Upstairs in the Lightwave office, Michael struggled to open a window, was about to whack it with a hand when Justin’s  “Hey, Michael,” made him turn.

“I thought you had a presentation.”

“This afternoon,” Justin moved closer, set a large brown envelope on his desk,  “Any word on how it started yet?” pushed on one side of the casement while Michael budged the other.

“They traced the origin to the racks where the kids were, and they found the kids,” he grunted a push; Justin pressed; the window swung open.  “Thanks,” Michael brushed off his hands.  “I didn’t think Brian was too keen on this place BEFORE. And now -”

“I’m not sure WHAT Brian’s thinking anymore,” Justin sat on his desk, festering concern hitting surface.  “He made out a Will.  Like he may not be around long.”      

When initial shock gave way to what he knew about Brian, Michael pondered how distant Brian suddenly seemed.  How far he was willing to go -  “To YOU?”

“Yeah,” Justin blew it off, “But he doesn’t owe me anything. You have to tell me if you know,” he stared solid, “Is he in some kind of serious trouble?”

“You’re the genius and you haven’t figured it out?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, “He just told you he’s planning you for the long haul…and longer.”

Justin stared, recalling Brian’s words from a new perspective without conventional screens, without the anxiety they generated.  Fuck.  “I…fuck,” Justin ran a hand through his hair.

“Don’t thank me,” Michael moved to the next window, “It took me all your lifetime to guess him right even ten percent of the time.”  He glanced out the window, saw two Gray Suits with a briefcases duck under barrier tape and head for the door.  “Then again, that’s the least of my worries.  Looks like the Inspector and a claims adjustor twelve-o’clock high and closing.”  He started for the stairway but Justin stood and intercepted.

“Michael?” he held out the envelope.  “Here.”

Michael quizzed brows, took the offer and pulled out Rage Volume One, brushed his fingers over it and swallowed.

Justin shrugged, “I know it’s the SECOND one out of the box, but -”

“For inside information on Brian?” Michael looked skeptical.

“No!” Justin blasted, calmed.  Why WOULD you think I’d give you anything.  “No.  It was the main reason I stopped back…because I thought YOU should have it.”

Seeing Justin’s sincerity, Michael tried to return it but Justin shook a no. “I can’t take this.  It’s just as important to you.”  Why would you give this to ME.

“It was my lucky break,” Justin smiled, “But the dream was always YOURS.  Keep it, or I’ll leave it somewhere in the racks and you’ll go crazy tearing them apart to find it.”

“How to drive Mikey insane,” Michael snorted through a smile.  “So Brian’s telling you all my secrets, too.”

“No,” Justin assured, “He keeps a lock on a lot of stuff.  But I guess if he really wants me to know something, I’ll know.”

Michael re-enveloped Rage, lightly rapped it on Justin’s arm with. “Thanks.”  If Brian ever got one lucky break in his fucked up life, I never guessed it would be you.  Or that I’d ever find myself glad about it, sometimes despite myself.

Justin watched him turn and hurry down the stairs.  You don’t have to downplay yourself to me.  I know what you and Brian have is a special connection I don’t.  But I’m past being threatened by you, Michael.  And because you’ll always be important to HIM, I can care about you…more than I thought I ever could.

Justin took a last look out the open window then left through the rear fire door.

In WaveLight’s CEO office, on opposite sides of the desk, Rheinholdt and Brian stood like thunderheads ready to arc lightning.

“So what are you saying, Klaus?”

“If Bernie King hadn’t had the quick presence of mind -”

Brian grinned aside, “He was probably planning it for months.”

“- to notify Microburst that Lightwave’s location was only temporary, they might not have rescheduled the presentation.”

“So he LIED to them?”

“No,” Rheinholdt gruffly stated, “Bernie submitted a proposal concerning Lightwave and I’m convinced it’s the direction I need to go.  To keep the image upscale, the way it was intended, not above a comic book shop.”

“Did I miss that meeting?” Brian grit through a smile.

Rheinholdt continued like a speaker ignoring unruly students in an auditorium. “Effective next Monday, Lightwave will operate from Bernie King’s office.”

“I’m sure we could all share one desk comfortably.”

“Also effective Monday, I’m promoting Bernie to Manager of Lightwave.”

Brian blinked down, recovered, “Does that make me Vice-President?” knowing what was coming.

“Brian,” Rheinholdt leaned on stiff arms, square tone, “Your ideas are clever and successful, but always on the edge of risk.  You’re a maverick.  Not a team player.  That’s not the way I run this Company.  So I’m giving you the option to resign.”

“Option?  As opposed to firing me?” Brian stayed cool, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to fire me and go through the expensive legal process of a wrongful discharge lawsuit,” he watched Rheinholdt’s jaw tense, “Or maybe you would consider a THIRD option.”

Rheinholdt stood straight up.  Suspicious but ready to listen. 

The Loft was empty when Brian drifted inside.  He expected it.  Justin had work to finish.  He himself had to start all over again.  With a grim face, heavy sigh and equally heavy steps up to the bedroom, he stripped off his tie, jacket, went to the closet to hang it and noticed Justin’s open bottom drawer. 

He sat on the bed, kicked off his shoes and studied Justin’s topless shoebox.  Locking sandwich bags lined like files.  He lifted out a plastic bag with a stapled post note: Vic’s Glass.  Glass? he shook the bag of pulverized crystals.  Another bag marked: Bird of Paradise contained pieces of flat, dried flower.

Justin breezed in and ran up the stairs so fast, he got Brian’s startled eyes.  “Brian!  What’re you DOING here?” he hurried to the closet for a sport jacket.  “You’re supposed to be at WaveLight for the presentation.”  He abruptly stopped when he saw the bag in Brian’s hand, felt a little invaded, a little defensive, “That’s mine.”

