CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Michael." Ben sighed and put down his fork. "Why don't you just go and see him?"

"Because the last time I tried he nearly hit me!"

"Only because you were letting your mouth run off about Justin. If someone were to do that about you, especially if I didn't know where you were or whether you were okay or not, how do you think I would react? Agree with them? Thank them?"

Michael pushed the remains of his pancakes around his plate. "That's different," he muttered.

"How so? Or are you still in denial about how Brian feels about Justin? I thought you'd come to terms with that."

Michael was silent for a moment. "I know," he agreed eventually. "I know Brian cares. But Justin really hurt him … I can't help but be angry about that."

"And Brian hurt Justin. Many times."

"Justin knew what Brian was like! If you love somebody, you accept them for what they are. You don't try to change them."

"I agree, but that doesn't mean you can't be acknowledged as an equal. That you can't be shown respect by your partner, both in private and in public. Justin was perfectly within his rights to expect that, at the very least."

"He still shouldn't have cheated!" Michael protested hotly.

Ben smiled. "And you shouldn't have interfered. I warned you at the time."

Michael shook his head. "I couldn't just ignore it."

"Then you should have spoken to Justin, and given him the chance to talk to Brian. Instead, you forced Brian's hand."

"I was looking out for him. The same way he does me."

Ben took a deep breath. Patience, he thought. He tried again. "Did Brian tell you when he caught David cruising the baths? Or about him and me at the White Party?"

Michael hung his head. "No," he admitted glumly.

"Then I guess his idea of looking out for a friend is different to yours." Ben pushed his plate away and looked Michael in the eyes. "Michael, I love you more than anything; but you have to realise this blind-spot you have for Brian is unfair to both of you. Brian's life, and his relationship with Justin, is nobody's business but his. And if you try to come between them all you will succeed in doing is to push him further away." He reached out and took Michael's hand. "Having said that, you need to let him know that, today of all days, you're there for him. Forget your pride, and go see him."

"What if he won't see me?"

"Then that's his decision. But at least he'll know you remembered."

Michael nodded, then smiled sadly. "It doesn't seem like two years. I can still it so clearly, Brian sitting in that corridor, covered in blood, not knowing if Justin would live or die … Christ. I've never seen him like that, never. He was so … hurt. I guess that was when I realised Justin was going to be a permanent fixture, whether I liked it or not."

"You were there when he needed you, as a friend should be. Now be there for him again."

Before Michael could answer, the bell on the diner door dinged and he glanced up. Ben saw his face change. "Fuck!" Michael snapped. "What's he doing here?"

Ben looked over at the door, and saw a young man with unruly black hair walk hesitantly to the counter. Debbie, pad in hand, fixed a beaming smile on him. "What'll it be, gorgeous?" she asked.

"Um, I'm sorry … are you Debbie?"

Deb pointed to her name tag. "That's me," she nodded. "And who's asking?"

Michael was on his feet. "Don't speak to him, Ma!" He strode over to the counter, Ben following close behind. "That's the guy Justin was seeing!"

Ben put a restraining hand on his arm. "Michael…" he said warningly.

"Yes." The young man glanced round at them uncertainly, then turned back to Debbie. "I'm Ethan … Ethan Gold."

Debbie's smile faded, but she shook the proffered hand. "And what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to know … is there any news?" Ethan swallowed hard. "The only phone number I have for Brian is at Vanguard, and they won't ever put me through. I know Justin liked you, and he said you used to look out for him when he left home … I thought maybe you might have heard something…" His hopeful expression sagged when Debbie shook her head.

"No; I'm sorry. I wish I had."

"Oh. Okay." Ethan rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Look, would you take this? It's my cell number." He managed a small smile. "You see, I was entered in the Heifetz competition, and I won. I've got a European tour lined up, but I couldn't just leave and not know if he was okay. So I was wondering, if you get any news, whatever it is, if you could let me know…" His voice tailed off.

Debbie hesitated for a moment; then slowly she accepted the piece of paper. "Of course," she said quietly. "I give you my word."

Ethan sighed, obviously relieved. "Thanks. You have no idea how much that means to me." He threw another quick glance at Michael's scowling face. "Well. I have a lot to do. Nice to meet you." He turned and walked to the door.

