Five minutes after turning onto the driveway and still not seeing any sign of the house, House groaned in aggravation, his face turned to watch the scenery pass outside the window, blue eyes wide, pupils small.

We'd gotten up early to finish up some last minute packing in the pre-dawn hours so we could make the five hours drive and arrive on time. I'd stood by the coffee maker, rubbing grime from my eyes, shaking loose the cobwebs from a disturbing dream I'd had the night before but couldn't remember.

House had come up next to me and leaned tiredly into me, grumbling low in his chest about having to get up so early, half asleep himself. The coffee maker had burbled away as I'd closed my eyes, Greg resting against my shoulder, letting him nuzzle my neck with his rough cheek.

As soon as he'd detached himself everything came flooding back, the nervousness, the fear—the cold floor under my feet, the chilly air in the apartment, the grogginess of fitful sleeping, all of it made me feel about as physically miserable as I was mentally.

As we continued to drive down the narrow road I was forced to wonder, is this all his property?

"What kind of lawyer is your brother?" House asked.

"I'm not sure."

"What school did he go to?"

"I don't know."

"He has a place in Long Island, he has several places in different places—which either means he's smart with his money, which is doubtful, or he has so much he doesn't have to be smart."

"Does classism work both ways? Not all rich people are jerks."

"Why did they have me kicked me of their yachting club, then?"

"I'm sure they had their reasons."

"Hypocrites."

"Most people are, regardless of income."

"They'll spend five dollars at Jamba Juice for a fancy juice drink with ginseng and vitamin D then go and smoke a pack of cigarettes—they spend all their time on treadmills to fit into some all-important ideal appearance, running in place for hours just because they can or just because they're too scared to be anything else than standard."

"Yeah, well, maybe my brother's not like that."

House paused for the first time in a while, "The fact that he's your brother is the only reason there's a chance he's not."

I felt appeased enough at that, "I called my mom and apparently he's converted—he's a Christian now."

"He did that before or after getting married?"

"For the wedding—she's religious, I guess—not that Jerry was every religious himself."

"That you know of."

"That I know of."

"People do strange things for love," he said, catching my eye dreamily.

"Something that became clearer after I'd signed my soul over to you on a piece of notebook paper."

"I didn't ask you to sign in blood."

"Ball-point pen didn't seem right—it was my soul after all."

"And it's all mine."

"The disturbing thing?"

"What?"

"We appear to have the same marital habits—he met and married her in four months."

"Love is blind."

"And the clichés keep coming."

"Well, one could argue that you never really married any of your wives—you were just waiting for me."

"That's . . . egotistical."

"But true."

"I'm sure they'll all be wondering just how it happened; there I was, actually thinking I knew what love was, then you came along, I was so wrong,"

"Not to mention what good sex was."

"That's right, let's shock the nice Christian people with the details of gay sex."

"Figure A and Figure B are one of the last assumed standards."

"House, I want you to think very hard about something," he met my eyes briefly before I turned them back to the road, "We don't know them, we're guests, alright? We should try to . . . blend as much as possible."

"Eww."

"Eww? I'm serious, House."

He stopped, taking a breath, "I know," he ran a hand over his rough cheek, then down to his neck, "I promise to be good—but I'm not eating any caviar. And I'm not playing cricket."

"Cricket? We're in Long Island, not Dorset."

"Might as well be the same," he said grumpily, eyes narrowed, "They probably hang around all day eating canapés and beating their servants in-between rounds of polo."

"This is going to be impossible," I groaned.

"And I'm not going this entire week without any sex."

"Small demands."

"Will we get the same room—we have to be married first, right?"

"I don't know," I admitted. They probably had a lot of guest rooms, "This is the second time in so many days that you've mentioned marriage."

"And?"

"It's interesting."

"I've also mentioned how much I love string cheese several times over the last few days,"

"Yes, strange that I hadn't noticed that,"

"Nature's perfect food."

"Maybe it's been on your mind."

"Cheese?"

"Marriage."

I glanced over at him, his hand gently massaging his leg, "It's not outside the realm of possibility," he paused in thought, "If they have us in two separate twin beds it may be a more pressing issue."