Brian replaced the packet.  “I wasn’t looking.  It was open.”

“Yeah, well…” Justin toed the drawer shut, “I took something out…forgot to close it.”  Then he went back to the closet, mumbled,  “I suppose you’ll have some crack about a Lezzy fetish.”

“What a great idea!” Brian stood and closed on Justin, set his hands on Justin’s hips.  “Then YOU could knock my shell bracelet, and we could solve it all by giving up anything of personal value.”

Justin stopped, exhaled a breath, slowly turned.  “You don’t think it’s silly sentimental?”

“It’s not exactly MY speed, but…I think it’s…sweet.”  Did I dodge that fucking bullet?

“Sweet?” Justin parked a hand on his hip, “It HAS a purpose.  I was thinking of doing a painting for us.  ABOUT us,” then looked off, faltering at the thought Brian would find it ridiculous.  “I was gonna mix the pieces with the paint.  That way…” he turned back to the closet, “Forget it.”

Brian grabbed Justin’s shoulders and bent toward his ear.  “I’m an expert at stirring up shit.  Just let me know when you want to start.”

Justin nuzzled his head against Brian’s cheek, had to smile.  You still manage to amaze me.  “It’s a deal, Mixmaster.  Now if we don’t get moving, we’ll be late.”

Brian’s hold went stiff, eyes to nowhere in the closet.  “Microburst cancelled.”

“What?” Justin spun around.  “When did THAT happen?”

“I guess our fiery logo on the evening news didn’t make a good impression,” Brian’s forced smile didn’t stop Justin’s sunken stare.  “Rheinholdt decided to move Lightwave to Bernie King’s office and…appoint him the new manager.”

“He can’t DO that,” Justin fired.

“He CAN, and effective Monday, it’s done.  I had the option to resign or be fired -”

“Fucking ASSHOLE!  After all you did -” Justin passed Brian and sat hard on the bed.

“- so I appealed to his dollar sense,” Brian joined him. “I bought out my contract.  That way, I can still work in Pittsburgh,” he hung an arm around Justin’s shoulders and rubbed his arm.

“How much did it cost?”

Brian looked off with a nonchalant shrug, “The bonus cuts from all the accounts, plus salary still due…and a signed agreement not to steal any of the clients I brought in,” Brian snorted, “Which means shit because after Bernie King gets through with them, they’ll be begging me to take them back.”

“All your bonus cuts and salary?” Justin’s jaw dropped, “That means you’re right back where -”

“It means a new starting point,” Brian raised a smile, “But you’ll be all right.  Rheinholdt likes your work, and you won’t let Ruder fuck with you.”  Brian kissed Justin’s lips, got little response.  “Despite its blissful beginnings, the divorce was inevitable.  It’s time to move on.”

Justin did an emphatic nod.  “Only YOU could turn getting fired into a controlled philosophical experience,” Justin eyed him. “Rheinholdt threw a hissy and you fucking GAVE UP!” he bolted off the bed, headed for the kitchen.

Brian winced from the smart, trailed after and stood in the doorway, freezing Justin with, “Going out on top and rolling over are two different things.  Now what’s the REAL issue?” he stepped down slowly, “Do you think I sold out on you?  That I should have conjured some last minute miracle to make it work?” met Justin’s flat stare and edged closer, “Like I should have done after Hobbs got off?”

Direct hit, Justin jet a breath, looked down and rubbed his temple.  “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” thin and shaky despite resolve to sound convinced.  Shit.  “Yeah.  I AM mad about that,” he forcefully admitted, “Because I know how you do things…for people you care about…and I didn’t see that happen…when it came to ME.”

Brian looked off pained, raised and flopped an arm at his side.  “I…never held you to the same standard as other people.  The truth is, I filed it away as one of life’s fucked up lessons…that dragging it out and keeping it fresh would only stop you from getting past it.”  He looked off and snorted, “So much for back room psychology,” stepped close and cupped Justin’s shoulders with stretched-out hands.  “I can’t go back.  And even if I could, I don’t know if I would have done things any differently.”  He closed in, voice fading, “But here and now…all I can say is…if I didn’t give you what you needed at the time,” he circled his arms around Justin, pulled him close and whispered into his ear, “I’m sorry.”

Justin closed his eyes, ran his hands up Brian’s back and hugged.  “You told me sorry’s bullshit.”

“Not THIS time,” Brian kissed Justin’s neck,  “As for Lightwave -”

“I told you in Hilo – I don’t expect you to talk to me about every decision you have to make for yourself…as long as you let me know what’s going on, so I can make my OWN decision on how to handle it,” wrinkled his nose to curb the angst, “Even if it means queening out occasionally.”

Brian framed Justin’s face in his hands, studied his eyes - You ARE a standard of your own – dipped his head for a kiss.

The doorbell razzed.  Halting them an inch apart.

“Want me to get that?” Justin breathed out.

Brian changed the kiss to a light peck and headed for the door com, “It can’t be a bill collector.  News of my status hasn’t hit the streets yet,” pressed the button.  “Door’s broken.  If you’re nine or over -”

“Is that years or inches?” Michael’s voice tinned back.

“Or less…”

“Fuck you.”

“…come on up.”

“What’s Michael doing here?” Justin questioned on his way to the kitchen.

“Soliciting a cleaning crew,” Brian yanked open the door, saw Michael trudge up the stairs and looking like Ben left him.  “YOU look like shit,” Brian straight-faced.

“You would, TOO if your business almost burned down, then you had to press charges against two scared, dumb kids,” Michael shook his head, walked right past Brian and into the Loft.