"Hey," Deb called after him, "Good luck with the tour."

Ethan smiled and nodded. The bell pinged as he closed the door behind him.

"Well, I hope you're not really planning to stay in touch with that little shit," Michael protested. "We shouldn't have anything to do with him, Ma."

Debbie glared at him. "Sometimes I worry about you, Michael, I really do. That boy isn't the first to have been fucked over by Brian Kinney, and he certainly won't be the last. And whether you like it or not, it took balls for him to come in here and face us, just because he's worried about Sunshine. Good luck to him I said, and good luck I meant."

BRIAN

My ghost has been keeping me company tonight.

I'd planned to go out. I really had. But somehow it seemed like an insult to mark this anniversary by burying myself in some nameless, faceless trick, so I ended up sprawled on the couch smoking Columbian and listening to old Springsteen C.D.s instead. It's taken me long enough to realise that this pain isn't going to go away; it's not going to be drowned by Beam or smothered by chemicals or even battered to death by fucking. It seems the best I can hope for is that eventually it becomes so much a part of me that maybe I won't even notice it much anymore, like the ghost ache of an amputated limb. Something that really only hurts on cold nights.

Like this one.

I finger the scarf around my neck; still so soft, so sensual against my skin. The stains aren't crimson anymore, only a sort of dark sepia. Time has faded them.

I don't know if Justin realised that I'd kept it after he'd taken it off me; after Gus' birthday, the first time we fucked again.

Correction: the first time we made love. The first time in my life I made love.

I'd worn it in the beginning because it was the only physical reminder I had of him; it became a sort of talisman, a charm to keep him safe. I'd had this superstitious obsession that as long as I kept it against my skin like a psychological hair shirt then Justin couldn't slip away from me; that I still had contact. Even after he moved in I couldn't bring myself to throw it away, so it stayed carefully folded away in my safe along with my will, insurance certificates and the mortgage deeds to the Loft. And tonight, for the first time since, I'm wearing it again.

I hear Michael's knock on the door, and for a moment I think about not answering. Then I realise that if I don't he'll just use his key anyway. So I pad over and pull it back, and he's standing there with a pile of takeouts in his arms and a sheepish grin on his face.

"I thought you'd be at Babylon, but when you didn't show I figured I'd come and check that you were okay. Since you're not picking up the phone … again."

"In case I was dangling from the rafters?" I twitch an eyebrow at him, and he wriggles uncomfortably.

"Something like that."

"Well, you don't have to worry, Mikey. I'm not planning any more scarfing."

"Or alcohol poisoning? Or overdosing?"

I smile and shake my head.

"Then can I come in?"

"Guess you'd better, before you give yourself a hernia. What is all that crap, anyway?"

Michael makes his way to the table with difficulty, because he can't see over the over the bags and boxes he's clutching. He lets them spill out of his arms with a sigh of relief and turns with a dorky grin. "Well, if you're not drinking, popping and fucking yourself to death then you must be taking the starvation route. So I thought I'd better come prepared."

Actually he couldn't be more wrong. I've been eating better than I have for months. I can't pretend that it isn't a struggle, but I've been making sure that I get at least two meals a day. I've even started going to the gym again for early morning workouts before the crowd get there.

But, hey, he's made the effort, so I fetch plates, forks and a couple of beers; we share out everything and take it to the couch to eat.

"You're looking better." Michael makes his comment through a mouthful of Kentucky.

I dunk a fry in ketchup. "I'm afraid that probably isn't saying much."

"No, really." He face takes on that earnest, compassionate look that I either find unbelievably sweet or unbearably irritating, according to whichever mood I'm in. Tonight I'm remembering his silent, unquestioning support when I needed it most, so I don't resent it. "I wasn't sure what I'd find when I came over, after the last time I saw you; so I'm glad. Really glad."

I know he means it, so I smile back at him. "I'm doing okay. I'm back at work now, so I'm just trying to keep myself busy. Trying to knock off the booze and shit."

"Good." He chews a buffalo wing, stares at me; fidgets a little. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. About Justin and everything."