"We'll have to find out—and you don't have to eat caviar just because it's there."

"I don't have to suck on your toes but I do anyway—but that makes us both happy."

"Fine—same with your earlobes."

"And slapping your ass."

"And your left hip-bone."

"What are Christian's beliefs on bondage?"

"You didn't read that part in the Bible?"

"Missed it."

"Shame."

"Exactly," he smiled, then looked out the window, "I can't go this whole time without touching you."

"No one said you couldn't touch me, I'm just saying maybe we shouldn't . . . get carried away."

"What if I promised to be quiet?"

"You never are," I accused, but couldn't miss the misery on his face, "I . . . guess we could be discreet, but seriously, we have to make a good impression—this is my brother—if you ever do anything for me, just do this, it's important."

"You think I'm going to ruin this?"

"Are you?"

"No," he said pointedly, a little annoyed, "I'm not your roommate, I'm in love with you, I'm not going to be afraid to hold your hand in front of these people," he ran a quick hand over his rough jaw in an impatient gesture, taking a breath then letting it out in an exaggerated sigh, "We're taking a vacation together," he said slowly, "The first real vacation we've ever taken together, we're going to see your relatives, we packed the same bag—at this very moment your socks are lying next to my socks—this means something."

I smiled, despite my better judgement I felt reduced to an absolute puddle of a person. Everything was suddenly so real and wonderful and terrifying. Having him in my life, in my heart, felt like I could face anything. We drove in silence, mostly because I knew my voice would shake, going up and down a few hills, wondering if there was any danger of deer on the road.

"We could go swimming," I suggested, glancing over at him. He had his head leaning back against the head-rest, tilted to the side so he could see the sky.

"I don't like seaweed."

"There's no seaweed in fresh water."

"Well, I don't like aquatic plants," he corrected, then, his eyes catching something out the window, "Mansion," he announced.

"It's not a—" I started, leaning down over the steering wheel to see, "—oh my god."

It was a mansion.

Definitely bigger than I thought. Nicer than I thought. But if you were going to get a house in Long Island . . . and by house I don't mean "four walled structure with a roof and a chimney". This was unbelievable. Oddly enough though, the whole place had a tucked-away feeling like the architect was ordered to design it by coupling the words "rustic" and "extravagant". It was a strange combination. Both our jaws dropped at the sight of it.

There was a small area that seemed almost like a parking lot so I guided the Volvo over the tastefully gravelled road and parked next to a green Jaguar. Looking from the silver glint of the pouncing cat to the marble columns made a lump the size of a tennis ball stick in my throat.

I tried swallowing it but it didn't work. Oh god, I thought on a tangent, I hope we don't play tennis.

I cut the engine and swiped my tongue along the inside of my cheek, tasting blood from where I'd chewed on the inside of my cheek.

We sat for a moment.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," House said, making me turn to look at him. He met my eyes. A much as Greg House could look desperate, he looked desperate. What could I do? We had to. We were here.

But maybe he's right, maybe we should just turn around and run away—don't be ridiculous, I told myself, this is a vacation, just have a good time.

"We'll be fine," I reassured instead. When he didn't look convinced I leaned over to him, drawing his lips to mine with a hand on his cheek. Our eyes closed and I held him to me, gently breathing until I felt his tension ease, then pulled back, "Trust me."

I know he didn't do well in social situations. If he was the centre of attention that was fine but in a group setting, asked to engage in casual conversation, he was far less in his element. It was a silent agreement for me to do most of the talking. If I could. Maybe I'm a little rusty too.

We approached the large oaken doors of the house and, not sure what else to do, rang the bell. Around us the woods were alive with birds, the sound of the wind, and somewhere in the distance was the sound of a motor, most likely a boat of some kind. A woman answered the door. She was attractive, with sort of wavy, blonde hair and tan skin, no doubt from a good amount of leisure time spent in the sun. She was wearing a turquoise necklace, a white blouse, shorts, and white sandals. She definitely fit with the picture.

"Hi!" I greeted, "I'm James, Jerry's brother."