“Hey,” Justin yelled from the kitchen, “Want some coffee?” fished an extra cup from a cabinet and poured.

“I’m not staying long,” Michael shook his head leaned against the counter.  “It’s just…well…since you knew each other…” his eyes followed Brian behind the counter toward Justin, “I thought it’d be better if I stopped out instead of calling.”

“Knew WHO?” Brian dumped sugar into his cup and stirred.

“The Fire Inspector went out to Turner’s ranch to question him yesterday, but he never got the chance.  Scott Turner’s dead.”

“What?” Justin clinked his cup down, coffee spilling.

Brian dropped the spoon into his cup, pinched the bridge of his nose like he had an instant headache.  I might as well put a gun to my head.  Fucking back room psychology.  Why the FUCK didn’t I LISTEN.  “How.”

“He didn’t show up for work this morning, so a couple of his crew went out to his place and found him.” Michael saw Brian’s face drain, went on, “From what they saw, he must’ve been up working on an electric pole and fell.  He was always a stickler for not working alone and his men couldn’t figure out why he got careless.”

“Must’ve been something on his mind,” Brian numbly answered. 

“Anyway…he hit a branch.  Broke off…pierced his heart.  They said he died instantly.”

“Eleven seconds,” Justin whispered, eyes glazing.

“What?” Michael stared.

Justin cleared his throat.  “Something I heard in the hospital,” he feebly shrugged.  “The brain has its own reserve blood supply…so even after the heart stops…the brain can still function for up to eleven seconds.”

Mortified, Michael stood up.  “I…uh…gotta get back to the shop.  Just thought you should know.”  And he walked to the door, Brian trailing, opened it to let himself out.

“Thanks,” Brian nodded, got a sad flicker of a return smile, watched Michael scamper down the stairs then slammed the door so hard it shook.  Shut his eyes a moment to recompose before returning to Justin, dazed and bent over the counter, cheek on his crossed arms.  Like he was someplace dark and secluded.

Brian, hesitant at first, set a hand on his back, slowly skimmed it across his shoulders.

“I don’t know what anybody could think about in eleven seconds,” Justin edged out.  “Because I can’t remember.  But I know I’ve been there.”

Brian’s skin prickled, he grabbed Justin tightly around the waist and buried his face over his shoulder.  All the shit you keep inside.  All the fucking shit.  Did I really stop you so you could get over it?  Or because I didn’t want to hear it.  I want to know now.  “Anything.  Everything you can remember.  I want to hear it.  Anytime.” I’ll never let you be alone in that again.

The next few hours passed with few words.  They shared a couple drinks, showered together without antics and barbs, cuddled fully dressed on the bed until Brian got restless and rolled out, slipped on shoes.

“Where are you going?” Justin ventured.  The Baths?  Back room?

“A little office work,” Brian said low.  Life goes on.

Justin craned to see Brian at his desk.  Saw him open a file drawer, stop and stare.  Just stare.   So he got up and into sneakers, went over to investigate, leaned on the desk and watched Brian’s brows knit over an unmarked folder.  “Want me to fix you a sandwich?”

“Later,” Brian opened the folder, drummed his fingers on a plain envelope.  Decision made, he snapped up the envelope, closed the folder and shut it away, stood up and gave Justin a quick kiss over the desk.  “I’m taking a ride to Scott’s.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Justin grimaced.  Walking through a ghost town.

“We had a deal,” was all Brian said as he rounded the desk for the door.

“I’m going with you,” Justin grabbed his arm, recognized the anguished look.  “I can handle it.”  And I won’t let you do that alone.

Brian sucked in his bottom lip, considered Justin’s stoic eyes.  “Come on.”

Scott’s place.  Still light at 5 PM in late summer’s lower sun.

First to enter, Brian stood motionless in the doorway.  Behind him, Justin squeezed a shoulder past his, looked at his eyes, “What’s wrong?” and panned the room.  “jesus.”

Brian walked in slowly with Justin on his arm, both shocked by the emptiness.  Indents in the carpet replaced the leather furniture.  The built-in entertainment center was gutted to bare shelves.  The living room desk remained without its computer system, file drawers partially open.  “Scott’s family must be very happy that he returned everything he borrowed before he died.”

Justin glanced at Brian’s face of stone-masked simmer.  “Looks like they took everything valuable,” he paced with Brian to the stairway.

“Not everything,” Brian stopped at the showcase in the wall beside the stairs.  Scott’s climbing trophies, recognition plaques and awards sat undisturbed.  “Come on.”  He looked up and saw the balcony, all the French doors open, grasped the railing and started up.  Saw…

Scott ahead of him, unbuttoning his shirt as he climbed, turned back with that cocky grin,  “Enjoying the view?  It only gets better,” as he whipped off his shirt and flung it to land on Brian’s face, momentarily blinding him, until Brian pulled it off to see…

An empty stairway.

Justin saw Brian stall, grabbed his hand.  “What is it?”

Brian smiled back, squeezed, “Nothing,” and held on.  Across the balcony, through the doorway to Scott’s bedroom where they stopped inside the door.  Bedding strewn, mirrored lamps gone, drawers open, but basically intact.  “I guess the truck ran out of room.”

“You think they’ll be back?” Justin looked around as Brian towed him to the dresser.

“I’m sure Scott’ll return this bedroom set.  It’s solid oak.”  He released Justin’s hand, saw open drawers of tee shirts, underwear.  One filled with sex toys made him grin, imagining the looks from those who found them first.  Wedged on the side was a bulky brown envelope.  Curious, Brian pulled it out.

Justin opened a patio door, stepped outside and leaned on the rail.  Looked at the lake, the trees.  An artist’s dream.  Then he turned his head and sucked a breath, heart jumping when he saw Scott on the railing beside him, eyes on him, smile, hair tousling in the breeze.  A blink, and it was Brian.  “Oh god.  You scared me.”