"It's alright, Mikey."

"No, it isn't. Ben gave me shit about it. I was stupid. It's just sometimes, I feel…" He looks away.

"Mikey." I reach over and poke his arm. "Look at me." When he does, I continue. "We've always watched out for each other. We always will. But that doesn't mean we can't be honest with each other, too. I know what I did to Justin. I hurt him the same way I did you, when I outed you on your birthday. I don't blame him for finding someone else. I don't have the right. Neither do you."

He nods unhappily. "I know. It's just … it was always you and me, the two of us against the whole fucking world. And now it isn't."

"And you're jealous. Like I was when you first started seeing David." I reach my arm round his shoulder and pull him close, buffalo wing and all. "Michael, we've shared things nobody else ever will. Justin can't ever take your place. He has his own place, just like Ben does for you. That doesn't change us."

Brown eyes, wide and suddenly aware, look up at me. "You really love him, don't you?" he asks wonderingly.

I remember the time Deb asked me the same thing; how, although I couldn't deny it, I couldn't bring myself to admit it either. "Yeah, Mikey," I reply softly. "I guess I really do."

He puts his arm round my waist and hugs me back. "I'm glad you're here, Mikey," I whisper against his hair. And I mean it.

I know my ghost won't mind.

HENRY RICHARDS

God, what a night.

I don't think I've ever had such a shock in my life. My hands are still shaking.

Let me try and think what could have triggered it.

The day had started so well; June 1st had been brought perfect weather, I'd sold a couple of nice paintings, and Chris was going to meet me at the gallery that evening so that I could show him around. I'd been really looking forward to hearing his opinion. But when he arrived it was obvious that something was wrong; he was silent and preoccupied, far more like the young man who'd first turned up on my doorstep than the person I've been getting to know since. He said that he had a slight headache, so I insisted that we cut short the tour and go straight back to the house.

I made him tea and gave him aspirin, and as he lifted the cup his hand began to shake quite badly, enough for the tea to splash into the saucer. Thinking about it, I've seen his right hand tremble before, although normally it's just a slight tremor. Nothing like this.

I tried to get him to eat something, but he refused: it was quite obvious to me that, despite the aspirin and his protestations, he was in considerable pain; so I persuaded him to go to bed. When I turned in later, he was asleep.

I woke up to him screaming. He was sitting bolt upright, drenched in sweat, and the look on his face was simply horrible. My heart pounding, I'd tried to comfort him but he was completely disorientated and clearly had no idea where he was or who I was, for that matter. He kept shouting a name that sounded like "Bri". Brian, perhaps? Or Bryony? I couldn't tell. Eventually I managed to quiet him and he clung to me for a long time, sobbing and shaking.

Now he's asleep again, and I'm a nervous wreck.

Well. This has finally decided me. I'm going to find out what the problem is with my little friend, and if that means I have to resort to snooping, then so be it.

I make my way downstairs to the lounge, pick up the backpack that Chris never seems to let out of his sight and settle down on the sofa with it. It's not very heavy.

In fact, it only seems to have one item in it: an artist's sketchpad. I flip through it.

Good grief. Are these drawings his?

There are still-life studies of fruit. Landscapes. Quick sketches of people or animals, or buildings that have caught his eye. Studies of hands and fingers and feet. And lovingly executed portraits of individuals; a dark-haired, laughing girl; a fair-haired young woman nursing a baby; and countless renditions of a strikingly handsome, dark-haired man. This individual is usually portrayed nude.

I am genuinely staggered. If these drawings are Chris', then he is phenomenally gifted. What had he said? I used to study art. What an offhand dismissal of such ability!

I can't believe that someone with such an innate talent would, or could, deny it. But perhaps it's a physical problem … his hand? Is he simply unable to draw anymore?

Quickly I search the rest of the backpack. In one of the side pockets I find a cheap wallet, and my heart leaps because surely there will be a credit card, or driver's license, or an address of some kind. But all I can find are some bank notes. Then my fingers find a small slip of card, tucked away in a corner. It's the stub of a Greyhound ticket, a single from Pittsburgh to Baltimore, dated three months ago.

Pittsburgh. It's a starting place.

TBC