"James hi!" she said and went in for an unexpected hug. The rattle of ice informed me that she had a drink in her hand and proximity brought to me the scent of gin, "So nice to meet you, I'm Lucy, his wife," she smiled, her teeth were a brilliant white, "They are all down at the dock, they said to send you down when you got here."

"Great! This is Greg House, my boyfriend," I said, feeling my heart clench and swell at the word.

"Hi there," she said in a high pitched voice like she was greeting a dog. She brought the glass to her lips and smiled again.

"Well, we'll drop our bags off," I glanced up the very large staircase, "Upstairs?" she nodded, "And head down there."

It was a brief meeting and it seemed odd without Jerry there. Why wouldn't he meet us up at the house too? I wanted to see my brother. And there'd be time to walk with Lucy later.

Still, I told her I was happy to meet her, congratulated her on the marriage, and thanked her for letting us come stay. She was gracious, blushing slightly, but otherwise seeming pretty adept at entertaining. Good quality, I suppose. I felt a little awkward leaving her to the house but she explained she'd be down in just a few minutes. We dragged our bags to our room, the same room, and left the house again.

From the house there was a somewhat narrow and definitely steep walkway that turned into somewhat steep if not completely dangerous set of stone stairs. In another time, in another place, the moss growing delicately around the grey stone, the slow creeping of nature over civility, might have been charming but ascetics aside—there was no railing. The view was undeniably great, it was—the water stretched out as far as the eye could see with the kind of peaceful serenity that one experiences with either the ocean or some sort of large rock formation—but there wasn't a railing. How was House going to do this?

Before we started down I exchanged a significant look with him. To say he looked pleased would have been almost right, but terrified would have been closer to the mark. I waited for him to catch up with me at the first step, positioning myself to his left, my attention divided between him, the stairs, and the dock I could see below through the overhanging branches. I counted five people. My chest twisted at House's first painful step down, repressing a sudden surge of anger while forcing myself to keep from saying anything. House used my arm to steady himself as I mentally counted off each step. Eleven to go, ten to go, nine . . .

House's face was pale and he was breathing heavily by the time we got to the bottom. I squeezed his arm and he scowled an I'm-okay-leave-me-alone-now-scowl. By that time I'd recognized my brother. He shot to his feet from the chair he'd been sitting in, holding his arms out in a welcoming gesture.

Six years seemed to have made a difference of six percent on all his proportions. I had remained slight over the years, not bulky as far as muscles goes anyway, but Jeremy looked fit in every sense of the word. He looked like he ate protein shakes for breakfast lunch and dinner. Which is fine, I guess. I baulked briefly at the pineapples all over his short-sleeved shirt but decided against commenting. My gimp boyfriend on my arm was gay enough at the moment.

House and I continued on our way down to the dock and I met Jerry halfway.

"Jim!" he exclaimed, rapping me on the back in a way that that felt like he could break one of my ribs. The dock swayed slightly under my feet, like the foreign smell of fish and algae wasn't enough to make me feel totally out of place. I smelled cigar smoke and saw that one of the guys on the dock had one clamped between his teeth.

"Did you meet her?" he asked, squaring his chest and clasping his hands together in front of himself.

"We did—she's amazing, Jerry, I'm really happy for you.

He raised both his eyebrows in agreement, 'I know," his eyes shifted to House, "Greg—Greg House," he said.

"Jerry," House responded, leaning heavily on his cane, a slight wind blowing at the curls of sweat-damp hair on his forehead, "Good to see you again."

"Better circumstances than last time anyway," Jerry said, expression then changing from thoughtfulness to enthusiasm as he said, "Celebrating marriage to a beautiful woman rather than Dad having a heart attack."

House and Jerry had met ten years ago when I'd been finishing up school and my dad's heart gave out for the first time. House had driven me home after a panicked call from my mom in the middle of the night. Of course, I hadn't had a car and House had been the only person I could think to call. It had been frantic and breathless, the whole way home, all of it somehow screeching to a halt in the house where I grew up, all of us sitting around the kitchen table while my mom made tuna sandwiches and tried not to cry. I remembered that night as the night we'd hugged for the first time. Back at home, sitting in his car, I'd paused, awkwardly trying to thank him, still emotional and shaken, and he'd reached over and hugged me. I remember the way he had smelled, the way it felt very natural and how I felt better, just being near him. And when I'd pulled back, his arms still around me, his eyes were the bluest I'd ever seen.