“I wasn’t sure where you went.” Brian wrapped an arm around Justin, kissed his hair.

“What’s that?” Justin spied the envelope in Brian’s other hand.

“It was in the toy drawer.  I doubt anyone touched it,” Brian took Justin’s hand and led him back inside then sat on the bed and dumped the contents.  A worn folded yellow paper, olive pit rosary, airline ticket wallet - a photo.

Justin eyed the items. “What IS that stuff?  I never pictured Scott as sentimental.”

“He wasn’t.”  Brian took and studied the half-shot of a young priest in black with that white telltale collar - sub-par looks with his short blond hair, thin face and dark horn-rimmed glasses.  And Scott in a blue graduation gown, with the same smile that in later life became his bedroom draw.  Close, faces almost touching.

Justin picked up the ticket wallet, climbed onto the bed, knelt behind Brian and looked over his shoulder. “High school?”

Brian turned the photo over and they both silently read a date. “Grade school.”

“Who would keep a grade school picture?  With a PRIEST in it.”

“Maybe someone with a secret, who found someone else to let him know it was okay.”

Justin opened the wallet, saw a post-it on the inside cover, bit his bottom lip.  “I think it was a little more than that. Listen to this. ‘I’ve been asked to leave the Order and I have to go away.  If you come, I’ll be there.  If not, I’ll understand.  Father S’.”  He handed it over Brian’s shoulder.  “That must be Father S.”

Brian read the post-it, looked at the photo, pulled the aged airline ticket.  “It’s a one-way to San Francisco.”

“Look at the date.  He was seventeen.”

“I always thought he learned about sex in a hay loft,” came out more grim than light.

“He didn’t go.  But he kept all this,” Justin looked over the items beside them.  “He should have gone.”

Brian stared at the ticket, “Turners are a high-power family.  There’s no telling what they might have done.  Scott probably knew that,” then quietly surmised, “Or maybe he just made a choice between two Fathers.”

“It’s a mistake,” Justin stared off.  “Thinking that the first one is just the first, and you’ll meet the right one later on.  Maybe it happens that way for a lot of people.  But sometimes, the first time…you just know.”  He slid his arms down Brian’s chest, leaned on his back and pressed a cheek to his hair.  “I’m glad I didn’t let you go.  Because I’m pretty sure that if I did, I’d spend the rest of my life looking for you in some way.”

Brian swallowed, caressed Justin’s hands locked on his chest then gripped them tight, gut twisting with thoughts of a near miss.  I’m glad you hung on.  I would have let you go.  Back then.  Brian stared at the note, lightly stroked Justin’s hands.  I won’t fuck with the way you want to see this, Justin, because that’s special about you.  But this wasn’t a love note.  It was an offer of a way out.

The sound of a car and thudding slam came through the open patio door.

“Somebody’s here,” Justin bolted off the bed and headed over to check.

Brian stopped him with, “Let’s head ‘em off at the pass.” He stood, eyed Scott’s memoirs.  Quick decision, he gathered them back into the envelope and slid it into his open shirt.  This is none of their fucking business.

Justin caught up to Brian rumbling down the stairs and they hit bottom just as Dave came through the front door.

“Kinney?  What’re YOU doing here?” Dave’s plastic smile hardly covered his ire.

“Scott left me a key to check up on things once in awhile,” Brian looked around.  “Shouldn’t we call the cops?  I think he’s been fucking robbed,” eyes convincingly wide over drilling accusation.

Dave faltered to friendly, “We had to protect his assets.  He would have wanted that,” changed the subject, “And it’s good to know he has friends looking out for him, but…” he nodded like a true-heart brother, “We’ll take care of it.”

“That’s very loving,” Brian crossed his arms, leaned on the showcase frame with Justin one step up behind him and chomping back his spit.  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Buying the surface and greasing his own agenda, Dave stepped closer.  “We’re having a private Requiem Mass on Saturday.  You’re welcomed to say a few words if you want.”

“Your parents never met me.  Are you sure they won’t mind?”

“Mom and Dad are on a bridge project in Africa.  There’s some political issue and they can’t leave right now.”

Justin spouted, “They’re not coming to their own son’s funeral?”  He blinked at Dave’s something-wrong-with-that? eyes, exhaled disgust aside and turned back when Brian lightly bat his chest.

“It’s business,” Brian raised a brow at Justin, hinted cool down, I’m getting there.  “Losing a big deal won’t help matters.”  They’d sooner put guns to their heads.

“That’s exactly how we all see it,” Dave justified.  “Why don’t you go ahead and leave.  I’ve got everything under control.”

“Thanks,” Brian nodded, “But YOU’RE the one leaving.”  He straightened, felt Justin go supportive rigid behind him.

Dave’s smile flattened. “Whaddya mean by that?”

“If Scott left a Will, you wouldn’t be worrying about probate or scrounging around here to find it.  But he DID leave a valid, detailed sales contract.  I own this ranch and everything IN it, and I’m sure you know that.  So you’d better get it all back where it belongs before I have the fucking Sheriff pick it up FOR me.”

Dave’s jaw grit, eyes blazed.  “Don’t be so sure.  Do you really think the courts will recognize that deal?  With a nobody he met at a BAR?  Scott was too sharp for that.  I don’t know what kinda drink you slipped him to suck him into selling a one point two mil estate -”

“Nice round guess.”

“- for a hundred dollars, but I know ONE thing.  His attorney smelled something wrong and held off recording it to give Scott his three-day window to think it over.”

Justin shot back, “They had a deal.”

