Sorry for the delay in posting. I would have had this up Monday if I'd had power. Stupid ice storms, anyway. :( But we're all back to some sort of normal now, and as usual, I don't own House (as if that weren't obvious).

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It's been a long day of presentations that have run the gamut from mildly interesting to mind-numbingly dull. By early evening, I find myself back in my room, debating whether I really want to drag myself out for this 80s dance. On one hand, I could stand a night of fun. On the other, so many of my memories of Kenneth stem from that time. Music has always served as a memory trigger for me. I'm not sure if I'm ready to face those triggers tonight.

Eventually I decide to go. It's better than spending the night alone. Not by much, but enough.

I get dressed and check myself out in the mirror, making a face at the reflection. When did I get so old? What little hair I do have has gone gray now, and my little pot belly has definitely grown a bit over the last few months.

I'm too old for this silliness. A nearly fifty-year-old man has no business trying to relive his glory years. I can think of a million reasons not to go to this thing, and yet, I find myself slipping the Ray Bans over my face and walking out of the room.

No, this isn't pathetic. Not at all.

I hear the music before I even get close to the conference room, and I can't help smiling a little. 'Safety Dance', by Men Without Hats. God, it's been years since I've heard this one.

I enter the room, the music blasting my eardrums as I make my way through the crowd to the bar. After ordering a beer, I lean against the makeshift bar and observe the proceedings.

The majority of the crowd is out there making fools of themselves. No surprise there. Outside of the actual presentations, the main reason doctors come to these conferences is to unwind and get out of their normal environments. I suppose I'm no exception tonight.

I take the beer, nodding graciously to the bartender as I continue to hold up the bar. It's a difficult job, but someone has to do it.

"Still a wallflower, huh?" A familiar voice jolts me out of my thoughts. "Nice to know some things don't change."

I glance up and nearly choke on my beer. It's Greg, alright, dressed in 18th century finery. "Uh…I think you're a couple centuries off the mark."

Greg shrugs. "1780s, 1980s, same thing."

A thought occurs to me. "I suppose you could always pass it off as a Blackadder costume."

A little smirk crosses Greg's face. "How do you know that it isn't?"

"Good point." I take a drink of my beer, not sure what else to say. What do you say to a guy who left you behind years ago? Do I act as if nothing happened? Do I even mention the past?

"So what brings you here?" Greg asks me.

"James Wilson's presentation." I tell him. "I've followed his work for a long time, and this one sounded particularly interesting."

A brief expression flashes across Greg's face before he shakes his head. "Better enjoy it. It'll probably be his last one."

"Why do you say that?"

"Believe me, it's not what you think it is." Greg answers. "It's a career killer. I've been trying to talk him out of presenting it since before we left."

"Wait a minute." I'm incredulous. "You actually know James Wilson?"

"He's been my best friend for almost twenty years. Been working down the hall from him for a long time." Greg replies. "He's the head of oncology."

"Oh." My mind slowly starts working over the details. James Wilson works for Princeton-Plainsboro, as does Lisa Cuddy. Which means that Greg does, too. "You work for Princeton-Plainsboro?"

"Still slow on the uptake, I see." Greg rolls his eyes at me. "Yeah, technically I'm still employed there. Right now I'm sort of in…a consulting role. Long story."

"I see." I try for casual and fail. If I do end up working there, I'll probably see Greg on a regular basis. I'm not sure I'm ready to do that. "You know, I think I spoke to your boss earlier today. Lisa Cuddy?"

Greg gestures out to the dance floor with the cane I've only now noticed he uses. "That's her. The one pretending to be Jennifer Beals."

I can't help but laugh a little, watching Doctor Cuddy dancing with a youngish looking man. "She pulls it off pretty well."

Greg gives me a sharp look. "I thought you gay men had an eye for fashion."

"Tim Gunn I am not." I reply with a snort.

Greg eyes me up and down. "You don't pull off Sonny Crockett very well, either."

"You're right, I don't." I sigh heavily, pulling off my sunglasses and shoving them in my jacket pocket. "Just call me Matlock."

Greg laughs, a genuine smile lighting his rough features, and I can see just a glimpse of the young man he used to be. It sends a flutter of something through me, something I can't quite define.

I shake off the feeling and finish off my beer just as a slow song starts. It takes me a moment to recognize it, but the voice is unmistakable. Even when it was popular, it was never one of my favorites, which meant Kenneth immediately made it one of his. He would sing it at the top of his lungs any time he heard it, much to my irritation.

The last time he sang it was in the elevator on the way to one of his treatments. The song had taken on a different meaning by then. No longer merely a means of teasing me, it had become yet another of the million ways we were saying our goodbyes. Both of us were bawling like babies that day.