Jerry smiled easily in a way that reminded me of when we were kids and he'd set up firecrackers to blow up an army base I'd assiduously arranged, and turned to the others, "Jim, this is John and his wife Lizzy," the man with the cigar raised a hand in a curt wave and the woman smiled while chewing on a piece of fruit in her glass, carefully perm-ed hair going to fritz from the humidity, "And this is Peter and his wife Samantha," I nodded at them both, not sure whether to step forward and shake their hands or not, since they weren't standing, so just smiled and waved a little. House's arm was warm against mine. I could feel him waver, the rocking of the dock making him even more unsteady than usual.

"John and Peter are from work," Jerry continued, "John works above me—" John crossed his arms over his chest with pride and Lizzy swatted his bicep, "And Peter is just below, but he is younger—clip on ties are no longer an option," they laughed, "Everyone—this is my big brother Jim, come to join us for a much needed vacation—he works in Jersey, Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital—he's an oncologist."

Lizzy gasped, "Oh my, what a noble profession."

I smiled good-naturedly, "I don't know about noble—chivalry and chemo don't really mix," it was difficult explaining what I do to people, people were usually both intensely curious and intensively terrified at the same time. Discussing cancer was usually a guaranteed conversation stopper. I felt the tightness suddenly return to my throat and slipped my hand down Greg's arm, discreetly clasping his hand in mine and felt him squeeze back, "This is my," I stumbled on my words, feeling like a complete idiot and coward, "This is Greg—he's at Princeton too, but a different department."

"Which department?" Lizzy asked, taking another drink.

"Diagnostics," Greg answered, giving me a sideways look.

"That's nice," Lizzy said with a wide smile, "Wow . . . two doctors."

Her husband, John, huffed a short laugh, "They're a whole family of over achievers. All I've got is a younger brother who wastes time designing cereal boxes—you can't predict where your genes will get you, that's for sure."

"Oh John," Lizzy scolded, "Patrick's happy doing what he loves."

"Wasn't he working for Cherrios?" Samantha wondered, eyes not visible behind a pair of overly-large sunglasses.

"No, it was Quaker Oats," Peter supplied.

Discomfort was wafting off of House. I could feel him trembling. Not only from the climb down the stairs but from the unsteady dock as well.

"Has everyone been here long?" I asked.

Jerry shook his head, "Not really—these waste-alls are here all the time."

''ppreciate it, Jer," John said past his cigar.

"Speaking of cereal, or rather, food—are you hungry, Jim? Lucy's making some sandwiches I think."

"Yeah," I answered, just wanting House to be able to sit down, "We haven't had anything since breakfast."

"We'll go on up then," Jerry said.

I kept House's hand in mine as the rest of the small party got up and walked off the dock, the whole thing swaying back and forth with the movement, water lapping noisily around the posts, both of us making it to solid ground and hanging back to see Jerry.

"So," Jerry said, kicking at the sand at the shore with a sandaled foot, everyone else heading up the stairs, "What do you think of the place?"

I took a breath, "Jerry, the air is clean, the water is gorgeous, and the house—I don't even know where to start, besides, how do you keep it up? We can barely keep a small apartment clean."

"Well I don't," he answered, keeping pace next to House and I, "I hire some people to stay and clean when I'm not here—it's no big deal really."

"Regardless, it's absolutely amazing—I'm speechless."

"Yep," he agreed, "The only thing missing was a wife to go with it."

"Speaking of which," I said, "How . . ."

"Fast I know—but the right move. You know me, Jim—why wait? We met, we hit it off, she's perfect."

"Wow."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see John and Peter talking to each other, leaning in with arms crossed near the boat house. I turned to look and when I did they were starting at me, and at House.