“Then TAKE it to court,” Dave slung.  “I’ll guarantee you, I’ll have the backing, money and time to fight this out for as long as it takes.  We Turners take care of our own.  And I won’t let Scott’s life’s work go for nothing.”

“So that’s why these are still here?” Brian tapped the display case.  “Surely there’s some Turner Hall Of Fame for Scott’s.  Life’s.  Work,” he snarled, glanced at the living room and saw a fireplace he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Get outta here now,” Dave growled.

With Justin following, Brian, stormed across the living room to the fireplace, reached up and yanked Justin’s painting off the wall.

“Hey!” Dave thumped after them while pulling his cell phone, “You can’t touch anything in here.” He opened the phone, keyed a number.  “Jerry?  Put Glen on.”

“It was on loan,” Brian snapped as he hooked it under his arm and strode to the door, Justin close behind.  Fuck you.  FUCK you!

Dave answered the phone, “Glen…send a couple officers.  We got a problem at Scott’s.  Hold on a minute,” then yelled, “Put that back!” as Brian disappeared out the door.

Justin stopped and turned, “Is YOUR name on it?  Because mine IS.  Justin Taylor?” he watched Dave hiss, “Disregard” and shut the phone.  “The one who did the painting in your office.  And you know what?  The guys WERE right.  You ARE a fucking twat!”   He thundered out and slammed the door.

The Honda took off down the drive, Brian and Justin staring ahead in grim silence until Justin slapped the dash.

“How can people BE like that.”

“It happens every day.”

Justin pulled his cell phone, quickly dialed a number.

Brian side glanced, “Who are you calling?”

“Mel.”

“For what?”

“You still have a copy of that contract.  If we hurry up, we can file it ourselves.”

Brian stopped the car, whipped the cell from Justin’s hand, closed it and tossed it on the dash.  “It’s too late for that.”

“It’s not too late,” Justin glared, “You mean, you’re not gonna do ANYTHING?” saw Brian exhale at the steering wheel then looked away.  “I can’t believe this.”

“Justin -”

“I mean, YOU.  Of all people.  You’ve always got a plan -”

“Justin -”

“- and you dazzle big money clients every -”

“Justin,” Brian grabbed his shoulder and moved into his face.  “We can’t win this.”

“Not if we don’t even TRY.  If we just call Mel, I’m sure -”

“WE CAN’T WIN THIS,” Brian shouted.  “With all the money involved -” 

“FUCK the money!” Justin thud his back to the seat, closed his eyes.  “It just seems so wrong.  It’s not what Scott wanted.”

Brian drifted his hand to Justin’s arm, “I thought you didn’t like Scott.”

“That was before…before I knew we had something in common.  I wish he didn’t have to lose everything to THEM,” Justin palmed his temple like he was fighting a headache.  “I’m tired of it.  Fucking TIRED of the bad guys getting away with shit.”

“Welcome to the real world.”

“So that’s it?” Justin seethed, “We give up?”

Brian exhaled long, squeezed Justin’s arm.  “Sometimes you have to define your battles not by what you’re fighting AGAINST, but what you’re fighting FOR.  There’s one piece they won’t get,” saw Justin’s questioning look then twisted to view the sunset painting angled in the back seat.  “You captured what meant a lot to him.  That’s all he had, and all he really didn’t want to lose.”

With Justin quietly pondering, Brian hit the gearshift and drove away from the ranch for the last time.

“It’s a little late for a picnic,” Justin tried to quip as he and Brian hiked past a deserted park shelter, down a hill to a narrow overgrown path into the woods.

“Ever skip stones on a stream?” Brian glanced back, blazing the trail and holding low branches from snapping back against Justin.

“The only thing I ever skipped was gym class once in awhile.  It was a little deflating to be one of the last picked for a team,” Justin brushed a snagging briar off one leg.

“The smart ones usually were.”

“And the gay ones.”

“Not the smart gay ones who knew how to play the game.”

They cleared the woods onto the stony remains of a long-gone railroad track, passed a weathered DANGER KEEP OUT sign until Brian stopped at the stream, looked both ways at two phone poles…wires gone, foot pegs missing…but still standing.  He picked up a flat shale rock, flung it spinning so that it skipped off the surface a couple times before it plunked and sank.

Justin tried a piece, “I think it sucks.  His parents not coming,” hurled it out, watched it arc and plop close to shore.

“I saw his father once,” Brian’s eyes darted to the pole, “And I remember walking away wishing MY father could be like that,” he snatched another stone, “You know what they say about grass…” He pursed his lips, flung hard.  The stone skipped center stream, bounced high and cracked against a rock on the other side.

Determined, Justin tried again with the same dismal result.

“Here,” Brian selected a rock, placed it in Justin’s right hand.  “You have to put a spin on it.  Like a discus.  Snap it from the…wrist…” Brian trailed off realizing Justin’s limits.

So Justin picked up a large round rock in his left hand, underhanded it high and smiled when its noisy splash sent ripples across the surface.  “I think I’d rather do it like this,” and handed back the shale.  “You can do the spinning.  I’ll just make the waves.”

Brian gazed with deep feeling.  “One of the last things Scott said to me was, I didn’t know how lucky I was to have someone.  He was right.”

“Wrong,” Justin picked a large stone.  “It’s not luck.  It’s a lot of constant work.” He threw the rock to splash and plume.

“A little bit of both,” Brian lunged, flung the shale low so it kissed the tops of two ripples.  Then he turned to Justin.  “Does it always seem like work?”

Justin answered soft and serious, “Not when you love what you do,” and closed in for a kiss.  If you need the reassurance, take it.  I can always make more.

Brian held him tight, caressed his neck and spread fingers through his hair, held the back of his head.  And they stayed locked until sporadic high-pitched buzzing made them part.  “The joy of the great outdoors,” Brian whisked a hand over his face.

