most of them: regulars that show up every weekend to drink and get high. Some are strangers who I figure have just wandered their way in, attracted to the strange energy that's got to be seeping out of this place and infecting the streets outside.

I'm alone in the corner booth, very pleasantly numb. The world surrounding me is nothing but a haze of warmth and color and I've got to remind myself later to ask Chris just what the hell he gave me and where I can get more.

I'd ask him now, you see, but he's busy with his groupies. He's been dropping quarters in the jukebox all night long and singing along to all the bad hair metal, and they've been falling over at his feet like he's the greatest thing in the world. I know two of them: Trish and Stephanie, his loyal ones. They follow him around constantly like lost puppies. The other three I've never seen before, and they're not being shy about what they want. A catfight could ensue at any minute, and then Chris will have completed his objective for the night.

I couldn't really care less what Chris is doing now, though. No, my attentions are focused on my flesh and blood.

Matt's sitting at a booth nearer the bar, his eyes fixed on the bartender and that slut he calls a girlfriend. I don't like Amy, for obvious reasons, and I get a sort of grim satisfaction over watching her fall all over herself trying to be my friend. I don't know why she bothers. I guess it's her way of trying to get closer to Matt. As far as I know, she has no idea what used to go on between Matt and I. Maybe she's using me as the back-up brother in case things with him finally go sour. Fat chance.

Nobody else seems to notice that something is about to happen, but I know that dark look in Matt's eyes and I know that things are going to hit the fan at any second.

Amy's leaning over the bar, talking into Adam's ear and flashing as much cleavage as humanly possible without taking off her shirt completely. It isn't until they both steal a glance over to Matt and start laughing that he's on his feet and shoving his way to the bar.

Amy, who must be used to his violent outbursts by now, rolls her eyes but is sure to get out of the way as quick as she can. Adam looks like he's about to piss his pants, and for good reason. When my brother tells you he's going to beat the ever-loving shit out of you, he means it.

I'm not even sure when I got up, but I find myself pushing through the crowd to get to the bar. I know that if Matt gets his hands around Adam's neck, everything is going to go up in flames. It'll be a riot in here. If there's one thing I've learned from hanging around a lot of people, it's that they don't need a reason to start fighting. Just an example.

When Matt reaches the bar, I'm splitting through the crowd from the left, almost there. The first thing he does is grab Amy before she can get too far away, and give her a nice solid backhand across the jaw. Even through the talking and music, I can hear it connect. She screams and holds the side of her face in both hands, ducking into the crowd.

With Amy forgotten, Matt puts his hands on the bartop and starts to vault over. Adam is trying to back away, but he's got nowhere to go. I wonder what he expected to happen when he sleeps with another man's girlfriend and then flaunts it right in front of said man.

I grab Matt by the back of his belt right before he ascends the counter. He's not expecting it and loses his balance, falling backward. I'm not exactly on my game, but I'm prepared enough to steel myself against his weight and catch him before he lands on the ground. He's seething when he breaks from my grasp and whirls around to face me, furious that someone would dare try to prevent him from taking out his aggression. Right now, all he has on his mind is a fight. He swings before he looks (typical Matt), and sends me reeling, gasping at the unexpected flash of pain that settles in my mouth.

We've gathered a few onlookers by now, some of whom know the story between Matt and I and are waiting with baited breath for the next chapter of our little drama. But the only pair of eyes I care about are Matt's, and they're fixed on me as I'm sprawled on the floor. He lowers his fist and frowns, and I can tell he's trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

I have no idea what to do in a situation like this, and so I don't do anything. I just get to my feet and brush off a little, and then turn to head back to where I'd been sitting. I'd accomplished what I'd set out to: keep Matt from starting a bar room brawl. Surely he's forgotten all about Adam and Amy, for the moment, at least.

I'm honestly not expecting the hand –his hand- to come down on my shoulder, but I freeze with a mixture of fright and excitement when it does. I turn around and meet those dark eyes, and he doesn't have to say anything. He turns and leads, and I follow him out the door without a second thought.