"Yeah. Just like a picture," my brother said.

Sandwiches. Fancy sandwiches. I thought sandwiches were just slices of bread with things in-between them but I was wrong. There was some sort of green mayonnaise, dill maybe, and sprouts, and salmon. And the tablecloth was white; white enough that I was sure I was going to spill something on it.

It was strange. I wasn't even sure when I'd last sat down at an actual table, with other people, besides in the cafeteria, for a meal. Particularly lunch.

The others were mostly talking amongst themselves, making me feel like some kind of outsider to some kind of strange tea-party right out of Lewis Carol. It's like we'd sailed onto an actual island, in the middle of the ocean, that hadn't ever been visited before. But all the usual things were there. All the things you'd expect. Palm trees, coconuts, sand—that, or it seemed like we'd walked into a postcard.

But it was good too. Seeing Jerry again brought back a lot of memories. Some good, some bad, but still. Whenever you see a sibling you haven't seen in a long time it's like seeing a part of yourself that you'd lost or stopped thinking about. I'd missed him. I'd missed having a brother.

I was busy trying to keep up with all they were talking about, not knowing who or what they were really talking about, popping a carrot in my mouth when they stopped talking and Lizzy turned her attention to me. Samantha was watching me too, her sunglasses pushed up to the top of her head.

"Well, we all kind of know each other already—you're the big news," Lizzy said, smiling, "Tell us about yourselves. Jerry's a great guy but by no means a family man. I didn't even know he had a brother—let alone a doctor," she glared at Jerry briefly. He feigned innocence. I thought about David.

"We went to different schools, different sides of the continent—Jerry wanted palm trees and I wanted wide open spaces," I explained, "I ended up in Quebec and he ended up in California."

"You always wanted to be a doctor?" she asked.

"Well . . . " I thought, nervous, feeling on-the-spot, then said, "No, I guess not—I started out in psychology, social work—ended up in med school somewhere along the line."

"What about you, Greg?" she asked him, "Did you always want to be a doctor?"

House swallowed a bit of sandwich and managed to look little better than an angsty teenager asked to sit and have pleasant conversation at the supper table, "It was a small list," he answered, "Though my dad would have rather I'd joined the service—which was never on the list, by the way."

"What branch?" John asked.

"Marines."

"Not the Navy?"

House frowned, eyes shifting to mine as the sandwich turned to cardboard in my mouth.

"John," Lizzy sighed.

"Come on," Peter said and John and him laughed.

House's eyes shifted to both of them, sandwich frozen in his hand.

I interrupted, "House's father is retired now but he made it to Colonel."

"You must be proud of him," John said, eyes still on House.

"Every day," House replied, taking a drink.

"And how did you two meet?" Lucy asked, having come back from the fridge to grab a bowl of strawberries. She sat and took a sip of her iced tea like she hadn't heard anything that had just been said.

"Lucy we don't have to—," Jerry said warningly, edging the pad of his thumb around of the rim of his glass.

"I'm just curious, Jeremy, he's your brother after all."

They shared a look. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to answer.

"Medical conference," House spoke up, "Wilson was the youngest oncologist there and I was the one no one wanted to sit with."

"It was the only table open," I elaborated dryly.

"And he looked like he might put out easily," House said.

I edged my eyes towards the others, trying to ignore the looks on their faces as he took an almost polite bite of his sandwich, "There was real crystal on the tables, probably worth more than all my student loans combined at the time, which I tried to point out to him before the champagne tower came crashing down."

"Nobody got hurt."

"The waiter stepped on a piece of glass!"

"He made a big deal out of nothing."

I looked at Lucy. She looked interested, even a little amused. Maybe we were the only gay people she knew. I instantly felt like an animal in a zoo. I sighed inwardly and continued with my story, my cheeks feeling hot, "I'd gone there to learn—medical conferences are a respectable and necessary function, but ended up missing most of the lecture."

"It's good that you did—the speaker was later convicted on child pornography charges."

Lizzy gasped.

"No he wasn't." I reassured her.

"That or he's living in Barbados now," House shrugged, "Either way it wasn't worth the entrance fee."