“I think we’re under attack,” Justin swatted his neck.  “Run for it?”

Brian dashed for the woods, Justin close behind.  They didn’t stop until they reached the car then darted in and sat back panting.

“Why did you wanna stop here?” Justin blew a breath.

Brian started the car, glanced at the brown envelope in the door pocket.  “Pain management.”  I couldn’t keep the deal.  But I’ll think of something else.

Next morning outside the Comic Shop... 

Brian stopped to admire the plywood window stapled with colorful posters along with Michael’s own sense of humor – a large white poster hand-lettered with a flaming: Fire Sale.

Doorbell ringing, Michael turned from the sparsely stocked racks, saw Brian look around and wrinkle his nose.  “My first customer!” Michael strolled over.

“What’s still burning?”

“Ben thought sandalwood incense would improve the atmosphere.”

“Hasn’t he ever heard of apple pie candles?”

“Burnt apple pie.  Reminds me of my Mom,” Michael pecked a platonic kiss.  “What are you doing here so early?”

“I came to give you this…help with the recovery effort,” Brian pulled a folded check from his jeans, handed it over. “And to scrape Lightwave off the window.”

“The good news is the insurance company is covering most of it.  The bad news is when,” Michael read.  “A whole year’s lease payment?  And what’s wrong with the sign?”

“I don’t own the rights to the name, and since I’ve opted for other employment -”

“Yeah?” Michael smiled, “Where?”

“I’m not sure yet, but Justin will probably still work upstairs until the lease runs out.”

“Don’t give me that flip shit,” Michael darkened.  “What the fuck happened?”

“Moving ahead,” Brian slapped Michael’s arm, turned and looked around, “Things are looking better,” headed for the stairs.

“Hey,” Michael stopped him.  “Wanna grab lunch at the Diner?”  You don’t fool me.  You’re out of work again, and I’ll be there if you need me.

“Make it dinner.  I have some things to do,” Brian tossed a grin and jogged up the steps.  Been here, done this.  More than once.  Only this time, my terms.

At WaveLight Graphics…

Justin spread completed Microburst mounts across a table, cornered a wary eye on Ruder who said little but periodically shadowed him.

“Is there a problem with these?” Justin asked.

“Not at all,” Ruder stepped away with a crusty, “If you really want to GO with that.”

Justin stacked the boards, clamped them under an arm and started for the door until Ruder stopped him.

“Where are you taking those?”

“The presentation?  It’s in twenty minutes.”

“Let me remind you, you’re not an Art Director anymore,” Ruder smiled sweet venom, stepped up and calmly removed the boards from Justin’s arm.  “And you needn’t worry about your work.  Bernie and I ARE professionals.”  And he whisked out the door.

Justin looked over the crew of middle-aged faces and got one Granny’s kind, “He’s always like that.  You’ll get used to it.  After awhile, you’ll fit right in,” she smiled to her co-artist, “Isn’t that right, Madge?” then back to Justin, “You do such lovely work.”

He smiled a stiff, “Thanks,” rolled his lips in, turned and walked out.

At the Bank…

Brian smiled at the brochure-sized folder in his hand and titled simply, Will.  He unlocked the safe deposit box, opened it and gazed at the copy of their contract.  One more month and they could send for official registry.  AFTER consulting with Justin.  A tricky edge to walk in partnership…when to act alone, when to act together.

Brian lifted the contract to slide the Will under it, but it caught against something.  Probably Gus’s trust fund packet.  He lifted out the contract to reorganize.  There beneath it, was an identical folder marked Will.

Setting his papers on the ledge, Brian lifted out the other Will.  Opened it and read only a few lines before he closed it and set it back, blinked to clear his eyes.  It was easy for me to do this.  But…fuck…it had to be hell for you.  And you did it anyway.

Brian laid his copy on Justin’s, replaced the contract, locked the box and quickly hurried out before the urge to call Justin overtook reason.

Later at the Diner…

Brian came an hour early just to sit and think.  He was staring at a menu, not really reading it when Justin’s sprite voice interrupted.

“Get you anything, sir?”

Amused, Brian expected him to sit down until the apron and check pad in Justin’s hand said it was no joke.  “If you start moonlighting, when will we have time to fuck?”

“I’m not at Lightwave anymore,” he said all serious.  “I tried to buy my own contract out with the eight-thousand left from school, but Rheinholdt wouldn’t hear it.  So I quit,” he lightly shrugged.

“Just like that?” Brian felt a twinge.  Because of ME?  “What happened to building your reputation?  Clearing your record from the school deal?”

Justin leaned on outstretched arms, face close to Brian’s.  “I could’ve done that…spent years pretending I was satisfied and convincing myself it would somehow be worth it.  But I won’t waste my time and talent.  Or get out of bed miserable every day because I know I’m headed nowhere.  That’s NOT worth it, and I know you understand.”  Justin closed into a lengthy kiss, felt Brian’s hand pull on the back of his neck.

Kiki’s passing snap at Brian broke it off. “Hey.  No hitting on the help.”

Justin smiled, “I’d rather sling dinner slop HERE, than eat shit at WaveLight.”

“Coffee.  Black.”  Brian nodded.  I understand.  Perfectly.

Evening at the Loft.  In the cyclic response to change, euphoric optimism often gave way to hard reality, and that’s where they were – side by side in bed under a sheet with two days of anxiety bearing down.

“It’s getting late for Babylon. You’ll have to hit the Baths,” Justin reminded.

“And leave the best part at home?  Besides, it’s more appropriate that Lightwave’s creators mourn its loss together.”

“I’ll miss that,” Justin looked at Brian.  “We were a great team.”