I quickly drain my beer and slam the empty bottle on the counter before rushing out of the conference room, barely hearing Greg's voice behind me. Before I know it I'm outside in the cool night air, surrounded by silence, my gasping breath the only sound.

"What the hell was that?" Greg's voice suddenly carries through the darkness.

I shake my head, blinking back the tears, willing myself to pull it together. "Nothing."

He limps around to face me, his intense eyes studying me, a scowl on his face. "You don't run out of a room during a Cyndi Lauper song over nothing."

"It's none of your business." I snap. "Butt out."

Greg backs away, leaning on his cane, obviously still trying to put things together. "Bad breakup?"

"Not a breakup."

"Then what?" Greg tilts his head curiously. "No marriage, so no divorce. No breakup which only leaves…" A notion dawns on him. "Oh."

"Yes."

"Death." Greg speaks calmly, quietly. He starts pacing, looking thoughtful. "But not a family member. A friend, maybe, if you were close enough. Seems unlikely, though."

"Kenneth." I blurt out. "His name was Kenneth. I met him the night we…I mean, the last time I saw you."

Greg's expression changes to something darker, and his eyes shift away. "The guy at the table." He shrugs casually. "I'm not surprised. He was all over you."

I feel a little smile creep onto my face. Greg has no idea. "We were together for almost twenty-five years." I take a deep breath, dreading what I know comes next. "He died almost two months ago. Complications from pancreatic cancer."

Greg presses his lips together, nodding firmly. "No wonder you were interested in Wilson's presentation."

I sigh, staring out into the night. Anything to avoid Greg's probing gaze. "He was ready to die long before I was ready to let him go. I was the one pushing for more treatments, more chemo, more anything that would keep him with me a little longer."

"No matter how much he had to suffer, right?" Greg's tone is almost accusatory.

"Right." I answer softly. "Selfish, I know."

"It is." He agrees, suddenly at my side.

I let out a short laugh. "We had some very interesting conversations while he was doped up. You know, before everything started to shut down." I swallow the lump that's growing in my throat. "I miss him so much."

I lose it then, sobbing almost uncontrollably, almost forgetting Greg is there until I feel a tentative hand on my shoulder. My emotional display has to be awkward for him. I'm not sure why he's still here.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to pull it together enough to explain myself, why I still feel so raw after so long. Except that it really hasn't been that long.

"Sorry." I finally speak when I feel like my voice won't crack with emotion.

"Don't be." He answers softly. "Sounds like things worked out for you. Except for the whole death part."

"It did." I reply. "We had a good life together." I finally decide to ask the question that has been bothering me ever since I first saw him here. "So what about you? I never saw you again after that night."

A soft thumping sound makes me look over, and Greg's head is down, his cane bouncing against the ground. "I had a meeting with the dean that morning. Found out I was getting expelled. That night was going to be my last night with the band. I was going to tell you, but…" He glances over at me. "…it looked like Kenneth already had his claws in you. Figured I didn't need to bother."

"You should have said something." I tell him in an exasperated tone. "I really was trying to dissuade him. It felt…you know, wrong. To let him hit on me when I was sort of with you."

Greg is quiet for a long time before he speaks again. "It wouldn't have mattered."

"Why?"

This time it's Greg that takes the deep breath. "Because you needed someone who would drag you out of the closet and force you to be yourself. I was never going to be that guy."

"You could have been." I insist.

Greg shakes his head. "No, no I wouldn't have."

I have to admit that he's probably right. If it hadn't been for Kenneth, I might not have finally embraced my identity as a gay man. Being with Kenneth was like a full immersion course in gay life and culture. The man had always lived out loud. It was one of the many things I'd admired about him.

We fall into silence again, both of us seemingly lost in our thoughts. Greg is the one who breaks it.

"You remember when I told you there was nothing between us?"

I laugh sharply. "How could I forget?"

He takes a breath, thumping his cane on the ground once before facing me, standing impossibly close. "I lied."

With that he leans in and kisses me. It's chaste, almost sweet, nothing particularly passionate about it at all.

He pulls away as quickly as he leaned in, studying me briefly before nodding firmly, turning back toward the hotel.

It takes a moment for me to register what's just happened. I come to my senses and follow Greg back into the hotel.

"What the hell was that?" I call after him just as he starts to cross the lobby.

He stops mid-stride, turning to face me. "What was what?"

"That." I wave my arm toward the entrance. "Out there. You can't just show up after twenty-five plus years, kiss me, and walk away without an explanation."

Greg frowns at me, crossing back to meet me. "I already told you. I lied. There was…something. I guess I just wanted to find out if it was still there. Judging by your reaction, it isn't." He shrugs, looking away and thumping his cane on the floor. "So I walked away. There's your explanation."