"It was free."

"They should have used plastic cups then."

"Luckily," I said pointedly, "No one knew who I was," I sighed, "Breaking thirteen crystal glasses and fleeing the scene of a crime doesn't look good for first impressions," I glared at House, "I had no intention of ever seeing him again, but . . . he gave me his number."

"I gave you my number?" House asked, brow furrowing.

"Yeah—well, sort of, you slipped it in my pocket, somehow," I frowned, "My wife found it, actually."

"Which wife was that?" John asked, leaning back in his chair, chin raised.

"My first wife."

"Whose name he can't remember," House said.

"Catherine," I supplied, glaring at him.

"Man, that's sweet," John said in a low voice, pushing his plate away. I looked from John to Jerry, stomach clenching. He was looking at Jerry like he was communicating something. I don't know what. Jerry wasn't looking at me.

"I think I'm going to go for that swim now," John continued, "Lizzy?"

"We just got done eating," she protested, then looked to House and I, "You're not supposed to do that, right? Thirty minutes, that's how long you're supposed to wait."

"I think I'll risk it," he said getting up, "Come on Liz."

I no longer had an appetite. I turned my eyes to look at Jerry and saw him watching his plate.

John and Lizzy left the table, chairs scooting loudly back. Peter and Samantha left too.

"Actually, that whole idea of waiting for half an hour isn't really true, the body metabolizes—"

"Jim," Jerry stopped me.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe you and Greg should get ready to go swimming too."

I blinked, "Okay."

The swimsuit I had was a pair of bright coloured, flowered trunks that might have fit in somewhere on the west coast but only barely. I'd bought them on the first, and consequently the last, time Julie and I had ever gone on vacation. We hadn't expected to go swimming but the hotel had had a pool, Julie wanted to swim, so I had to buy something. And apparently obnoxious neon colours are the only option in last-minute bathing suits.

House's trunks, on the other hand, were black with a blue stripe down the side. He'd gotten them for physical therapy, after the infarction, as an alternative to sweating in agony in the physical therapy room on handlebars and stirrups. The option of therapy sessions in the pool had seemed like a good idea.

It hadn't lasted. I remember picking him up from sessions at the pool and finding him just as miserable as he'd been during normal physical therapy, outside the water, only instead of just being miserable, now he was wet and miserable. He'd said he'd never been afraid of swimming. Until then. He'd said he felt like he was going to drown. For an uncomfortable moment I remembered a time I'd stayed for one of his sessions and seen him bobbing up and down in the water like it was some turbulent sea rather than a chlorine filled, five foot deep pool, gasping for breath, unable to kick his legs or keep his head afloat. Since then he'd learned how to swim one legged. Or so he assured me.

As soon as we got upstairs House closed the door behind him, resting his hands on the frame for a moment as I ran both my hands through my hair, expelling a long breath.

"Not to be critical," House said slowly, turning around, "But if that guy John starts to speak in German I think we should get out of here."

"House . . ." I sighed.

He leaned back heavily against the door, "I'd bet you good money there's a swastika tattoo somewhere on his body."

I groaned, covering my eyes with a hand.

"Probably right on his ass."

"Maybe he's a little . . . aggressive," I agreed, "Let just try to be social, as nice as possible, we can get through this."

"I never trust people whose necks are thicker than their heads . . ." he continued like he hadn't even heard me.

I gave House a helpless look. He had one hand on his thigh. He pressed his lips together tightly before saying in a low voice, "This place is a nightmare for cripples."

"Come on," I urged, stepping forward to kiss the underside of his jaw, pressing him into the door as my hand trailed around to slip open the button of his jeans. He groaned, head falling back against the door. I felt his voice box vibrate under my lips as he said, "You're manipulating me."

"But my motives are pure," I replied, in between kisses.

"The hell they are," he grumbled.

I pulled back slightly to place a warm, soft kiss on his lips, opening my eyes. Despite my efforts he still looked troubled, eyes sharp and unyielding, mouth thin and pale. I brought my hand up from his jeans to his chest, over his heart.

"Us against the world," I told him.