“We still ARE,” Brian kissed his cheek.

Justin rolled against Brian, head on his shoulder, arm around his chest, one leg hooked across both of Brian’s.  “Scott’s funeral is tomorrow.  We should go.”

“What for?  So we can hobnob with backstabbers and share pathetic condolences with vultures?”

“I think he was more gay than straight.  At least we could pay him decent tribute.  I’m sure THEY won’t.”

Brian wrapped an arm around Justin, stared off…

…sat at his desk the next morning, and read the folded paper he’d taken from Scott’s room.  He raised a thoughtful hand to his chin and viewed the sheet again.

Justin in sweats and curled on a living room chair, glanced up from a newspaper movie section to check out Brian.  Watched him rise and stretch, white tee and button jeans.  “What do you wanna do today?”

Brian stepped around the desk, looked at the sunny window and back to Justin.  “It’s a nice day for a funeral.  Let’s go.”

Justin rushed to join him at the bedroom closet, saw Brian debate over a dark dress shirt.  “What’s wrong with THIS?”

Brian watched Justin pull out a shirt, smiled wide at the man whose choice put their thoughts in sync and crowned the something-else he had in mind.

Saint Whoever The Fuck.

In the closed-off foyer, Brian and Justin could hear the muffled echo of an ancient Priest’s lay-to-rest speech.  The Service was nearly at an end.

Brian pulled the foyer brass-handled ornate door open and with Justin beside him, sauntered up the aisle like it was a red carpet to the orgy pit of the Liberty Baths.  Toward the front pews of mourners - clustered shades of black with bare color tints from light through stained glass panels.  Toward a closed walnut casket draped with expensive flowers.  Fucking flowers.  A final show for the living.

The Priest shot a dagger stare and stopped mid-sentence.  Heads swiveled with the rustle of fabric, sucked breaths, low blurts of surprise and the locked brows of disgust.  Over a lanky man in faded jeans, his sleeveless black shirt half unbuttoned, an olive-pit rosary around his neck, crucifix on his bare chest.  And a blond man in a tight pink midriff tee, khaki cargos slung low on his hips.

Face heating, Dave jumped up from the corner of the front pew, grabbed Brian’s arm, and sternly whispered, “What are you doing here?” eyes flaming their attire, “Like THIS?”

“You asked me to say a few words for Scott,” Brian calmly smiled.  “That’s Scott, isn’t it?” he cocked a nod at the casket.

The Priest flowed like a dark ghost down the altar steps to end the disturbance.  “Gentlemen, just take a seat please?”  He waved a hand at the front pew.

Justin stepped over to comply, watched people crunch aside more for distancing than welcome.  “Thanks,” he sat,  “I’m Justin Taylor and I’m a Protestant,” smiled at the Joan-Kinney-Look-alike beside him and got a flat stare in return.

Brian whispered to the Priest, “I promise I’ll be done in time for Benediction,” and he loped up three steps to the first landing, grinned at the casket, hiked two more steps to altar level and headed for the pulpit.

Dave and Priest traded flustered what-the-fuck headshakes and hand movements, then Dave squeezed into a seat beside Justin as Priest rushed to join Brian.

Brian’s reach to tap the mike was thwarted by Priest’s hand cupping it. A multi-speaker thump echoed and Brian raised a smile of satisfaction that the system worked.

“I don’t know who you are, or what you think you’re doing,” Priest glared over his smile.

“I came to read a passage for Scott.  My Christian contribution.  Or is Christianity only for them?” Brian tipped his head to the crowd, hazel eyes wide and waiting.

Priest breathed out, swept a fingertip to stop halfway down a page of The Good Book on the stand.  “This is where I left off.  When you’re done, just take a seat with the congregation.”  He released the mike, drifted back to an empty chair against the wall beside the altar and sat  between two clueless altar boys.

Brian pulled a folded sheet from his pocket, panned the tense crowd as he undid it, locked eyes on Justin’s smile and slow blink.  Smiled back, then started…

“On the first day God made Schlitz and Seagram’s.” He could hear the rustle and gasps.    “On the second day God made noon.  On the third day God made the Inner City.  On the fourth day God made needles and syringes.  On the fifth day God made lice…”  He could see eyes pleading to the Priest behind him and didn’t have to look back to know the old guy was clenching the chair seat with both hands to keep from falling off.  “And then on the sixth day, when all was ready, God made man and God loved man and placed him in the Inner City.  And God said: Increase and multiply and fill the bars and brothels.”

Mumbles and groans.  One couple jockeyed from their pew and stormed out.

“And on the seventh day, God rested and went to church and heard a nice sermon…about something or other. As God was going home from church that evening, he met a young girl who propositioned him.”  He saw a few men leaning toward each other in hushed conspiracy, talked faster – “And God met a Wino, a Pusher, and a Pimp and a Queer.  And then went home and thought a lot about sending fire.  Or government money.  Or social workers.  Or something equally clever to destroy the Inner City.”

Those incensed calmed to the sound of that, others sat quietly digesting, some frozen dumbfounded and oblivious.  Only Justin gazed with pride.

“And God said: I will live in the Inner City.  I will hide myself in such a disguise that they will see my works.  But not my face.  No cross, no cassock.  I will serve them.  I will listen to them, and talk with them.  Of jobs and food.  Of rent and books.  And human dignity.  Until they demand: Show us your God!”