An odd sinking feeling comes over me. The timing is atrocious. Why couldn't he have come clean all those years ago? Better yet, why couldn't he have shown up a few months, a few years from now, when the pain of my loss might have lessened somewhat?

A guilty twinge goes through me at that last thought. The idea of moving on to someone else still pains me. No wonder Greg walked away.

As much as the idea of moving on scares me, the idea of not seeing Greg again scares me more. I'd at least like a chance to catch up with him, to see if the friendship part of things can be salvaged. If I let him go now, I'll never know.

I take a deep breath and hope for the best. "I know it looks like I'm rejecting you."

"It's not that big a deal."

"It is." I insist, reaching out to grab him just before he turns away. "I'm sorry. You just…caught me at a bad time. It's not your fault."

"Fine." He scowls at me, glancing down at my hand on his arm. "You can let go now."

"Sorry." I release him, but before he can limp away, I have to make one more attempt to reconnect with him. "It was good to see you. Really."

He rolls his eyes and starts to limp away, muttering something under his breath as he disappears through the front entrance. I'm quite sure it's nothing complimentary.

I wait until I'm reasonably sure he's long gone before making the same walk out the door myself. The night air is a welcome relief after the brief confrontation in the lobby, and I find myself taking several deep lungfuls.

Finally I walk back to my cabin, flicking on the light and shedding my Miami Vice wannabe costume in favor of an old road race t-shirt and a pair of flannel sleep pants. I'm no sooner settled into bed with a book than I hear a knock at my door.

I pull off my glasses and roll out of bed to answer. I'm certain that whoever is at the door just has the wrong cabin, probably a refugee from the 80s dance.

"Who is it?"

"The Prince Regent." A familiar voice rumbles in reply.

I can't help but laugh a little as I open the door. Greg has changed into a t-shirt and jeans. His body has changed a little with age, but still has that lean look to it, though he's not nearly as gangly as he was when he was a young man.

Who am I kidding? The man looks damn good. I feel like a dumpy old man in comparison.

"So what brings you back here?" I attempt to affect a light tone.

"My roomie's sawing logs in there." Greg answers as he brushes past me on his way in. "I can't hear the dialogue on my pay-per-view porn for all the noise."

I'm not sure if he's kidding or not, but I close the door behind me, suddenly grateful for the company. "Well, you're more than welcome to hang out here, I suppose." I fold my arms over my chest as I study him. "Although I'm surprised you want to after…you know."

Greg rolls his eyes and settles into a chair. "Figured we answered the mutual attraction question. Shouldn't be a problem for two old friends to hang out and shoot the breeze, right?"

"No, of course not." I can't believe how easily the lie slips out.

I mark my place in my book and set it on the bedside table next to my glasses and join Greg in the other chair. An awkward silence falls over us.

"So…" I venture. "You said you're consulting right now?"

"Sort of." Greg seems to squirm uncomfortably. "Like I said, a long story."

"We've got time."

He lets out a short sigh and shakes his head. "You don't really want to hear it. It's kind of a downer compared to your great love story."

"Oh, it wasn't all hearts and flowers, honey." I laugh a little. "In twenty-four years, we had our fair share of arguments."

"And yet you stayed together." Greg looks skeptical. "Why?"

I shrug. "We loved each other enough to work through our difficulties, and trusted each other enough to believe that the other wouldn't run when it got tough. In the long run, it paid off. After a few years, we settled down, bought a house, and became an old married couple."

"Until death did you part." Greg murmurs.

"Yes." I answer softly. "Until death did us part."

We're both silent for a moment until I realize that Greg managed to turn the conversation around to me, and he said nothing about himself. "So, back to your long story?" I prompt.

Greg slumps down a little in his chair, gesturing with his cane. "This is where it all starts."

He goes on to explain his infarction, the resulting muscle death, the missed diagnosis, and on to the Vicodin that was prescribed for short term use that turned into ten years of misuse and abuse. It's almost clinical, detached, as if it happened to someone else.

His fellow's death from a self-inflicted gunshot wound threw him into a tailspin, the beginning of the end, he calls it. "I wasn't sleeping, so I started taking sleeping pills. Mixing that with the Vicodin was stupid, I know that, but I was in so deep I had no idea how far gone I was. I started hallucinating, and went as far as deluding myself into thinking I had a wild night of hot sex with my boss after a miracle overnight detox."

"Greg." I'm stunned by his story. "My God."

"Yeah." Greg glances down at the floor, tapping his cane between his legs. "Of course, if you saw her you'd understand. She's pretty hot."