Two grim-faced men started up the aisle, halted when Priest hustled center altar raised his hands high and shouted the ritual ending “Peace be with you!” his profound sign of the cross over a confused, out-of-synch “And with you also” response from people hesitantly standing, looking at some still seated - Brian reading louder, “And I shall say to them:  He lives in all men.  We will find him wherever men suffer.  Wherever men love.  In deep disguise from far within the Inner City…I will be their God…and they shall be My people.” – the ending nearly washed out when Priest waved to the balcony and an organ-backed choir chimed, “Tantum ergo sa-cra-men-tum”…

Done, Brian rolled the paper, removed and wrapped the rosary around it, skipped down two steps, stuck it in the floral piece on Scott’s coffin then hiked the final three steps to the main floor.

Justin darted toward him, eyes met and the kiss just happened.  A deep, potent symbol of respect, support and belief in each other.  Wherever men suffer.  Wherever men love. 

To the horror of the audience.  Two men kissing?  At a wake?  In the middle of CHURCH? 

Against the apocalyptic surprise, disgust and a few private grins, Brian tossed a good-by smile at their silent witness, took Justin’s hand and they walked up the aisle unobstructed, the choir still ringing, “Novo cedat ri-tu-i; Praestet fides su-u-ple-e-mentum…Sensuum defectui.”

Clearing the door to the foyer, Justin looked up, “People still sing in Latin?”

“Guess so,” Brian shrugged, pushed open the heavy door to the outside.

“Does anybody know what it means?” Justin kept up with Brian’s long steps.

“…newer rites of grace prevail; Faith for all defects supplying…where the feeble senses fail.  But it sings better in Latin, so why give a fuck what it means.”

Justin didn’t question Brian’s serious expression – his opinion of religious hypocrisy.  He watched Brian swing into the Honda, pop the passenger lock.  After a last glance at the Church, shaken mourners trickling out, Justin got into the car and barely had the door shut before the Honda peeled away.

Late evening at the Loft…

Justin in a tee shirt and briefs sat in Brian’s chair, paged through Newsweek and sneaked a glance at Brian, shirtless with unbuttoned jeans, sitting on the couch across from him, legs stretched with bare feet crossed on the coffee table.  “Are you okay?”

Solemn eyes distant, Brian slowly tapped his fingers on a half glass of Beam resting on his thigh.  Thinking about how it could all be gone in a moment.  No chance to deliver a final message.  No chance to say…things that should have been said.  It almost happened to Justin.  But that didn’t sink in.  Because Justin fought back to life.  And time didn’t seem so critical anymore. 

“Brian?”

Returning to earth, Brian saw Justin’s concern.  Suddenly remembered a question he’d never answered and heard himself think out loud, “Your arms around my neck.”

“What?” Justin squinted, felt a charge from Brian’s steady gaze, and knew what it meant.

But the delay nipped the moment.  “Your arms around my neck,” Brian grumbled to his glass.  Fuck.  What the FUCK.  Why.  “It…makes your body stretch long,” he looked off, ran a hand through his hair, chuckled - breaking abstracts down to body parts always came easier - “And then your ass sticks out a little more…” stopped when he felt the couch shake.

“Don’t overkill it,” Justin smiled as he sat sideways next to Brian, one leg folded under him.  He leaned against an arm on the seatback, swung his outer leg across Brian’s thighs and rubbed his calf on Brian’s drink hand.  “Anything else?”

Brian downed his drink, set his glass on the table and sat back, one hand on Justin’s leg, the other into the pale locks along a temple - “Your hair.” – before he retreated again, glanced at Justin’s leg – “And there’s so MUCH of it.”

Justin snapped his leg up and kicked a thigh, ignored Brian’s wince.  “I’m not shaving my legs for you.”

Brian grabbed the leg, stretched it back across his lap and held it firm.  “Aren’t we getting abusive.  Whatever happened to that starry-eyed kid who used to idolize me?”

Justin sensed a layer beneath the line, gave Brian a second to recognize it, then quietly answered, “He’s still here.  And he still does.”  Justin watched Brian’s throat ripple a swallow, his eyes go soft and deep.  Slowly moving his legs to the floor, Justin slid his arms around Brian’s neck.  “I like how you look at me,” then faintly serious, “I like how you look at the world.”

Eyes never leaving Justin’s, Brian circled his arms around Justin’s waist and they pulled each other close.  Not voracious and lusty.  Or sweetly light.  More like when words aren’t enough, and minds can touch only through the language of a kiss.

Brian eased back, guiding Justin over him, bodies shifting and flowing until they reached a comfort zone…hips over hips, cocks alligned and stirring.  Brian looked down at Justin’s head, cheek pressed to his chest.  Saw gold strands shiver under his own heavy breaths.  He floated a hand onto that hair to smooth it down and kept stroking even after every hair was back in place.  Felt Justin’s hand squeeze a bicep and relax warm, not going anywhere.  This is where I should tell you something.  But it’s not easy.  Not like it is for you.  Because you say things in ways…fuck it…that vibrate in my head…in a good way.  And I’m never really sure I could give that back to you.  “Your arms around my neck…make me feel like we’re connected…”

Justin smiled, eyes half-closed and peaceful with the words humming through Brian’s chest, hand tracing a slow short arc over Brian’s arm.  Then he stopped and narrowed his eyes when Brian added…

“…almost as good as having my dick up your ass.”

Justin resigned with a relaxed smile and silent exhale, resumed his easy hand movement.  You just talked about your feelings.  You never promised me it would be perfect.  Then he heard Brian’s voice drop so low, it almost cracked.

“I can’t think of a reason I’d want that with anybody else.”

Justin closed his eyes and hugged like they couldn’t get close enough.  He felt Brian’s arms tighten around him, lips press the top of his head and stay.  You don’t have to say any more. What I heard…

…was perfect.

I knew it the first time I saw you.  I knew it was in you all along.

Song: “Day & Nite (Tribal Chant Radio Edit)” by Marcy Faith

With the real S4 starting tomorrow, thanks for letting me take you to the end of the long wait.  London

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