"I have seen her." I point out. "Jennifer Beals, remember?"

"I rest my case." He gestures expansively.

I laugh and shake my head. "So you obviously got clean."

"Right." Greg nods affirmatively. "Took eight weeks in a mental hospital to do it. According to the shrink, I had 'other issues'. Anyway, point is, I'm not practicing medicine right now. They tend to frown upon that whole practicing without a license thing. So I consult within the department I head up."

"You're not going to permanently lose your license, are you?"

"No. Just have a shitload of hoops to jump through." Greg glances up at me. "It sounds worse than it really is."

"I suppose you're right." I rise from the chair. "Do you want something to drink? I mean, are you allowed to have alcohol?"

"Of course I'm allowed." He snaps. "I'm still a grown-up."

I take a couple of beers from the six-pack in the mini fridge and hand one to Greg. Now that we've gotten over what seems to be the most awkward part of the evening, the conversation starts to flow fairly smoothly between us, and it's almost like old times.

By the time we've split the six-pack between us, I feel much more relaxed. Greg appears to feel the same way, sitting across from me with his legs splayed out in front of him, slumped slightly in the chair, a lazy smile on his face. I'm sorely tempted to close the distance between us, to wrap my arms around him and plant a kiss on that beautiful, timeworn face of his.

I shake off the idea. We're a pair of middle-aged men. Even if I were to initiate something, the chances of either one of us getting to the finish line is minimal at best. Besides, for all I know, there's a wife or girlfriend hiding somewhere, though he'd made no mention of one, and he doesn't wear a ring.

Instead I rise and stretch, cleaning up the beer bottles and tossing them in a nearby trash can. "I suppose I should kick you out. It's late."

"Guess you're right." Greg pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he lumbers toward the door.

The question still lingers in my mind, and for some reason I must get an answer. "Greg, are you…seeing someone?"

He looks confused. "Why would you ask that?"

"I don't know." I shake my head, baffled at my own curiosity.

He stops in the middle of the room, turning to meet me in the middle of the room. "There was someone I thought I wanted, but I know better now. Who in their right mind would screw around with their boss?"

"Right." I laugh nervously.

"Then there was someone else." He tells me softly. "This guy I knew back in med school."

"Is that right?" I decide to follow Greg down this road. Alcohol has a way of making people express themselves in a way they wouldn't otherwise.

"That's right." He continues. "We had a pretty good thing going until I fucked it up. He ended up running off with someone else for the next twenty-five years."

"Tell me more." We've drifted closer, and we're nearly nose to nose. I could kiss him right now if I wanted to, and I definitely want to.

"I ran into him at this medical conference." Greg tells me. "Turns out he's a free man, except that he's still grieving his dead boyfriend. And wouldn't you know it, I'm fresh out of the loony bin after getting so high on Vicodin I deluded having sex with my boss."

"You two sound like quite a pair."

"We are. Or, we were." His arms slip around me, and his cane presses against my back.

I embrace him in return, his body equal parts soft and firm against mine, our lips mere millimeters apart, so close I can feel the warm breath puff out of his mouth. "Maybe we…I mean, you two can be that pair again."

"Only one way to find out." Greg closes the short distance between us, his lips pressing firmly against mine, his tongue grazing, pushing, seeking entrance.

I let him in. Of course I let him in. How could I possibly resist? I can't. Or I don't want to resist. I'm not entirely sure which it is.

His cane drops to the floor, and I nearly stumble over it as he pushes me back to the bed, our tongues fighting for dominance while we land on the mattress, hands finding their way under shirts, smoothing over rough hair and soft skin.

A voice scolds me in the back of my head. Kenneth is barely cold in the grave, and I'm making out in a hotel room with someone who barely qualifies as an ex. It's pathetic.

I break off the kiss and pull back, lying across the bed. Greg regards me with a puzzled look. "What the hell?"

"You should go." I tell him firmly, staring up at the ceiling.

"I don't fucking believe this." Greg grumbles, pushing himself off the bed.

"Sorry." I answer softly. "It just…doesn't feel right. Not yet."

Greg mutters something else and slams the door behind him. The room is deathly quiet now, and I feel Kenneth's loss more profoundly than ever.

As I turn out the light and slip under the covers, I can't help but wonder if I made the right decision. Which then leads me to wonder if it will ever feel right to be in another man's arms, and if perhaps I've missed an opportunity to find out.

I sigh heavily and close my eyes, willing sleep to come. One thing is for sure. That man will never be Gregory House. Maybe I won't send my CV to Princeton-Plainsboro after all. At least in Ann Arbor I'm almost guaranteed to never see Greg again. It's a small comfort, to be sure, but it's something. For now, I'll take it.

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